I remember my mother as a strong woman. She came to America when she was 12—old enough to remember her language, she achieved scores and grades high enough to be admitted to Duke University. With a degree in computer science, she finally became the manager of a company in New York. My mother could give fluent speeches, say “wolves” correctly. It was my mother who always stressed the importance of language. From the time I was born, I was read to. I would fall asleep to the sounds of my parents’ voices, whether it was my dad’s softly accented, or my mother’s clear English. The flow of language was unbroken, and whether in Chinese or English, the stream of communication flowed through our house. One October morning in sixth grade, after my mother had left to catch the train to the city, I left the house for the bus stop. I was surprised when I saw our car, the door hanging open. As I drew closer, I saw my mother lying on the ground. In the hospital, it was hard to believe that the lady who lay before me was my mom. My mother could not remember my name. As the leaves changed colors, it became clear that the stroke had created a wall between my mother’s mind and mouth: her mind was not any less clear, but the words she spoke were not what she meant. The battle my mother faced taught me the importance of language. Without it, identity does not exist; relationships cannot be formed; stories cannot be told; directions cannot be given, and knowing anything about anyone is impossible. Without language, communication cannot take place. Without language, one cannot express the beauty of a sunset or the kindness of a stranger. The world would pass us by in silence. 小题1: From where might the author’s mom come to America?
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