When I was growing up in America, I was ashamed of my mother’s Chinese English. Because of her English, she was often treated unfairly. People in department stores, at banks and at restaurants did not take her seriously, did not give her good service, pretended not to understand her, or even acted as if they did not hear her. My mother has realized the limitations of her English as well. When I was fifteen, she used to have me call people on phone to pretend I was she. I was forced to ask for information or even to yell at people who had been rude to her. One time I had to call her stockbroker(股票经纪人). I said in an adolescent voice that was not very convincing, “This is Mrs. Tan.” And my mother was standing beside me, whispering loudly, “Why he don’t send me cheek already two week long.” And then, in prefect English I said, “I’m getting rather concerned. You agreed to send the check two weeks ago, but it hasn’t arrived.” Then she talked more loudly. “What he want? I come to New York tell him front of his boss.” And so I turned to the stockbroker again, “I can’t tolerate any more excuse. If I don’t receive the check immediately, I am going to have to speak to your manager when I am in New York next week.” The next week we ended up in New York. While I was sitting there red-faced, my mother, the real Mrs. Tan, was shouting to his boss in her broken English. When I was a teenager, my mother’s broken English embarrassed me. But now, I see it differently. To me, my mother’s English is perfectly clear, perfectly natural. It is my mother tongue. Her language, as I hear it, is vivid, direct, and full of observation and wisdom. It was the language that helped shape the way I saw things, expressed ideas, and made sense of the world. 小题1: Why was the author’s mother poorly served?
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