案例2 (teaching design参考).docx

案例2 教学内容 课文 He was my father. He Was My Father I remember the smell of the soap as he scrubbed his hands. Pungent, because this was for removing ground-in dirt and oil from beneath hardened fingernails and from calloused hands. I can still see the darkness of the water in the basin after he had cleaned his face. He always spoke to me as he washed before eating his dinner, told me tales of his own childhood and let little drops of moral tuition fall into my lap. “A promise is a promise,” he’d say. It was. He never broke one. He was my father. He drove a London taxi for 49 years. It was a job that paid a decent wage if a man was willing to work 12-hour days, six days a week. When I was small, he would sometimes pick up people who were hailing cabs along the way. He wasn’t supposed to, not with me in the vehicle. But I was six of seven and was barely noticed. I could never understand why the passengers treated him with such patronizing disregard. He was “cabbie” and “driver” and “you!” No, he wasn’t; he was my dad. He always looked so strong, so able to protect me, so powerful. Powerful enough to cry when he felt the need. He wept when my grandmother died. Confusing. He came into my room, saw the fear and apprehension on my face, and recited a short prayer with me for my grandma and his mother. He kissed me, held my hand and then drove me to school before putting his 12 hours in. He was my father. I remember his euphoria when I went to university, the first in his family to do so. Of course he was gauche when I graduated, took too many photographs, and didn’t understand the Latin that was spoken before the ceremonial meal. So what? All that concerned this working man in a suit was that his son would not follow in his footsteps. “Do you know why I work such long hours?” he’d ask me. “So that you won’t have to.” He couldn’t afford to go on holidays with us like other dads. There just wasn’t the money. He’d stay on his own, work even longer hours, and live on sand