【文章內(nèi)容簡(jiǎn)介】
arm of a backpedaling shoulder shrug. Jordan symbolized success by not sullying his brand with his politics, his opinion or superstar personality. To be a Jordan fan was to be a fan of classiness and confidence. To e back when he knows that playing for Wizards won39。t get him anywhere near the second round of the playoffs, when he knows that he won39。t be the league scoring leader, that39。s a loss of control. Jordan does not care what we think. Friends say that he takes articles that tell him not to e back and tacks them all on his refrigerator as inspiration. So why bother writing something telling him not to e back? He is still Michael Jordan. Topic 2 (選題二) Even after I was too grownup to play that game and too grownup to tell my mother that I loved her, I still believed I was the best daughter. Didn39。t I run all the way up to the terrace to check on the drying mango pickles whenever she asked? As I entered my teens, it seemed that I was being an even better, more loving daughter. Didn39。t I drop whatever I was doing each afternoon to go to the corner grocery to pick up any spices my mother had run out of? My mother, on the other hand, seemed more and more unloving to me. Some days she positively resembled a witch as she threatened to pack me off to my second uncle39。s home in provincial Barddhaman a fate worse than death to a cool Calcutta girl like me if my grades didn39。t improve. Other days she would sit me down and tell me about Girls Who Brought Shame to Their Families. There were apparently, a million ways in which one could do this, and my mother was determined that I should be cautioned against every one of them. On principle, she disapproved of everything I wanted to do, from going to study in America to perming my hair, and her favorite phrase was over my dead body. It was clear that I loved her far more than she loved me that is, if she loved me at all. 3 After I finished graduate school in America and got married, my relationship with my mother improved a great deal. Though occasionally dubious about my choice of a writing career, overall she thought I39。d shaped up nicely. I thought the same about her. We established a rhythm: She39。d write from India and give me all the gossip and send care packages with my favorite kind of mango pickle。 I39。d call her from the United States and tell her all the things I39。d been up to and send care packages with instant vanilla pudding, for which she39。d developed a great fondness. We loved each other equally or so I believed until my first son, Anan