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My New Roommate
It
was my first day at the
institute
．
I got into the
building where 1 was going to
live
．
My eyes
searched carefully from the door of one bedroom to
that of another for
my name which ought
to have been pasted on the door of one of these
bedrooms
．
At
last
I found it
．
On stepping into
the bedroom I found there was already in it a
student
who was making his
bed
．
Having
exchanged
with
me
a
few
words
of
greetings
，
he
resumed
his
arrangement of bedding and no longer
paid any attention to
me
．
“
What a stuck-
up
fellow
．
”
I thought and began to survey the
room
．
It looked quite similar
to any other
bedroom in the
building
．
Even the furniture
in all bedrooms was
uniform
．
It seemed
my bedroom had already been thoroughly
cleaned by my new roommate
．
He was thin
，
short
and dark-skinned
．
His hair
looked like a bundle of
straw
．
His
dirty
clothes and lusterless eyes clearly indicated that
he had had a long
journey
．
His
clothes were made of cheap
cloth
．
His coat was too
short
，
and the legs of his
trousers
were too
loose
．
He wore a pair of
unfashionable rubber
shoes
．
Thus he did not look
like a smart freshman at
a11.
“
A
yokel,
”
I
concluded
．
The
second time he spoke
，
his
accent told me that he was from the
south
．
“
May
I help you get your luggage from the
office?
”
I
did
not
decline
his
help
because
I
really
needed
it
．
He
was
quick
in
movement
．
He
walked
out
of
the
room
and
was
soon
far
ahead
of
me
in
the
corridor
．
“
A good
guy,
”
I said to
myself
．
“
I will
make friends with
him
．
”
I hurried
and caught up with
him
．
1
My English Teacher
I
like most of my teachers in
college
．
They
were
，
for the most
part
，
friendly and
competent, willing to help
students
．
I liked them
—
but I
don
’
t remember them very
well
，
except for
Mr. Jones
，
my freshman
English teacher
．
He was an
enthusiastic
，
sensitive man
，
who
knew his subject and was determined that we would
learn it and
love it,
too
．
Mr.
Jones
was
a
tall
，
slender
man
in
his
mid-forties
with
gray,
thinning
hair
．
Perched
precariously on his nose
，
his
glasses gave him a serious
look
．
But they
didn
’
t remain
there long
，
for he was always
either taking them off and polishing their
two pieces of glass or putting either
of the two earpieces in his mouth when he was
meditating a response to some question
raised by a student
．
When on
his way to our
classroom
，
he
always carried two or three books with strips of
paper sticking out of
them
，
which were
for marking the passages he wanted to read to
us
．
I remember,
too
，
his cardigan
sweaters
．
He must have had a
dozen of them
．
On rainy days
he would
have a blue raincoat
on
．
But what is most
tenacious in my memory is his
smile
．
When
he
smiled
，
his whole face lit
up
；
his eyes
sparkled
．
His smile made you
feel good
，
at
ease
，
and somehow
reassured
．
Though
habitually
friendly
and
at
ease
with
everybody,
he
was
a
bit
prim
in
classroom
，
and
he
could
be
stem
on
occasions
．
He
never
called
us
by
our
first
names
．
He
obviously
enjoyed
his
work
and
loved
his
students
，
but
he
kept
his
distance
．
He never
deliberately or publicly embarrassed a student by
using sarcastic
language
．
Nevertheless he could distinctly reveal
his displeasure in his own way
．
< br>He
’
d
look
steadily
at
an
offending
student
for
quite
a
few
freezing
seconds
．
That
was
usually
enough
for
the
little
culprit
to
be
cowed
．
But
if
it
didn
’
t
work
，
he
’
< br>d
say
something to the
student in a lowered tone of
voice
．
He
didn
’
t do this often,
though
．
Mr. Jones
had personality, integrity, vitality
—
a11 of which made him
popular
；
but
what
I
liked most about
him was that he was
a
fine teacher
It was
true that he
cared about his
students
，
but he cared more
about teaching them his
subject
．
And that
meant
homework
，
lots of
it
，
and pop quizzes now and
then to keep them current on the
2
reading
．
He
lectured occasionally to provide background
information whenever we
moved on to a
new literary period
．
After a
brief glance at his notes
，
he
’
d begin to
move around as he talked to the
blackboard to the window, back to the
1ectem
．
But
he preferred
discussion
，
a Socratic dialog
ue
．
He
’
d write several questions on the board
for the next
day
’
s
discussion
，
and
he
’
d expect you to be
prepared to discuss them
．
He
directed the discussion, but he
didn’t
dominate
it
：
for he was a good
listener and made
sure we all had a
chance to respond, whether we wanted to or
not
．
If he was pleased
with a response
，
h
e
’
d nod his head and
smile
．
Occasionally
he
’
d read a
student
’
s essay,
praising its good points and then
winking at the writer as he passed it
back
．
But he
was
tough-minded
，
too
，
as I suggested
before
．
He really nailed you
for sloppy work
or
inattention
．
When you got an
A from him
，
you really felt
good
，
for he
wasn
’
t an
easy
grader
．
We used to complain
about his grading
standards
，
usually to no
avail,
though he would change a grade
if he thought he had been
unfair
．
Mr. Jones
was a competent teacher
．
He
knew what he was doing in
classroom
，
and he could
conduct his class very
well
．
But what was more
important was that he
made
his
students
fall
in
love
with
the
course
he
offered
．
He
led
us
to
take
the
initiative in delving into it on out
own
．
3
Mariak Anagian
She
was
ninety-
two
years
old
when
I
met
her,
a
gentle
，
diminutive
lady
in
European
dress
．
Her face was deeply
lined
，
and her coarse grey
hair had yellowed
with
the
years
．
She
spoke
softly
in
a
quivering
voice
in
half
English
and
half
American
．
Her
gnarled hands testified to the years of hard work
on the farm in her
homeland
．
Yet
．
in
her
dark
eyes
and
in
her
gentle
manner
there
was
a
childlike
simplicity as she
told me her story
．
I
thought
“
she has the wisdom
that comes with
years of experience and
the gentle purity of a
child
—
that was a wonderful
but strange
combination of
traits
．
”
I knew
that l would never forget
her
．
Her name was
Mariak Anagian When she was a young
woman
，
her homeland
was invaded by foreign
troops
．
She had been keeping
house for her father,
brothers
，
husband
，
and her
two
young
children
．
One day
she returned from the
market
and
found the
mutilated
（残缺不全的）
bodies of
her father and one of her brothers on her
doorstep
．
They
were among the many victims of the war
．
Mariak
’
s husband
was much
older than
she
，
and he soon succumbed to
the rigorous demands of field work and
mental
strain
，
leaving
Mariak
alone
in
the
world
to
take
care
of
her
two
small
children
．
Many of
the
town’
s people helped
her, and she was able to produce enough
on the small farm to feed her
family
．
Shortly after the
turn of the century, her daughter
married and went to
America
．
A few years later
，
Mariak
’
s
daughter sent her some
money which
enabled her to come to the United
States
．
Thus Mariak came to
live in
the United States for thirty
years
．
As
Mariak told her story, her eyes grew large with
fear and her breath quickened
with
excitement
．
Then she
wept
．
After a short
time
，
she sat silently with
her head
bowed
．
Suddenly,
she rose from the chair, lifted her skirt to just
above her ankles
，
and
began
to
dance
in
short
，
jerky
steps
．
She
sang
almost
inaudibly
in
her
native
language
，
but I
knew it was a children
’
s
song
．
Her simple melody and
simple dance
steps were typically those
of an average child
．
Her eyes
shone with youthful gaiety,
and her
voice was light and
happy
．
Her grandson appeared
at this time
，
spoke to her
affectionately, and led her away from
the room
．
4
My Dormitory
Bedroom
My
dormitory
bedroom
on
the
second
floor
of
Bienville
Hall
is
small
and
cluttered up
．
Its
dark green walls and dirty white ceiling make it
look gloomy and thus
even smaller than
it is
．
On entering the
bedroom
．
one would find my
bed is right in his
way because it
takes up half of the
room
．
The two large windows
over my bed are
obstructed from view by
the golden heavy
drapes
．
Against the left wall
is a large book
case extending into the
comer which is behind the head of my
bed
．
The bookcase is
crammed with piles of sheets of paper,
books
，
and
knickknacks
．
Wedged in
between
the bookcase and the wall
opposite the bed is a small grey metal
desk
．
Near the desk
stands a brown wooden chair which fills
up the left end of the
room
．
Stuffed under the
desk is a wastepaper basket overflowing
with tom pieces of Paper and
refuse
．
The
wall
above the bookcase and desk is completely taken up
with two small posters
．
On
the right side of the room is a narrow
closet with clothes
，
shoes
，
hats
，
ten
nis racquets
，
and
boxes bulging out of its sliding
doors
．
Every time 1 walk out
of my bedroom
．
I
think to myself, Now I know what it is
like to live in a
closet
．
”
5
Subways
Subways are long
，
dark
，
gloomy, sooty tunnels
under the ground
．
Trains with
many
cars
clatter
on
steel
tracks
through
these
tunnels
．
The
automatic
doors
open
noisily, one at each
end and another in the middle of the
car
．
The trains have bright
electric
lights
and
long
benches
for
passengers
’
comfort
．
There
are
many
colorful
posters
on
the
damp
metal
walls
of
the
trains
．
Some
advertise
toothpaste
for
the
family
．
Many
posters plead for support for charity
organizations
．
A lot of
posters urge
subway riders to buy a
special lime-scented deodorant or a particular
lemon-oil haft
tonic
．
A few
posters ask readers to buy this soap or that shoe
polish
．
Most of the riders
read the
posters
．
A few of them read
books or newspapers
．
Not many
riders talk to
their
fellow
travelers
as
they
burrow
through
the
earth
from
one
end
of
the
city
to
another
．
6
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