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  3. The year which preceded my father’s death made great change in my life. I had been living in New Jersey, working in defense plan

The year which preceded my father’s death made great change in my life. I had been living in New Jersey, working in defense plan

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问题    The year which preceded my father’s death made great change in my life. I had been living in New Jersey, working in defense plants, working and living among southerners, white and black. I knew about the south, of course, and about how southerners treated Negroes and how they expected them to behave, but it had never entered my mind that anyone would look at me and expect me to behave that way. I learned in New Jersey that to be a Negro meant, precisely, that one was never looked at but was simply at the mercy of the reflexes the color of one’s skin caused in other people. I acted in New Jersey as I had always acted, that is—as though I thought a great deal of myself—I had to act that way—with results that were, simply, unbelievable. I had scarcely arrived before I had earned the enmity, which was extraordinarily ingenious, of all my superiors and nearly all my co-workers. In the beginning, to make matters worse, I simply did not know what was happening. I did not know what had done, and I shortly began to wonder what anyone could possibly do. to bring about such unanimous, active, and unbearably vocal hostility. I knew about Jim-crow but I had never experienced it. I went to the same self-service restaurant three times and stood with all the Princeton boys before the counter, waiting for a hamburger and coffee. It was always an extraordinarily long time before anything was set before me: I had simply picked something up. Negroes were not served there, I was told, and they had been waiting for me to realize that I was always the only Negro present. Once I was told this, I determined to go there all the time. But now they were ready for me and, thought some dreadful scenes were subsequently enacted in that restaurant, I never ate there again.
   It was same story all over New Jersey, in bars, bowling alleys, diners, and places to live. I was always being forced to leave, silently, or with mutual imprecations. I very shortly became notorious and children giggled behind me when I passed and their elders whispered or shouted—they really believed that I was mad. And it did begin to work on my mind, of course.
   I began to be afraid to go anywhere and to compensate for this I went places to which I really should not have gone and where, God knows, I had no desire to be. My reputation in town naturally enhanced my reputation at work and my working day became one long series of acrobatics designed to keep me out of trouble. I cannot say that these aerobatics night, with but one aim: to eject me. I was fired once, and contrived, with the aid of a friend from New York, to get back on the payroll; was fired again, and bounced back again. It took a while to fire me for the third time, but the third time took me. There were no loopholes anywhere. There was not even any way of getting back inside the gates.
   That year in New Jersey lives in my mind as though it were the year during which, having an unsuspected predilection for it, I first contracted soma dread, chronic disease, the unfailing symptom of which is a kind of blind fever, a pounding in the skull and fire in the bowels. Once this disease is contracted, one can never be really carefree again, for the fever, without an instant’s warning, can recur at any moment. It can wreck more important race relations. There is not a Negro alive who does not have this rage in his blood—one has the choice, merely, of living with it consciously or surrendering to it. As for me, this fever has recurred in me, and does, and will until the day I die.
   My last night in New Jersey, a white friend from New York took me to the nearest big town, Trenton, to go to the movies and have a few drinks. As it turned out, he also saved me from, at the very least, a violent whipping. Almost every detail of that night stands out very clearly in my memory. I even remember the name of the movie we saw because its title impressed me as being so pertly ironical. It was a movie about the German occupation of France. starring Maureen O’ Ham and Charles Laughton and called This Land Is Mine. I remember the name of the diner we walked into when the movie ended: it was the" American Diner." When we walked in the counterman asked what we wanted and I remembered answering with the casual sharpness which had become my habit: "We want a hamburger and a cup of coffee, what do you think we want?’ I do not know why, after a year of such rebuffs, I so completely failed to anticipate his answer, which was, of course," We don’t serve Negroes here." This reply failed to discompose me, at least for the moment. I made some sardonic comment about the name of the diner and we walked out into the streets.
   This was the time of what was called the" brown-out", when the lights in all American cities were very dim. When we re-entered the streets something happened to me which had the force of an optical illusion, or a nightmare. The streets were very crowded and I was facing north. People were moving in every direction but it seemed to me, in that instant, that all of the people I could see, and many more than that, were moving toward me, against me, and that everyone was white.
   I remember how their faces string connecting my head to my body had been cut. I began to walk. I heard my friend call after me, but I ignored him. Heaven only knows what was going on in his mind, but he had the good sense not to touch me—I don’t know what would have happened if he had—and to keep me in sight. I don’t know what was going on in my mind, either; I certainly had no conscious plan. I wanted to do something to crush these white faces, which were crushing me. I walked for perhaps a block or, two until I came to an enormous, glittering, and fashionable restaurant in which I knew not even the intercession of the Virgin would cause me to be served. I pushed through the doors and took the first vacant seat.
   I saw, at a table or two, and waited. I do not know how long I rather wonder, until today, what I could possibly have looked like. Whatever I looked towards her. I hated her for her white face. and for her great, astounded, frightened eyes. I felt that if she found a black man so frightening I would make her fright worthwhile.
   She did not ask me what I wanted, but repeated, as though she had learned it somewhere," We don’t serve Negroes here." She did not say it with the blunt, derisive hostility to which I had grown so accustomed, but; rather, with a note of apology in her voice, and fear. This made me colder and more murderous than ever. I felt I had to do something with my hands. I wanted her to come close enough for me to get her neck between my hands.
   So I pretended not to have understood her, hoping to draw her closer. And she did step a very short step closer, with her pencil poised incongruously over pad, and repeated the formula:" ...don’t serve Negroes here." Somehow, with the repetition of that phrase, which was already ringing in my head like a thousand bells of a nightmare, I realized that she would never come any closer and that I would have to strike from a distance. There was nothing on the table but an ordinary water-mug half full of water, and I picked this up and hurled it with all my strength at her. She ducked and it missed her and shattered against the mirror behind the bar. And with that sound, my frozen blood abruptly thawed. I returned from wherever I had been, I rose and began running for the door. A round, pot-bellied man grabbed me by the nape of the neck just as I reached the doors and began to beat me about the face. I kicked him and got loose and ran into the streets. My friend whispered," Run!" and I ran. My friend stayed outside the restaurant long enough to misdirect my pursuers and the police, who arrive, he told me, at once. I do not know what I said to him when he came to my room that night. I could not have said much, I felt, in the oddest, most awful way, that I had somehow betrayed him, I lived it over and over and over again, the way one relives an automobile accident after it has happened and one finds oneself alone and safe. I could not get over two facts, both equally difficult for the imagination to grasp, and one was that I could have been murdered. But the other was that I had been ready to commit murder. I saw nothing clearly but I did see this: that my life, my real life, was in danger, and not from anything other people might do but from the hatred I carried in my own heart.
The reason why the author says in the essay that the title of the move This Land Is Mine is ironical was that the land is ______.
选项 A、not really that of the native born black Americans
B、that of the Frenchmen; the land refers to France
C、mine; yet it was occupied by Germans
D、mine; the land is that of the Americans.
答案A
解析 推理题。该题问：作者说在这篇文章中电影This Land is Mine的标题是讽刺性的，这是因为这个国家实质上是怎样一个国家?A项意为“并不是那些本土的美国黑人的真正国家”。B项意为“是法国人的国家”，这个国家指法国。C项意为“我的国家；它被德国人占领了”。D项意为“我的国家；这个国家是美国人的国家”。在本文的第五段中可以找到线索I remember the name of the diner we walked into whien the movie ended：it was the“American Diner…”We don’t serve Negroes here．This reply failed to discompose me，…made some sardonic comment about the name of the diner… 。因此可判定A项为正确选项。
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