Shortly after I graduated from junior high school in 1968， my mother began repeating her mantra：“Learn to type， and doors will open for you， Pam.” It was nearly Pavlovian. Anything remotely connected to typing—an image of a typewriter， hearing the word “type”—could elicit this statement from her， often accompanied with finger-wagging and a small yet audible “humpf！” I would respond with a sighed “Yes， Mom” or， when out of her view， a much-practiced eye roll.

“學打字，”身为移民的母亲催促我说，“这是一种美国技能。”

　　When my mother and father came from Guyana to the United States， she brought her memories， photos， and a recipe on yellowing paper for rum fruitcake. She also brought her sewing and cosmetology skills. Sewing secured her a full-time job as a finisher in New York’s garment district， and cosmetology garnered extra money from occasional hairdressing work.
　　Typing was not on her résumé. To her， it was an essential “American skill.” That meant it was up to me， her American-born child， to learn to type. She raised the stakes considerably when， the summer after I graduated from junior high， she gave me a burnt sienna Olivetti portable typewriter for my birthday. “Thanks， Mom， but I can’t type，” I gently reminded her.
　　“That’s going to change，” she answered， also gently.“Soon.” Mom was a woman of her word. “Soon” arrived just one week later， when we took the bus to ever-busy Steinway Street in the New York City neighborhood of Long Island City to the Crown Business Institute， which was tucked in among the shops. Besides typing， the institute offered classes in stenography， bookkeeping， and other office skills. My mother practically pushed me through the door.
　　Inside， my eye fell on rows of students typing in front of bulky Smith-Corona or Royal typewriters. Each was curved purposefully over a spiral-bound typing practice book. Beginners picked their way around their keyboard while more accomplished typists performed dazzling digital feats， producing the machine’s distinctive clackityclacking music.
　　I was as impressed as I was skeptical that I would ever achieve such proficiency. But before I could utter a protest， my mother had enrolled me for six weeks of typing lessons. Now there was no turning back. Every weekday morning I reported to Crown for lessons that began at 10 o’clock； by noon we were finished， after which I went home， fingers aching from the stiff manual machines. 　　As the lessons progressed， Mom began to show me a side of herself that I had never seen. The usually mildmannered woman morphed into a drill sergeant who made me practice my typing strokes over and over until I’m sure that even my Olivetti was begging for mercy.
　　“Do this row again，” she’d order. “No TV until you improve your spacing.” She’d add. Who is this woman？ I wondered， and what had she done with my mom？ Someone who purportedly knew zilch about typing had become an expert， seemingly overnight. Mom wanted me to succeed， and to make that happen she studied my typing practice book， memorizing the keyboard， the techniques， and the various exercises. She did everything short of typing them herself.
　　As she had done when I was learning to play the piano （except this time there was no metronome）， my mother prodded me when I became lax in my practicing， encouraged and comforted me when I struggled or wanted to give up. When I became fatigued and frustrated， she hauled out her well-worn but still effective typing-can-opendoors dictum， and I would set my gaze like a flint on the practice book， making music on my Olivetti portable.
　　Sharing space in an old file folder with my high school and college diplomas is the certificate I received from the Crown Business Institute attesting to my successful completion of the typing course， which had culminated in an aptitude test. When I first showed it to my mother， decades ago， it was only the second time I had ever seen her cry.
　　Mom was right. Many doors did open for me once I’d become as confident and fleet-fingered as those students I’d marveled at that first day I reluctantly arrived at Crown. My life would have been markedly different had Mom not insisted on my learning to type at a relatively young age and while she was able to help me. I mastered the typewriter， but the key to my success was the woman who pushed me through one door so future doors could open. That old and faded certificate is just as much hers as it is mine.

　　1968年我初中畢业后不久，母亲就开始唠叨她的咒语：“学打字，门就会为你打开，帕姆。”这几乎成了一种条件反射。任何与打字有丝毫联系的东西——看到打字机图片，听到“打字”这个词——都能从她身上引出这句话，还经常伴随着她的手指摆动和一个微小但清晰可辨的“哼”声。我就会唉声叹气地回应：“好的，妈妈”，或在她看不到我时给她一个熟练的白眼 。
　　当我的母亲和父亲从圭亚那来到美国时，她带来了自己的记忆、照片和写在黄纸上的朗姆酒水果蛋糕配方。她还带来了缝纫和美容技能。缝纫技能使她在纽约服装区获得了一份精整工的全职工作，美容术也使她从偶尔的美发工作中赚些外快。
　　打字并不在她的简历上。对她来说，这是一项基本的“美国技能”。那就意味着学习打字则要取决于我这个她在美国生下的孩子。在我初中毕业后的那个夏天，她送给我一台深褐色的奥利维蒂便携式打字机作为我的生日礼物，这极大地提高了她的赌注。“谢谢，妈妈，但我不会打字，”我温柔地提醒她。 　　“这会改变的，”她也温柔地回答。“很快。”妈妈是个守信的人。“很快”就在一周后来到了，当时我们乘公共汽车去了纽约长岛市内繁忙的斯坦韦街，皇冠商学院就隐匿于那些商店中间。除了打字，学院还开设速记、簿记和其他办公技能的课程。事实上，是我母亲敦促我开门走了进去。
　　在里面，我的目光落到了正在笨重的史密斯-科罗娜或皇家打字机前打字的一排学生身上。每个学生都刻意弯腰对着一本螺旋装订的打字练习本。初学者小心翼翼地环绕着他们的键盘，而更熟练的打字员则做着令人眼花缭乱的数字技艺表演，让打字机发出了独特的嗒嗒响的乐声。
　　我大受触动，同时也怀疑自己能否也达到这样的熟练程度。但在我提出抗议之前，母亲已为我报名上六个星期的打字课。现在没有回头路了。每个工作日的早晨，我都去皇冠商学院参加10点开始的课程；直到中午下课后回家，起身离开那些难操作的手动打字机时我的手指已是疼痛难忍。
　　随着课程的开展，妈妈开始向我展示她那我从未见过的一面。这个平时温文尔雅的女士摇身一变成为一名训练中士，她让我一遍又一遍地练习打字的动作，直到我确信连我那台奥利维蒂打字机都在乞求她的怜悯。
　　“把这排再打一遍，”她命令道，然后补充说“在你改进字/行间距之前不要看电视。”我想知道这个女人是谁？她的所作所为怎么一点儿都不像我妈妈？据称对打字一无所知的人成了专家，似乎也是一夜之间的事情。妈妈希望我成功，为了实现这一点，她研究了我的打字练习本，记住了键盘、技巧和各种练习方法。除了親自打字外，她什么都做了。
　　就像她在我学弹钢琴时做的那样（除了这次没有节拍器），当我练习稍有松懈时，母亲就会激励我，当我挣扎或想放弃时，她就会鼓励并安慰我。当我感到疲惫和沮丧时，她就搬出她那老生常谈但仍然有效的“打字可以为你开一扇门”的名言，这样一来，我就会打起精神专注地盯着练习本，让我的手提奥利维蒂打字机奏响乐曲。
　　在一个旧文件夹的共享空间中，与我的高中和大学文凭放在一起的是我从皇冠商学院获得的结业证书，这表明我成功修完了打字课程，并顺利通过了能力测试。几十年前当我第一次把它展示给母亲时，母亲哭了，这是我第二次看到她这样。
　　妈妈说的没错。我还记得第一天自己不情愿地到皇冠商学院后，对那里学生的自信和指法娴熟深感惊奇，一旦我变得和他们一样时，确实有许多扇门为我打开了。如果不是妈妈在我还很年轻而且在她还能帮助我时坚持要我学打字，我的生活可能会与现在大相径庭。我精通了打字，但我成功的关键在于这样一位女性，她激励我推开了一扇门，这样未来的很多扇门就可以打开了。那张褪色的旧结业证书表明妈妈的付出并不比我的少。