Even before my father left us, my mother had to go back to work to support our family. Once I came out
of the kitchen, complaining, "Mom, I can't peel (削皮) potatoes. I have only one hand." Mom never looked up
from sewing. "You get yourself into that kitchen and peel those potatoes," she told me, "And don't ever use that
as an excuse for anything again!"
      In the second grade, our teacher lined up my class on the playground and had each of us race across the
monkey bars (攀登架), swinging from one high steel rod to the next. When it was my turn, I shook my head.
Some kids behind me laughed, and I went home crying.
      That night I told Mom about it. She hugged me, and I saw her "we'll see about that" look. The next
afternoon, she took me back to school. At the deserted playground, Mom looked carefully at the bars. 
      "Now, pull up with your right arm," she advised. She stood by as I struggled to lift myself with my right
hand until I could hook the bar with my other elbow. Day after day we practiced and she praised me for every
rung (横档) I reached. I'll never forget the next time, crossing the rungs. I looked down at the kids who were
standing with their mouths open. 
      One night, after a dance at my new junior high, I lay in bed sobbing. I could hear Mom come into my
room. "Mom," I said, weeping,"None of the boys would dance with me." 
      For a long time, I didn't hear anything. Then she said, "Oh, honey, someday you'll be beating those boys
off with a bat." Her voice was faint and cracking. I peeked out from my covers to see tears running down
her cheeks. Then I knew how much she suffered from my disability. She had never let me see her tears.