作者Katya Spajic
正文
Mom always told me that if my hands were smooth and unblemished nobody would be able to tell my age.
妈妈总是告诉我，如果我的手光滑无瑕，那就没人能看得出我的年龄。
She wore rings and gloves to cover up the premature wrinkles from her time as a waitress in high school and the scars on her fingers from her first four years in America as a seamstress.
她常常戴上戒指和手套，以掩盖那些从高中就当女服务员时留下的、早熟的皱纹，以及她到美国的前四年里，靠做裁缝为生时，给手指上留下的伤疤。
Try as she might, no amount of jewelry or hand cream could erase those markings. But I envied her imperfections: Mom’s weathered hands spoke volumes about her strength, selflessness and love.
但不管怎么努力，再多的珠宝或护手霜，也无法抹去那些印记。但我羡慕她的不完美：妈妈饱经风霜的双手，充分说明了她的力量、无私和爱。
Whenever my family gathered at the dinner table, I would steal glances at their hands. Each wrinkle and scar read like a chapter of a life well lived: a life full of purpose. When I looked at my smooth knuckles and babylike palms, I wondered when I would receive markings that told my story.
每当跟家人聚集在餐桌前时，我都会偷偷看他们的手。每一条皱纹和伤疤，读起来都像是他们充实人生的一章：他们那种充满目标感的生活。当我看着我光滑的指关节和婴儿般的手掌时，我总想知道，要到什么时候，我才能收到可以讲述我自己故事的那些标记。
When Dad squeezed my hand as we crossed the street, I tried to place the sharp ridges and rock-hard calluses that dug into my soft skin. Did they come from summers in Montenegro, gripping the worn handle of the scythe to cut hay? Were they caused by heavy tiles nicking his palms during the kitchen renovations that paid for my babysitters?
过马路时，爸爸会捏捏我的手，我试着把那些刺进我柔软皮肤里的尖锐棱角和坚硬老茧也收进自己手里。这些印迹，是不是来自黑山的夏天，来自那些握着破旧镰刀收割干草的劳作？还是被那些厨房装修工程里沉重的瓷砖划伤的，而正是靠这些工程，我的保姆费才有了着落？
During summers in Pljevlja in Montenegro, I would watch Grandma’s trembling hands as she kneaded each piece of burek. What initially seemed like splotches of flour were actually burn scars from 70 years of cooking. Perhaps they came from adding one too many coals to the furnace or accidentally lifting pots out of the oven with her bare hands.
我常常在夏天回到黑山普列夫利亚，在那里，我会看奶奶揉布雷克时颤抖的手。那些最初看起来像是面粉的斑点，实际上是70年的烹饪中的烧伤积累。也许是因为往炉子里加了太多的煤，或者是不小心徒手把锅从炉子里拿出来。
Their hands symbolized their love and sacrifice for family. But my unblemished hands signified nothing in return, only evidence of wasting away their hard work. So I tried to gain markings the only way I knew how: mimicking my family’s defining actions.
他们的手象征着他们对家庭的爱和牺牲。但我的双手却没有任何意义，只是浪费了他们的辛勤劳动。所以我试着用我唯一知道的方法来获得标记：模仿家人的标志性动作。
I attempted Grandma’s burek, but my imitation’s flaky shell hardened each time I took it out of the oven. And my burns never felt purposeful, only documentation of my mediocrity.
我试着做奶奶的布雷克，但每次，我的仿制品一出炉，壳就彻底硬了。我的烧伤似乎毫无意义，除了记下我的平庸。
I tried picking up a needle and thread like Mom. But even as my hands took the shape of hers, the needle pricks left me unsatisfied — it never came naturally like for Mom.
我试着像妈妈一样拿起针线。但即使我的手跟她长得一样，作品却从不令我满意——它从来没有像从妈妈手里那样，如此自然地出现。
My hands began to read like a list of failed ventures — until I found volleyball. Volleyball seemed like a forbidden interest, so independent from family. But each purposeful movement left me satiated with fulfillment. I picked up the game quickly, and my parents were thrilled: Recruitment was my ticket into a top university. I even fractured my thumb while diving for the ball, the bone awkwardly jutting out as my own personal talisman of greater purpose.
我的手读起来，开始像一串漫长的失败清单——直到我发现了排球。排球曾经是家庭议程之外的禁忌兴趣。但在排球里，每一次有目的感的移动，都让我感到满足。我很快就学会了这个游戏，我的父母也很兴奋：排球队将是我进入一流大学的门票。我甚至在扑球时折断了拇指，骨头笨拙地突出来，成为我的个人护身符，目送我向更大的目标前行。
But during high school, I was exposed to a plethora of other opportunities. I began spending Monday nights practicing cases for Mock Trial and dedicated weekends to taking photographs for my school’s Dynamo literary magazine. And though my hands remained unchanged, these passions, along with others, showed me sides of my identity that I didn’t know existed.
但到了高中，我开始接触大量其他机会。我开始在每周一晚上，都去练习模拟法庭的案例，开始把所有的周末，都花在为学校的Dynamo文学杂志拍照。尽管我的手没有变，但这些激情，和其他东西一起，让我开始知道，我原来还有连自己也从未了解过的自我侧面。
But with little time left for volleyball, I came to the decision to leave my club team. My crooked thumb became an ominous reminder of another failed pursuit.
但是，我能留给排球的时间变得越来越少，我决定离开我的俱乐部球队。我弯曲的拇指成了另一个不祥的提醒，叙述着我的又一次失败追求。
My parents were furious. They perceived my new activities as unfocused distractions, leading me away from my ticket to college.
我父母很生气。他们认为是我分心了，我在远离我的这张大学门票。
I soon understood that my parents’ anger did not stem from disappointment, but from unfamiliarity. Their only path forward was committing to their available roles, never pondering the existential questions I did: self-discovery in a sea of options.
而我很快明白过来，父母的愤怒，不是因为失望，而是因为不熟悉。他们自己的前进之路，似乎是单一路径的：尽职尽责的完成交到自己身上的角色；他们没有经历过我的存在主义性思考：在众多的选择中，发现自我。
Becoming “lost” for pursuing seemingly unconnected interests was not what they envisioned for me, but I realized that the best way to fully take advantage of my privileges was to explore all my curiosities. I stopped emulating the identities of my family and realized that my hands would eventually bear the weight of my pursuits.
家人从未期待过我去追求这些看似无关的兴趣，更不期待我因此变得“迷失”，但我意识到，充分利用我宝贵特权的最好办法，就是探索我所有的好奇心。我不再刻意模仿家人，并意识到，我的双手最终会承担那份自我追求的重量。
More importantly, those markings and hands will be my own, not my mother’s or father’s.
更重要的是，那些标记和手将是我自己的，而不是母亲或父亲的。
