英语666

新视野大学英语4读写教程课文unit3 Longing for a New Welfare Sy

新视野大学英语_新视野大学英语4读写教程课文unit3 Longing for a New Welfare Sy

Section A:
 Longing for a New Welfare System
(Longing for a New Welfare System)
A welfare client is supposed to cheat. Everybody expects it. Faced with sharing a dinner of raw pet food with the cat, many people in wheelchairs I know bleed the system for a few extra dollars. They tell the government that they are getting two hundred dollars less than their real pension so they can get a little extra welfare money. Or, they tell the caseworker that the landlord raised the rent by a hundred dollars.
I have opted to live a life of complete honesty. So instead, I go out and drum up some business and draw cartoons. I even tell welfare how much I make! Oh, I'm tempted to get paid under the table. But even if I yielded to that temptation, big magazines are not going to get involved in some sticky situation. They keep my records, and that information goes right into the government's computer. Very high- profile.
As a welfare client I'm expected to bow before the caseworker. Deep down, caseworkers know that they are being made fools of by many of their clients, and they feel they are entitled to have clients bow to them as compensation. I'm not being bitter. Most caseworkers begin as college-educated liberals with high ideals. But after a few years in a system that practically requires people to lie, they become like the one I shall call "Suzanne", a detective in shorts.
Not long after Christmas last year, Suzanne came to inspect my apartment and saw some new posters pasted on the wall. "Where'd you get the money for those?" she wanted to know.
"Friends and family."
"Well, you'd better have a receipt for it, by God. You have to report any donations or gifts."
This was my cue to beg. Instead, I talked back. "I got a cigarette from somebody on the street the other day. Do I have to report that?"
"Well I'm sorry, but I don't make the rules, Mr. Callahan."
Suzanne tries to lecture me about repairs to my wheelchair, which is always breaking down because welfare won't spend the money maintaining it properly. "You know, Mr. Callahan, I've heard that you put a lot more miles on that wheelchair than average."
Of course I do. I'm an active worker, not a vegetable. I live near downtown, so I can get around in a wheelchair. I wonder what she'd think if she suddenly broke her hip and had to crawl to work.
Government cuts in welfare have resulted in hunger and suffering for a lot of people, not just me. But people with spinal cord injuries felt the cuts in a unique way: The government stopped taking care of our chairs. Each time mine broke down, lost a screw, needed a new roller bearing, the brake wouldn't work, etc., and I called Suzanne, I had to endure a little lecture. Finally, she'd say, "Well, if I can find time today, I'll call the medical worker."
She was supposed to notify the medical worker, who would certify that there was a problem. Then the medical worker called the wheelchair repair companies to get the cheapest bid. Then the medical worker alerted the main welfare office at the state capital. They considered the matter for days while I lay in bed, unable to move. Finally, if I was lucky, they called back and approved the repair.
When welfare learned I was making money on my cartoons, Suzanne started "visiting" every fortnight instead of every two months. She looked into every corner in search of unreported appliances, or maids, or a roast pig in the oven, or a new helicopter parked out back. She never found anything, but there was always a thick pile of forms to fill out at the end of each visit, accounting for every penny.
There is no provision in the law for a gradual shift away from welfare. I am an independent businessman, slowly building up my market. It's impossible to jump off welfare and suddenly be making two thousand dollars a month. But I would love to be able to pay for some of my living and not have to go through an embarrassing situation every time I need a spare part for my wheelchair.
There needs to be a lawyer who can act as a champion for the rights of welfare clients, because the system so easily lends itself to abuse by the welfare givers as well as by the clients. Welfare sent Suzanne to look around in my apartment the other day because the chemist said I was using a larger than usual amount of medical supplies. I was, indeed: the hole that has been surgically cut to drain urine had changed size and the connection to my urine bag was leaking.
While she was taking notes, my phone rang and Suzanne answered it. The caller was a state senator, which scared Suzanne a little. Would I sit on the governor's committee and try to do something about the thousands of welfare clients who, like me, could earn part or all of their own livings if they were allowed to do so, one step at a time?
Hell, yes, I would! Someday people like me will thrive under a new system that will encourage them, not seek to convict them of cheating. They will be free to develop their talents without guilt or fear — or just hold a good, steady job.

英语学习

Section A:
 Longing for a New Welfare System
(Longing for a New Welfare System)
A welfare client is supposed to cheat. Everybody expects it. Faced with sharing a dinner of raw pet food with the cat, many people in wheelchairs I know bleed the system for a few extra dollars. They tell the government that they are getting two hundred dollars less than their real pension so they can get a little extra welfare money. Or, they tell the caseworker that the landlord raised the rent by a hundred dollars.
I have opted to live a life of complete honesty. So instead, I go out and drum up some business and draw cartoons. I even tell welfare how much I make! Oh, I'm tempted to get paid under the table. But even if I yielded to that temptation, big magazines are not going to get involved in some sticky situation. They keep my records, and that information goes right into the government's computer. Very high- profile.
As a welfare client I'm expected to bow before the caseworker. Deep down, caseworkers know that they are being made fools of by many of their clients, and they feel they are entitled to have clients bow to them as compensation. I'm not being bitter. Most caseworkers begin as college-educated liberals with high ideals. But after a few years in a system that practically requires people to lie, they become like the one I shall call "Suzanne", a detective in shorts.
Not long after Christmas last year, Suzanne came to inspect my apartment and saw some new posters pasted on the wall. "Where'd you get the money for those?" she wanted to know.
"Friends and family."
"Well, you'd better have a receipt for it, by God. You have to report any donations or gifts."
This was my cue to beg. Instead, I talked back. "I got a cigarette from somebody on the street the other day. Do I have to report that?"
"Well I'm sorry, but I don't make the rules, Mr. Callahan."
Suzanne tries to lecture me about repairs to my wheelchair, which is always breaking down because welfare won't spend the money maintaining it properly. "You know, Mr. Callahan, I've heard that you put a lot more miles on that wheelchair than average."
Of course I do. I'm an active worker, not a vegetable. I live near downtown, so I can get around in a wheelchair. I wonder what she'd think if she suddenly broke her hip and had to crawl to work.
Government cuts in welfare have resulted in hunger and suffering for a lot of people, not just me. But people with spinal cord injuries felt the cuts in a unique way: The government stopped taking care of our chairs. Each time mine broke down, lost a screw, needed a new roller bearing, the brake wouldn't work, etc., and I called Suzanne, I had to endure a little lecture. Finally, she'd say, "Well, if I can find time today, I'll call the medical worker."
She was supposed to notify the medical worker, who would certify that there was a problem. Then the medical worker called the wheelchair repair companies to get the cheapest bid. Then the medical worker alerted the main welfare office at the state capital. They considered the matter for days while I lay in bed, unable to move. Finally, if I was lucky, they called back and approved the repair.
When welfare learned I was making money on my cartoons, Suzanne started "visiting" every fortnight instead of every two months. She looked into every corner in search of unreported appliances, or maids, or a roast pig in the oven, or a new helicopter parked out back. She never found anything, but there was always a thick pile of forms to fill out at the end of each visit, accounting for every penny.
There is no provision in the law for a gradual shift away from welfare. I am an independent businessman, slowly building up my market. It's impossible to jump off welfare and suddenly be making two thousand dollars a month. But I would love to be able to pay for some of my living and not have to go through an embarrassing situation every time I need a spare part for my wheelchair.
There needs to be a lawyer who can act as a champion for the rights of welfare clients, because the system so easily lends itself to abuse by the welfare givers as well as by the clients. Welfare sent Suzanne to look around in my apartment the other day because the chemist said I was using a larger than usual amount of medical supplies. I was, indeed: the hole that has been surgically cut to drain urine had changed size and the connection to my urine bag was leaking.
While she was taking notes, my phone rang and Suzanne answered it. The caller was a state senator, which scared Suzanne a little. Would I sit on the governor's committee and try to do something about the thousands of welfare clients who, like me, could earn part or all of their own livings if they were allowed to do so, one step at a time?
Hell, yes, I would! Someday people like me will thrive under a new system that will encourage them, not seek to convict them of cheating. They will be free to develop their talents without guilt or fear — or just hold a good, steady job.

英语学习

Section B:
A Blind Man Helped Me See the Beautiful World
It was late afternoon when the chairman of our Bangkok- based company gave me an assignment: I would leave the next day to accompany an important Chinese businessman to tourist sites in northern Thailand. Silently angry, I stared at my desk. The stacks of paper bore witness to a huge amount of work waiting to be done, even though I had been working seven days a week. How will I ever catch up? I wondered.
After a one-hour flight the next morning, we spent the day visiting attractions along with hundreds of other tourists, most of them loaded with cameras and small gifts. I remember feeling annoyed at this dense collection of humanity.
That evening my Chinese companion and I climbed into a chartered van to go to dinner and a show, one which I had attended many times before. While he chatted with other tourists, I exchanged polite conversation in the dark with a man seated in front of me, a Belgian who spoke fluent English. I wondered why he held his head motionless at an odd angle, as though he were in prayer. Then the truth struck me. He was blind.
Behind me someone switched on a light, and I could see his thick silvery hair and strong, square jaw. His eyes seemed to contain a white mist. "Could I please sit beside you at the dinner?" he asked. "And I'd love it if you'd describe a little of what you see."
"I'd be happy to," I replied.
My guest walked ahead toward the restaurant with newly found friends. The blind man and I followed. My hand held his elbow to steer him, but he stepped forward with no sign of hesitation or stoop, his shoulders squared, his head high, as though he were guiding me.
We found a table close to the stage. He ordered half a liter of beer and I ordered a grape soda. As we waited for our drinks, the blind man said, "The music seems out of tune to our Western ears, but it has charm. Please describe the musicians."
I hadn't noticed the five men performing at the side of the stage as an introduction to the show. "They're seated cross-legged on a rug, dressed in loose white cotton shirts and large black trousers, with fabric around their waists that has been dyed bright red. Three are young lads, one is middle-aged and one is elderly. One beats a small drum, another plays a wooden stringed instrument, and the other three have smaller, violin- like pieces they play with a bow."
As the lights dimmed, the blind man asked, "What do your fellow tourists look like?"
"All nationalities, colors, shapes and sizes, a gallery of human faces," I whispered.
As I lowered my voice further and spoke close to his ear, the blind man leaned his head eagerly toward me. I had never before been listened to with such intensity.
"Very close to us is an elderly Japanese woman," I said. "Just beyond her a yellow-haired Scandinavian boy of about five is leaning forward, his face just below hers. They're motionless, waiting for the performance to start. It's the perfect living portrait of childhood and old age, of Europe and Asia."
"Yes, yes, I see them," the blind man said quietly, smiling.
A curtain at the back of the stage opened. Six young girls appeared, and I described their violet- colored silk skirts, white blouses, and gold-colored hats like small crowns, with flexible points that moved in rhythm with the dance. "On the tips of their fingers are golden nails perhaps 8 centimeters long," I told the blind man. "The nails highlight each elegant movement of their hands. It's a delightful effect."
He smiled and nodded. "How wonderful — I would love to touch one of those golden nails."
The first performance ended just as we finished dessert, and I excused myself and went to talk to the theater manager. Upon returning, I told my companion, "You've been invited backstage."
A few minutes later he was standing next to one of the dancers, her little crowned head hardly reaching his chest. She shyly extended both hands toward him, the brass fingernails shining in the overhead light. His hands, four times as large, reached out slowly and held them as though they were holding up two tiny birds. As he felt the smooth, curving sharpness of the metal tips, the girl stood quite still, gazing up into his face with an expression of wonder. A lump formed in my throat.
After taking a cab back to the inn, with my Chinese guest still with the others, the blind man patted my shoulder, then pulled me toward him and embraced me tightly. "How beautifully you saw everything for me," he whispered. "I can never thank you enough."
Later I thought: I should have thanked him. I was the one who had been blind, my eyes merely skimming the surface of things. He had helped me lift the veil that grows so quickly over our eyes in this busy world, to see a whole new realm I'd failed to appreciate before.
About a week after our trip, the chairman told me the Chinese executive had called to express great satisfaction with the trip. "Well done," the chairman said, smiling. I knew you could do the magic."
I was not able to tell him that the magic had been done to me.

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Section C:
A Hard Job to Come By
You could feel sorry for Alberto Torres (阿尔伯图·多里斯), who is blind. The last thing he remembers seeing was his daughter being born 13 years ago. Then the world went blank; he can only imagine what his only child looks like now, as a teenaged honor student.
Total darkness came as a result of a swelling of the nerve leading to his eye — a condition that was unrelated to the eye disease that had limited his vision since birth. "I went to sleep and woke up with nothing," he said.
Bad luck is no stranger to this warm and thoughtful 37-year-old man. His mother died of cancer when he was 4, and Mr. Torres's father, who was often ill, had to give him up to the care of the state when he was 11. He later worked for 19 years in a workshop assembling brooms and other household goods, deathly boring work.
Earlier this month, Alberto Torres's wife, who had just been laid off from her job, had to have a breast removed due to cancer and now faces a year of radiation treatments. Things seemed always to go from almost incredibly bad to worse. Even Mr. Torres's good luck has a dark side: Five years ago, his beloved guide dog pulled him out of the path of a truck. Mr. Torres was not hurt. The dog was killed.
But know this and know it well: Mr. Torres does not feel sorry for himself. "These are just little bumps you have to go over in your life," he said.
At 5 A.M. on a recent morning, we caught up with Mr. Torres at a subway stop in Brooklyn, New York, near where he lives in a third-floor apartment (without an elevator). He had been up since 3 A.M., feeding his new dog, making coffee, getting ready. "When you're blind, it takes a little longer to do things," he said.
Mr. Torres was beginning the complicated two-hour trip to his job developing film in the X-ray department of the emergency room of the Bronx Municipal (市立的) Hospital Center. He would take the G train to Queens Plaza (广场) station where he would walk up a set of stairs and down another to the R train, heading towards Manhattan. He would then ride the R train to 59th Street where he would walk upstairs to switch to the Number 6 train.
At one point along the journey, he might chat with a stranger. At another, someone would pat his dog, calling him by name. People offered assistance, even seats.
At 125th Street, Mr. Torres would transfer to the Number 4 train by crossing the platform. At 149th Street, he would descend to the Number 2. He would take that to East 180th Street where he nearly always has a long wait for his final train, to Pelham Parkway (帕尔汉大道). Then he and his dog would walk 20 minutes to the hospital.
"They shouldn't make any special provisions for me," Mr. Torres said. "It's a job, and I should be on time."
It was a hard job to come by. Before he got the job, Mr. Torres was determined to escape the workshop run by the Lighthouse (灯塔), an organization dedicated to help people who can't see, and to try to make it on his own. He wanted a job developing X-ray film, something that everyone must do in the dark. The Lighthouse called many hospitals, with no result, even though they offered to pay his first three months' salary and provide training.
The Lighthouse people would have much preferred for him to find a job closer to his home. But they believed he could handle the long trip, as well as the work. "Our philosophy here is that blind people can do just about anything except drive buses," said a Lighthouse staff member who tries to help place blind people in jobs.
And that, as it turned out, was also the thinking about disabled (残疾的) people at the Bronx hospital. "We find what a person can do rather than what he can't do," said the hospital's associate executive director.
"The point is that it works," said the hospital's executive director.
One day a while ago marked the first anniversary of Mr. Torres's hiring. He developed 150 or so X-rays, his usual output, to celebrate. The cards with names and other data were folded on the upper right-hand corner so he can photograph them right-side-up. That is the only concession to his blindness.
Mr. Torres works by himself in a small, dark room that smells of chemicals. He cannot wear gloves, because he needs to feel. It is exacting work, and, since this is an emergency room, lives can be at stake. His immediate supervisor says he trusts him 100 percent.
Mr. Torres makes $20,000 a year. He could be pocketing more than $12,000 from pension payments. But his motivation goes beyond money. "If I start feeling like a victim, that makes me bitter," he said. And why be bitter? That makes you go into a hole and stay there."
"I'm not doing anything out of the ordinary," insisted Mr. Torres as he quickly completed the task.

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未经允许不得转载:英语666 > 新视野大学英语4读写教程课文unit3 Longing for a New Welfare Sy

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