"Turn off TV," she called from the

"Turn off TV," she called from the kitchen five minutes later. I didn't budge. And then I decided, I didn't
have to do what mother said anymore. I wasn't her slave. This wasn't China. I had listened to her before,
and look what happened she was the stupid one.
She came out of the kitchen and stood in the arched entryway of the living room. "Four clock," she said
once again, louder.
"I'm not going to play anymore," I said nonchalantly. "Why should I? I'm not a genius."
She stood in front of the TV. I saw that her chest was heaving up and down in an angry way.
"No!" I said, and I now felt stronger, as if my true self had finally emerged. So this was what had been
inside me all along.
"No! I won't!" I screamed. She snapped off the TV, yanked me by the arm and pulled me off the floor. She
was frighteningly strong, half pulling, half carrying me towards the piano as I kicked the throw rugs under
my feet. She lifted me up onto the hard bench. I was sobbing by now, looking at her bitterly. Her chest was
heaving even more and her mouth was open, smiling crazily as if she were pleased that I was crying.
"You want me to be something that I'm not!" I sobbed. " I'll never be the kind of daughter you want me to
be!"
"Only two kinds of daughters," she shouted in Chinese. "Those who are obedient and those who follow
their own mind! Only one kind of daughter can live in this house. Obedient daughter!"
"Then I wish I weren't your daughter, I wish you weren't my mother," I shouted. As I said these things I got
scared. It felt like worms and toads and slimy things crawling out of my chest, but it also felt good, that this
awful side of me had surfaced, at last.
"Too late to change this," my mother said shrilly.
And I could sense her anger rising to its breaking point. I wanted see it spill over. And that's when I
remembered the babies she had lost in China, the ones we never talked about. "Then I wish I'd never been
born!" I shouted. “I wish I were dead! Like them."
It was as if I had said magic words. Alakazam!-her face went blank, her mouth closed, her arms went slack,
and she backed out of the room, stunned, as if she were blowing away like a small brown leaf, thin, brittle,
lifeless.
It was not the only disappointment my mother felt in me. In the years that followed, I failed her many
times, each time asserting my will, my right to fall short of expectations. I didn't get straight As. I didn't
become class president. I didn't get into Stanford. I dropped out of college.
Unlike my mother, I did not believe I could be anything I wanted to be, I could only be me.
And for all those years we never talked about the disaster at the recital or my terrible declarations afterward
at the piano bench. Neither of us talked about it again, as if it were a betrayal that was now unspeakable. So
I never found a way to ask her why she had hoped for something so large that failure was inevitable.
And even worse, I never asked her about what frightened me the most: Why had she given up hope? For
after our struggle at the piano, she never mentioned my playing again. The lessons stopped. The lid to the
piano was closed shutting out the dust, my misery, and her dreams.
So she surprised me. A few years ago she offered to give me the piano, for my thirtieth birthday. I had not
played in all those years. I saw the offer as a sign of forgiveness, a tremendous burden removed. "Are you
sure?" I asked shyly. "I mean, won't you and Dad miss it?" "No, this your piano," she said firmly. "Always
your piano. You only one can play."
"Well, I probably can't play anymore," I said. "It's been years." "You pick up fast," my mother said, as if
she knew this was certain. “You have natural talent. You could be a genius if you want to." "No, I
couldn't." "You just not trying," my mother said. And she was neither angry nor sad. She said it as if
announcing a fact that could never be disproved. "Take it," she said.
But I didn't at first. It was enough that she had offered it to me. And after that, every time I saw it in my
parents' living room, standing in front of the bay window, it made me feel proud, as if it were a shiny
trophy that I had won back.
Last week I sent a tuner over to my parent's apartment and had the piano reconditioned, for purely
sentimental reasons. My mother had died a few months before and I had been bgetting things in order for
my father a little bit at a time. I put the jewelry in special silk pouches. The sweaters I put in mothproof
boxes. I found some old Chinese silk dresses, the kind with little slits up the sides. I rubbed the old silk
against my skin, and then wrapped them in tissue and decided to take them hoe with me.

Kết quả (Việt) 1:

"Tắt TV," cô ấy gọi là từ nhà bếp năm phút sau đó. Tôi không budge. Và sau đó, tôi quyết định, tôi đã khôngphải làm những gì mẹ nói nữa. Tôi không phải là nô lệ của cô. Đây không phải là Trung Quốc. Tôi đã nghe cô ấy,và nhìn những gì đã xảy ra cô là người ngu ngốc. Cô đã ra khỏi nhà bếp và đứng ở lối vào cong của phòng. "Bốn giờ," cô nóimột lần nữa, to hơn."Tôi sẽ không chơi nữa," tôi nói thản. "Tại sao nên tôi? Tôi không phải một thiên tài."Cô đứng ở phía trước của TV. Tôi thấy rằng ngực của cô heaving lên và xuống một cách tức giận."Không!" Tôi đã nói, và tôi bây giờ cảm thấy mạnh mẽ hơn, như thể tự đúng của tôi cuối cùng đã nổi lên. Vì vậy, đây là những gì đãbên trong tôi tất cả cùng."Không! Tôi sẽ không!" Tôi gào lên. Cô ấy bị gãy tắt TV, yanked tôi bởi cánh tay và kéo tôi ra sàn nhà. Côfrighteningly mạnh mẽ, một nửa kéo, một nửa mang tôi hướng tới piano như tôi đá ném dưới thảmbàn chân của tôi. Cô nâng tôi lên lên ghế dự bị khó khăn. Tôi sobbing bây giờ, nhìn vào cô ấy cay đắng. Ngực của cô làheaving hơn và miệng của cô đã được mở, mỉm cười crazily như thể cô ấy là hài lòng rằng tôi đã khóc."Bạn muốn tôi để là cái gì đó tôi không!" Tôi sobbed. "Tôi sẽ không bao giờ có loại của con gái ông muốn tôi!""Chỉ có hai loại của con gái," cô hét lên trong Trung Quốc. "Những người được Vâng lời và những người theotâm trí của riêng của họ! Chỉ có một loại của con gái có thể sống trong ngôi nhà này. Con gái Vâng lời!""Sau đó tôi muốn tôi không con gái của bạn, tôi muốn bạn không mẹ tôi," Tôi hét lên. Như tôi đã nói những điều tôi đã nhậnscared. It felt like worms and toads and slimy things crawling out of my chest, but it also felt good, that thisawful side of me had surfaced, at last."Too late to change this," my mother said shrilly.And I could sense her anger rising to its breaking point. I wanted see it spill over. And that's when Iremembered the babies she had lost in China, the ones we never talked about. "Then I wish I'd never beenborn!" I shouted. “I wish I were dead! Like them."It was as if I had said magic words. Alakazam!-her face went blank, her mouth closed, her arms went slack,and she backed out of the room, stunned, as if she were blowing away like a small brown leaf, thin, brittle,lifeless.It was not the only disappointment my mother felt in me. In the years that followed, I failed her manytimes, each time asserting my will, my right to fall short of expectations. I didn't get straight As. I didn'tbecome class president. I didn't get into Stanford. I dropped out of college.Unlike my mother, I did not believe I could be anything I wanted to be, I could only be me.And for all those years we never talked about the disaster at the recital or my terrible declarations afterwardat the piano bench. Neither of us talked about it again, as if it were a betrayal that was now unspeakable. SoI never found a way to ask her why she had hoped for something so large that failure was inevitable.And even worse, I never asked her about what frightened me the most: Why had she given up hope? Forafter our struggle at the piano, she never mentioned my playing again. The lessons stopped. The lid to thepiano was closed shutting out the dust, my misery, and her dreams.So she surprised me. A few years ago she offered to give me the piano, for my thirtieth birthday. I had notplayed in all those years. I saw the offer as a sign of forgiveness, a tremendous burden removed. "Are yousure?" I asked shyly. "I mean, won't you and Dad miss it?" "No, this your piano," she said firmly. "Alwaysyour piano. You only one can play.""Well, I probably can't play anymore," I said. "It's been years." "You pick up fast," my mother said, as ifshe knew this was certain. “You have natural talent. You could be a genius if you want to." "No, Icouldn't." "You just not trying," my mother said. And she was neither angry nor sad. She said it as ifannouncing a fact that could never be disproved. "Take it," she said.But I didn't at first. It was enough that she had offered it to me. And after that, every time I saw it in myparents' living room, standing in front of the bay window, it made me feel proud, as if it were a shinytrophy that I had won back.Last week I sent a tuner over to my parent's apartment and had the piano reconditioned, for purelysentimental reasons. My mother had died a few months before and I had been bgetting things in order formy father a little bit at a time. I put the jewelry in special silk pouches. The sweaters I put in mothproofhộp. Tôi tìm thấy một số trang phục lụa cổ Trung Quốc, các loại với các khe hở nhỏ lên hai bên. Tôi cọ xát lụa cũchống lại làn da của tôi, và sau đó bọc chúng trong mô và quyết định đưa họ hoe với tôi.