佚名/Anonymous
吃早饭时，隔壁吸烟间一个男孩和一个男人的对话传进了我的耳朵。很明显，他们是父子俩。男孩的声音低沉而轻柔，似乎是那种青春期的嗓音，相比之下，男人的嗓音显得高亢而有力。男人一直在诋毁他的儿子，不论儿子是要练举重还是要读父亲的报纸，不论儿子说什么，做什么。“这父亲真是混蛋。”我想。我不禁对那男孩产生了怜悯之心，他一次次尝试着，期望得到父亲的认可，但总是事与愿违。难道这个男人就不理解儿子的心情吗？
“我认为我能做。”男孩嘀咕着，语调阴郁，似乎受了很大打击。我能想象出他的样子，头垂向桌子，或许还红着脸。他的父亲冷笑着，是那种近乎残忍的嘲笑。这种笑暗示了他对儿子的能力没信心，这不言而喻。
“你还是不够精明。”他轻蔑地告诉男孩，紧接着又一阵讥笑。
我真不知道这个男孩过的是什么日子，或许他早已受够了这种指责，一次又一次地被否定，怎么能期望他取得什么成功呢？
一天下午，电视里播放的只有体育节目，母亲和我就看了一部纪实片，讲述的是一名学生，开枪杀害了父母后，在学校又枪杀了他的同学。纪实片指出，无论做什么事，他总会经历失败的打击。虽然他有这么多缺点，但父母还是一如既往地关心支持他。他的犯罪行为是由于失去女友而导致的。他自己说：“我一直都使别人感到失望，我已经厌倦了这种生活。”
这么一位出身于充满爱心的、有良好教育背景的家庭的孩子都会冲动地做出这样的傻事来，那么像隔壁那样总是被父亲蔑视的孩子，我们又能指望他做出什么成就来呢？
男孩又小声嘀咕着别的事情，我听不清楚他究竟在说什么，但父亲又残忍地笑了，说道：“你永远也做不到！”
我愤怒了，一种无以言状的感觉油然而生。我想说服这位父亲再给儿子一次机会，儿子听腻了那么多令人泄气的话，是注定要失败的。我要让他给儿子一线希望，一次能让父亲高兴的机会。
但在我们的社会，人们不会那么做。除非有流血事件发生，否则我们不会去管别人的闲事。除非有悲剧发生，否则我们不会站出来说一句话。只有看到悲剧发生了，人们才会拥至摄像机前告知全世界。
吃过早餐后，我郁闷得想哭。年轻时，我们意识到父母对我们不公平，于是我们便发誓不会再犯同样的错误，去那样对待我们的下一代。然而，我们在对待自己的孩子时，有时会不由自主地说出当年父母对我们说过的话。我们成了我们所熟知的那类人。
这个男孩注定会用父亲对待他的这种刻薄的方式去对待他的孩子。我把小费连同餐费一起放在桌上，带好自己的东西，准备从主餐厅离开。我应该从侧门离开，那儿离我比较近，但我想看看那对父子，这对于我来说很重要。到门口时，我故意穿上外套，拉了拉拉链，以便趁机扫视一下房间，寻找到这对父子。此时，又传来一阵大笑。
他是一个上了年纪的人，矮胖，秃头，身穿机修制服。那个男孩大约十二三岁，与同龄人相比，似乎高许多，也瘦削许多，他戴着一副眼镜，耷拉着脑袋坐在那里。
令我吃惊的是，那位父亲把手臂搭在儿子的肩头，与刚才那刺耳的讥笑截然不同，他面带微笑地看着儿子，而儿子也像是在挑战自我似的抬头微笑地望着他，彼此间的爱意都溢于言表。
我压抑的情绪顿时舒朗了许多，我笑着看着他们，此时他们也抬头看到了我。这男孩一切都会好的，当他有了自己的孩子时，他们也会在某个周六早上互相取笑诋毁，共享上班前的早餐，如同现在一样。对于他们来说，那定会是一个美妙的清晨。
I listened to them while I ate my breakfast，a young boy and a man，apparently father and son，on the other side of the wall in the smoking section of the restaurant.The boy’s voice seemed small and quiet，in that awkward range between childhood and puberty.The man’s voice boomed abnormally loud in contrast.
The man had done nothing during all that time but denigrate his son，belittling him for wanting to lift weights，for wanting to read his father’s newspaper，for every thing he did and said.“Jerk，”I thought，then was overwhelmed by a wash of pity for the boy，always seeking and never winning his father’s approval.Couldn’t this man see what he was doing to his son？
“I think I can do it，”the boy mumbled in that dull，beaten-down tone.I could visualize him，looking down at the table，maybe blushing.His father laughed，cruelly it seemed to me.It was a laugh that told me that he had no confidence in his son’s abilities as clearly as any words could have.
“You ain’t smart enough，”he told the boy disparagingly，and there was another peal of mocking laughter.
I wondered then what kind of life that boy would have.He must already have suffered enough disapproval for a lifetime.With so consistent a message that he was a failure，how could he ever be expected to succeed？
On an afternoon with nothing but sports on television，my mom and I had watched a documentary on one of the first students who’d shot up a high school，killing his parents beforehand.The documentary pointed out that he had consistently failed at everything he’d tried，but despite his shortcomings his parents had been unflaggingly supportive.He’d simply snapped when he lost his girlfriend，broken under the weight of his failures.In his own words，“I was tired of letting everyone down.”
If that kid，from a loving，nurturing family could go berserk，what should we expect from boys like the one in the next room，constantly belittled by his father？
The boy said something else in a low voice.I couldn’t distinguish the words，but his father began that cruel laughter again，saying，“You’ll never make it.”
It made me angry，and I felt a fresh wave of some other emotion I couldn’t easily identify.I wanted to confront the father，to tell him to give his son a chance，that the boy couldn’t help but fail when all he heard was that he already had.I wanted to tell him to give his son some hope，to give him some possibility of pleasing his father.
But in our society，people don’t do that.We mind our own business unless it gets bloody.Nobody says anything until a tragedy strikes.Then we all crowd in front of the camera to tell the world we’d seen it coming.
By the time I’d finished my breakfast，I was so depressed I wanted to cry.As youngsters，we recognize when our parents have treated us unfairly.We vow never to make the same mistakes with our children.Yet every one of us，when grown with children of our own can at one time or another identify our parents’voices emanating from our mouths.We become what we know.
This boy was doomed to relate to his children in the same abusive way his father was relating to him.I left money on the table for the bill and the tip，gathered my things and moved to leave through the main restaurant.I should have，probably left through the side door，which was much closer.But it was important to me to see this boy，this father.When I reached the doorway，I made a show of putting my jacket on and zipping it up，taking the time to look around the room for the pair I sought.Then I heard the laugh again.
He was an older man，pudgy and bald，dressed in what appeared to be a mechanic’s uniform.The boy must have been thirteen or so，tall for his age and very thin，wearing glasses and slumped in his seat.
To my surprise，the father had his arm around his son’s shoulder，and in contradiction to the harshness of his laugh，he smiled at the boy.His son smiled up at him self-deprecatingly.The love between them was obvious.
My depression lifted，and I smiled at them when they looked up at me.This boy would be fine，and when he had a son of his own，they’d joke with each other some Saturday morning，having breakfast before he had to go to work，in exactly this same way.It would be a good morning for both of them.