An Integrated English Course Book 2

An Integrated English Course Book 2 Unit One

Learning Objectives • By the end of this unit, you are supposed to • understand the main idea, structure of the text and the author’s writing style • master the key language points and grammatical structures in the text • consider that “generation gap” as a common phenomenon between parents and children

Teaching Procedure Pre-reading Questions Text I. My Father’s Shadow ● Passage ● Structure analysis ● Main idea of the passage ● Language points ● sentence studies ● vocabulary studies Text II. My New Mum Is … My Dad

Pre-reading 1.Based on the title, guess what the text is about. Judging from the title, the text should be about the relationship between the author and her father. It could mean her father’s influence on her. Or it could mean someone else who looks like her father.

2. Whom do you go for help when you are in trouble, your father or your mother? Why? It depends. If I am in a bad mood, I usually will have talk with my mother because she is a better listener, pays more attention to my life and understands me better. But if I have to make a bid decision I will go to my father instead for advice because he has a better vision than my mother does.

Text I. My Father’s Shadow My husband and I were flying to Hawaii from New York City to show our five-month-old son, Timmy, to our parents for the first time But what should have been a mission of joy filled me with apprehension. For five years I’d hardly spoken to my father. Loving but stern in the manner typical of Chinese fathers, he had made particular demands on me, and though we were very much alike, we’d grown very far apart. When I became a teenager, my father held up my mother as a model of feminine behavior. But she was gregarious and social, while I preferred books to parties. He pressed me mingle with his friends’ children. I insisted on choosing my own companions. He assured I’d follow in my mother’s footsteps and enroll in the local university to study teaching, and that I’d marry into one’s the other long-established Chinese clans on the islands and settle down, as he and my mother had.

But I didn’t settle. As bullheaded as my father, I escaped to the University of California, where I fell in love with a haole, as we called Caucasians from the mainland. Gary had blue haole eyes and sandy haole hair. I announced that we were getting married ___ in Berkeley, not Hawaii. No large, clamorous clan wedding for me. My parents came and met Gary just two days before our small, simple wedding. Afterwards we moved to New York, as far from the islands as we could get without leaving American soil. My father’s subsequent silence resonated with disapproval. He didn’t visit; neither did I. When my mother telephoned, he never asked to speak to me, and I never asked for him. We might have gone on like that, the habit of separation hardening into a permanent estrangement. Then Timmy was born, ad I felt an unexpected tidal pull back to the islands. On the long flight to Hawaii, memories of my childhood, when I was my father’s small daughter, came flooding back. I was three years o0ld, running behind him as he walked between the banana trees in the plantation town where he taught high school. When I grew tired, he carried me on his shoulders. From there I could see forever. “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,” he would sing. “you make me happy when skies are gray.” I laughed, taking his devotion as my due.

Now the prodigal daughter was returning with the firstborn of the next generation---- a hazel-eyed, golden-skinned hapa haole (half white) child who looked little like his Chinese ancestors. How would my father react? If he disapproved of my Timmy, as he had of me, the breach between us would be complete. I would never return. The plane landed, and I gradually placed a crying, hungry Timmy into my mother’s eager arms. Here was instant and unconditional acceptance of a child by his grandmother. My father’s expression was passive and hard to read. He greeted us politely:” Good trip?” Then he peered cautiously at Timmy, who promptly began to shriek. My father stepped back at alarm. Did he find it unsettling that his squalling stranger might be his own flesh and blood? After dinner at my parents’ house, Gary and I retired to my old bedroom. My mother tucked Timmy into a borrowed crib in a room down the hall. Fours hours later mother instinct pull me from sleep. This was the time Timmy usually woke for a bottle, but there were no cries of hunger, no fretful wails. Instead, I heard the sweet, soft gurgle of baby laughter. I tiptoed down the hall. In the living room, Timmy lay on a pillow on the floor in a circle of light, his plump, tiny fists and feet churning gleefully. He studied the face bent over him, an Asian face burned dark by the Hawaii sun, with laugh wrinkles at the corners of the eyes. My father was giving Timmy a bottle, tickling his tummy and crooning softly, “You are my sunshine…”

I watched from the darkness, not wanting to break the spell and then crept back to my room. It was then that I began to suspect that my father had wanted to mend the breach as much as I had. Awkward and proud, he hadn’t known how, and neither had I. Timmy became the bridge over which we could reach for each other. For the rest of our stay, the tension slowly melted. My father and I didn’t discuss or rift directly. Thanks to Timmy, we didn’t need to. Having claimed his hapa haole grandson, my father no longer defined our family by a uniform set of features. Curly-haired, hazel-eyed Timmy was loved for himself. We returned to the islands the following summer. Timmy, now a toddler, splashed in the surf with his grandfather. The summer after that, they build a tree house out of scraplumber and painted it blue. So pleased was my father with his new grandfather status that he took early retirement when Timmy was four, to spend more time visitng his “New York family”. My son and my father made a handsome pair as they walked together ---- the Chinese grandfather happily trailed by a different, bouncing shadow.

Structural analysis • The text can be divided into five parts. • Part One: (Paragraphs 1) As an introduction, the first paragraph supplies the basic information for the whole story.

Part Two: (Paragraphs 2-4) • The three paragraphs elaborate on how their problems arose from their different personal preferences and how these differences have developed into a kind of “cold war” (silence). It is a flashback into the author’s early years.

Part Three: (Para. 5-6): In paragraph 5, the author recalls her childhood when she enjoyed her father’s profound love. Paragraph 6 returns to the present moment when, after long years of estrangement, the author cannot but wonder whether her father will extend his love for his “little daughter” to his crossbred grandson.

Part four: (Para. 7-13): • These paragraphs concern about the author’s observation about the initial reaction of her parents in their reunion. • Part five: (Para. 14-15): • These two paragraphs serve as a conclusion of the story.

Main Idea of the passage The text tells of how the author failed to meet the demands that her father had on her in her childhood and adolescent time and how the author’s newborn baby finally bridges the gap between her father and herself.

Language points • Apprehension • 1)anxiety about the future, expectation of something unpleasant • E.g. We waited for their with a great of apprehension. • 2) apprehensive adj. • E.g. I must admit that before my baby was born I was apprehensive about motherhood

Stern adj. • Serious, strict, severe • E.g. The college principal was a stern old Scotsman called Mr. Fraser. • Hold up • To show as an example • E.g. Mary was always holding her children as paragons of good behavior. • His son was held up as a model of hard work.

Feminine adj. • typical of a woman, especially in a way that is graceful or attractive • E.g. “How did you know I was lying?” • “Call it feminine intuition” • Mingle v. • To mix so as to form an individual whole • E.g. as I spoke his expression was one’s amazement mingled with fury. • She mingles tradition and originality in her design.

Follow in someone’s footstep • To follow an example set by someone in the past • E.g. Charles’s children will follow in his footsteps and go to the same school. • Enroll v. • To make officially a member of a group • E.g. She decided to enroll in the history course at the local evening school. • Marry into • To become a member of a certain family or social class by marriage • E.g. The only reason Camilla has so much money is that she has married into the aristocracy.

Estrangement n. • 1)causing (esp. people in a family) to become unfriendly towards each other. • E.g. His estrangement from his brothers and sisters made his wife and children. • 2)estrange v. • E.g. Steve became increasingly estranged from his wife and children.

Flood v • To arrive in large numbers • E.g. Tourists flooded into the city. • Breach n. • An opening or hole made in a wall; a break in friendly relations • E.g. The incident caused an irreparable breach between the two parties.

Shriek v. • To scream • E.g. The class was beginning to get out of control, and the teacher had to shriek at them to be quiet. • Tuck v • To put in a secure place • Tuck that money into the top of your sock for safekeeping.

Tickle v/n. • To touch lightly with the fingers in order to make someone laugh • E.g. Most people hate having their feet tickled. • E.g. I’ve got a slight tickle in my throat and it’s making me a cough.

Uniform • 1)the same or consistent, as from example to example or from place to place; constant • E.g. The air-conditioning system maintains a uniform temperature throughout the building. • 2)uniformity n. • E.g. most modern housing developments show a tedious uniformity of design.

Text II. My New Mum Is … My DadBarbara Mckenna I remember the exact moment my father became my mother. It was on the telephone, about a year after Mum died. When Mum was dying of cancer, we all worried about how losing her would mean losing our whole family. She held us all together. Dad was just, well, there. More imposing than furniture, but almost silent. Mum was the one who cleaned, baked, cooked the holiday meals, entertained. She helped us girls paint and wallpaper and tried, bless her, to teach us to be proper housewives. She make our rambling country house a real home. For problems, we went to Mum. She listened, counselled, sighed, sometimes lectured. Dad, well, we approached him only for money. It always took us an hour to work up the courage to ask for $3 for the movies, even though he never once said no. When Mum caught us doing something wrong ---- smoking, skipping class ---- her best weapon was always,”I I catch you again, I’ll tell your father.” she never caught us again. And if we ever did end up at the receiving end of his discipline, we turned to her for comfort. “does Dad really love me?” I’d ask. “ Of course,” she’s reply. I never once believed her. I thought he saw us as foreigners in his home, people to be raised, not to befriend.

I remember long, uncomfortable drives as a teenager to Charlottetown, in the eastern Canadian province of Prince Edward Island, with Dad. What to talk about over 24 kilometers? I shared half his genes, lived with the guy all my life, but, alas, I couldn’t find one thing to say to him. He couldn’t either. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. In those days, the father was strong, silent, worrying about supporting his brood with his small income. Because we had Mum for our worries, triumphs and failures, we didn’t need Dad. Then Mum got sick. In her last year, she took Gad to the supermarket, showed him how to shop, where to find his favorite fish. She taught him to do laundry, make teak cook a few simple meals. He was 61. But she didn’t teach him how to be a mother. He would figure that out all by himself. About a month before Mum died, she and I had one of our rambling chats about the future. “Do you worry about Dad?” I asked. “No,” she said, with that look of peace worn by those who’ve suffered from a horrid illness and know their time is up. “we’ve talked about it often and I know he’ll be fine.” “I worry,” I whispered. “I worry there won’t be anything here for us any more.” we’d all left home long before, but home was the family home, run by Mum. Then, my real fear. “do you think we’ll visit Dad?” “you will,” she said, and she seemed sure. I didn’t. One beautiful February day, Mum died, and my life as an orphan began, or so I thought.

We stuck together through the wake, Dad, my sister, my three brothers and I. All of us shone through those moments. Dad, we discovered, had a lovely sense of humor. Whenever he sneaked out of the funeral home for a smoke, people would arrive, looking for the grieving widower, and whisper sadly, “did your father not come?” “no, he had something else on,” we’d sigh. Then we’d laugh our heads off with Dad. The night after the funeral, we had a party to celebrate Mum’s life. At 4 a.m., my sister and I found ourselves perched on the floor by Dad’s feet and he was telling us how he had “found” Mum when he was 15 and married her at 17, so in effect he’d “reared her”. What a wonderful wife she’d been. It was a very touching moment, but we figured it was brought about by Mum, who had hung around so she wouldn’t miss the party. The days without Mum marched by. And we did visit the house. Slowly, I for used to it. To find mum’s pots filled not with home-cooked meals but with Dad’s chocolate bars, hidden from the dog. To his bed rumpled not from Mum but the dog, who slept there every night. Dad began to talk to me, to us all, about his pain. He actually cried in front of us, and I started to realize he was human. “I know you’ve lost a mother,” he’d say. “but I’ve lost half of me. Until it happens to you, you can’t understand.”

We had long, philosophical discussions during that mourning period. He told me things about himself that I would never had guessed. He was,in fact, painfully sensitive, just like the rest of us. The much-loved baby of the family, he was rocked to sleep by his mother until hw was 12. But because he was a man, and born in 1932, he had to hide that sensitivity. He confessed this to me, ironically, on a drive to Charlottetown that seemed to fly by. One night, he told me he wished I’d stop drinking. He had stopped at age 33 because he was an alcoholic. And he knew I was one. So he simply said my life would be better if I could come to grips with this. I started crying, in relief, really, and poured out my soul. Because he could, and did, understand. I joined Alcoholic Anonymous. He was very, very proud. I haven’t had a drink in more than six years. But that wasn’t when he became my mother. In the old days, whenever I phoned home and he answered, I’d say, stiffly. “Hello, is Mum there?” he would put her on the line. Then I’d pour our my petty issues, and Mum would counsel. This night, I dialed the familiar number. Dad answered. Before I knew it, he’d sensed there was something deeper bubbling underneath. And so he got it out of me. And he clucked. And counseled. And understood. And wished me luck. He didn’t say “I love you.” But he couldn’t have expressed it more powerfully. Afterwards I sat there dumbstruck: My father had just mothered me ---- as well as or better than my mother ever did.

Since that call five years ago, he’s been everything a mother should be. He’s ver easy to talk to, and has the same twisted sense of humor I have, one that Mum never quite understood. She definitely wouldn’t have laughed like we do when I tell him I plan to put on my resume that I’m the child of the only man on Prince Edward Island who got caught smoking in intensive care ---- twice. She’s probably disapprove when we say he’s so mean we’ll never find six pallbearers for him, so we’ll have to use the ride-on lawn mower. People who knew my mother often tell me I look exactly like her. But I was shocked to discover that I have my father’s soul. He’s fun. He’s sensitive an wise. And a dreamer, just like me. But what impresses me most about Dad is his vicious loyalty tome, his daughter.Mum had that quality, but not in the same aggressive, clear-cut way. So don’t’ cross me, or you’ll have to deal with him. My dad, my mum.

Main idea of Text 2 • The writer used to be very much attached to her mother, who, she thought, was the one to hold them together. Assuming no one could ever replace her mother after her death, the writer found, little by little, to her surprise, that she and father had more in common than she had ever imagined. And her father’s deep love for her made her realize that he had become her new Mum. From the whole story we know that the writer’s father is a devoted husband and a fond father with a lovely sense of humor. He was also sentimental, sensitive and understanding.

Topics for discussion: What kind of man is the writer’s father? The writer’s father is a devoted husband and a fond father with a lovely sense of humor. He was also sentimental, sensitive, an understanding.

Explain the title “My New Mum Is …My Dad”. The writer used to be very much attached to her mother, who, she thought, was the one to hold them together. Assuming no one could ever replace her mother aster her death, the writer found, little by little, to her surprise,that she and her father had nore in common than she had ever imagined. And her father’s deep love for her made her realize that he had become her new Mum.

Words and Expressions for Text I Gregarious a. liking the companionship of others; sociable Haole n. （在夏威夷的）外族人（尤指白种人） Caucasian n.白种人 Resonate v. to make a deep, clear, echoing or continuiing sound Prodigal a. careless and wasteful with money Hazel a. light brown Hapa haole n. 有部分白人血统的（尤指夏威夷土人与白人混血的） Squall v. to cry noisily Retire v. to go to bed Fretful a. anxious because of discomfort Back to the text

Gurgle n. the happy low sound that someone makes in his or her throat Churn v. to shake or move about vigorously or violently Tummy n. (infml.) the stomach Croon v. to sing (usu. Old popular songs) with feeling Spell n. a period of a particular kind of activity, weather, illness, etc. Toddler n. a small child who has just learnt to walk. Scrap n. material which has been thrown away and can be reused Lumber n. boards made from logs Trail v. to follow Bouncing a. (esp. of babies) healthy and active Back to the text

… my father held up my mother as a model of feminine behavior: my father had a high opinion of my mother’s behavior as a woman. …taking his devotion as my due: taking his devotion for granted; taking devotion as what I was entitled to. …the breach between us would be complete: our relationship would end. Back to the text

Notes for Text II Barbara McKenna： Barbara McKenna was born in New Jersey. She studied fashion illustration for four years. Aftyer graduation she did some freelance work for 马才有所Department Store while working full time at Greek Fabric Company in its New York’s design studio. … caught us doing something wrong: came unexpectedly upon us doing something (usually wrong) … if we ever did end u[ at the receiving end of his discipline: if we ever did something wrong and were eventually punished by Father. Back to the text

Rambling chats: chats without a definite subject All of us shone through those moments: all of us did well through those moments. … he had something else on: he was otherwise engaged. But because he was a man, and born in 1932: because he was a man, not a woman, and because he was born in the hard days of the Great Depression (1928-1933) (, he had to keep a tough appearance). Alcoholic Anonymous: a fellowship formed by alcoholics to achieve sobriety in the US. But he couldn’t have expressed it more powerfully. He expressed it most powerfully.

An Integrated English Course Book 2