Thank you for embracing a flaxen-haired baby
Although I’m aware you had your doubts
I guess anybody’d have had doubts
—“Sunflowers for Alfred Roy”
My father always reminded me of a sunflower—tall, proud, and stoic2, but also bright,strong, handsome, and self-possessed. He labored3 hard to reach up and out of the harshground in which he was rooted. He was determined4 to transcend5 the limitations faced byhis parents, their siblings6, and their whole generation. He was the only child of his father,Robert, and mother, Addie. He was embarrassed by Addie’s third-grade education. Addiewas tough on her son, and so he grew to respect and rely on order and logic7. By his ownstrength, he hauled himself out of the violent, oppressive environment that had driven oneof his uncles to kill another. My father craved8 discipline, culture, and freedom, so hejoined the military—a logical choice for a man who’d had no say over the time or skininto which he was born.
The military may have taken my father out of the Bronx, but it did not remove himfrom the perils9 of being a Black man in America. While he was enlisted10, a white woman atthe base where he was stationed said she was raped11 and that a Black man did it. On noevidence other than his not being white, my father was accused of the crime and placed ina jail on the base. To add extra suffering, and to serve as a warning to other Black soldiers,the white officers in charge assigned a Black officer to supervise my father—a deliberatereminder that a US military uniform did not camouflage12 their race. Much like assigning aBlack overseer on a plantation13, it was an effective technique of terror.
My father was mortified14, but mostly he was scared. Like many Black men, he lived infear of arbitrary brutality15, abduction, or death. Yet perhaps above all he feared exhibitingfear—because he knew for that transgression16, death was the certain punishment. My fatherwas eventually released, without any apology, support, or counseling. The military’s onlyexplanation was that they had apprehended17 the actual culprit. With a government-issuedgun in hand, he walked straight out of that prison to the top of a hill. Consumed withtrauma and rage, he thought of pulling the trigger—and he was not contemplating18 suicide.
My father took surgical19 care with everything he did. His lifestyle had a truly austerequality: part military barracks, part Shaolin monastery20. His kitchen was small andimpeccably kept. The contents of his pantry were precisely21 indexed by size and category.
There was no room for extravagance or waste of any kind in his home. There were nomultiples of anything: one TV, one radio. In his closet hung just the amount of shirtsneeded for a week, nothing more. He didn’t consider a bed properly made unless thecovers were tucked in so tightly that you could bounce a quarter off its surface.
My father’s approach to most things was efficient and militaristic. He considered theact of snacking frivolous22. If I was hungry while waiting for dinner, he would give me oneRitz cracker23. One. The allure24 of that bright- red box, with its iconic swirl25 of golden,sunflower-shaped crackers26 rising out of their wax sleeves, was intoxicating27. He would pullout one tall column of crackers, undo28 the meticulously29 folded sleeve top, slip a singlecracker from the stack, and hand it to me delicately, as if it were a precious gem30. Then hewould carefully refold the paper, slide the stack back into the box, and return it to its placeon the shelf, where it would stay.
I’d hold the buttery, salty, crunchy goodness up to my nose, close my eyes, andbreathe in one long, luxurious31 sniff32. With precision, I would take one teeny-weeny bitealong the scalloped edge. I’d chew ever so slowly, letting the savory33 sensation linger onmy tongue. Turning the golden treasure ever so slightly, I would nibble34 off another littlepiece of the edge, relishing35 every grain of salt and crumb36, making my one cracker last aslong as I could. (Ironically, the slogan on the box was “there’s only one Ritz”—and forme, there really was!)
By today’s standards my father would have been considered a hipster. After themilitary, he moved to Brooklyn Heights, drove a classic Porsche Speedster, and preparedauthentic Italian dishes in his kitchen. Oh, how I lived for my father’s cooking! He made amean sausage and peppers, and delicious parsley meatballs, but his linguine with whiteclam sauce was sublime38. The scent39 of garlic in hot olive oil, boiling pasta, and the saltysea are what the best Sundays smell like to me. I loved Sundays. Those were the days Ispent with my father—and our meals together were what I looked forward to the most.
One Sunday, my father’s mother, Addie, was there—a rare occasion. I don’t think Iwas more than five years old. It began as a typical Sunday, my father spending the entireday meticulously preparing his signature dish. He shucked and cleaned every clam37, slicedthe garlic, and chopped the aromatic40 flat Italian parsley. It was such a process—a ritual,rather. As per usual I hadn’t eaten all day, save maybe a Ritz cracker (and I probablyhadn’t had a full meal the day before; Saturday night at my mother’s house could be a bithaphazard). Between reading and coloring and tummy rumbles41, I eyed the pantry. The airwas perfumed with the freshness of my father’s ingredients. I’d waited all week, waited allday; I just needed to hold out until dinnertime. Soon I would be reveling in my favoritedish.
I smelled the pasta softening42 in the boiling water and knew it wouldn’t be long. “It’sdinnertime!” my father finally sang. I jumped up and rushed to sit at the small Formicatable in the kitchen. Addie, with a fabulous43 red wig44 and a red printed caftan to match, wason a tangent, telling some story only the grown-ups would be interested in. I could barelyhold my head up, as I’d probably started to swoon and drool waiting for the deliciousnessthat was about to appear before me. I watched my father put the pasta on my plate, thenscoop up the heavenly sauce and artfully pour it around the linguine. I followed his everymove as he lowered the steaming white plate down in front of me. It was time! And then,just as I was picking up my fork, Addie—who had not paused in her story to take a breath—whipped out a green canister of grated Parmesan cheese and proceeded to shake itsunsavory, powdery contents all over my elegant fresh linguine.
Noooooooo!!!!!! I screamed in horror. But it was too late; my plate was covered withit. My father never put that cheese on white clam sauce! Where had it even come from?
Did she have it in her pocketbook?! Unable to control my shock and revulsion, I ran to thebathroom, slammed the door, and exploded into tears. “Roy, you better make her eat thatpasta. Make her eat that food!” I heard Addie telling my father in defiance45. That was theonly time I remember my father’s perfect pasta being foiled, and I think it was the lasttime Addie joined us for Sunday supper.
My father taught me that words have meaning and thus, they have power. Once, on alovely summer Sunday afternoon, I heard the faint jingle46 of the ice cream truck comingdown the street outside my father’s house. Upon recognizing the mystical melody thatpromised so much pleasure, I let out an excited cry: “Aaaaa! The ice cream man!” Thesong was loud and clear now, so I knew the truck had stopped somewhere nearby. Thepattering of running feet and the happy squeals47 I heard confirmed it—the ice cream manwas right outside our door. My mind was racing1. I gotta go! I thought to myself. He’sgoing to leave!
“Can I borrow fifty cents, please, please?!” I nearly shrieked48 at my father, dangerouslyclose to hyperventilating.
“Do you want to borrow fifty cents? Or would you like to have fifty cents?” he repliedin a cool, calm tone.
A mild panic was creeping in. “Uhhhh,” I stammered49. I didn’t know what to say. All Iknew was that I had to get some money for the ice cream man. “I don’t know!”
I wasn’t thinking clearly. Again, my father spoke50 in a patient, level manner that onlyenhanced my frenzy51.
“There’s a difference between borrowing and having. Are you asking me to give youfifty cents?”
I was in a state and unprepared to make distinctions at that moment, so I blurted52 out, “Ijust want to borrow fifty cents. I’ll give it back! Please!”
He reached in his pocket, pulled out two shiny silver quarters, and dropped them in myanxious little palm. Like the occasional Ritz cracker, they felt like precious jewels. I burstthrough the doors of the building, barely touching53 the steps, and ran to the truck like agazelle being chased by a lion.
I had gotten my ice cream, but my father made it clear I would have to repay themoney I had borrowed. At seven years old I wasn’t earning any money yet, so I asked mymother for the quarters. She couldn’t fathom54 why my father would barter55 with his littlegirl, and she gave them to me. They had always had opposing parenting styles. I kept mypromise and gave the money back to him the next Sunday. The ice cream man incidentwas a lesson not only in respecting the meaning of words but in integrity and moneymanagement. My father was a man who had saved the very first dollar he ever made.
Being a single father was a fairly new notion back then, so he wasn’t prepared to plangirlie playdates or fun, child-centered activities. For the most part, I was simply the childaccompaniment to his regular adult life—keeping busy and out of the way as he cooked,cleaned, and tinkered with his car while listening to football on the radio. And he adoredhis Porsche. It was his only true luxury. He bought two of them in his lifetime, one beforechildren and one after, both used. His Speedster was apparently56 always in need of somesort of repair, so he was always messing around in it.
The car was in a perpetual state of being “prepared” for full restoration. It was avague, matte noncolor, because it was covered in gray primer, not paint. I once asked himwhy the color of the car was so dull. He explained that it was primer, but that the originalcolor had been candy apple red. “Oh, so one day you’re going to make it candy applered?” I asked.
“They don’t make that color anymore,” he said flatly. I was confused. Why not justmake it another color, then? But if it couldn’t be the original color, he’d rather it not beany color at all.
He was incredibly patient with the Porsche, spending hours with it, believing deeply inits exotic beauty and high performance. It was very cool and chic—a soft-top convertiblewith two seats. He loved the freedom of putting the top down and the intimacy57 of onlyhaving room for one passenger. We would go on long drives without much chatting. If theradio was on, it was tuned58 to the news (“1010 Wins—you give us ten minutes, we’ll giveyou the world”). Every now and then we would sing one of those funny, folksy songs thatgo on and on, like “There’s a Hole in the Bottom of the Sea.”
There’s a wart59 on the frog, on the bump, on the log,in the hole in the bottom of the sea
He also liked to sing “John Henry,” a folk song about a Black man who worked as a“steel-driving man.”
John Henry was a little baby, sitting on his Daddy’s kneeWhen he would sing “knee,” he’d hit an impossibly low note that would always make melaugh. I liked singing those songs because they would help the time and the miles go by.
Back then I thought just driving was such a bore. But now, oh, what wouldn’t I do to sitnext to him, one more time, in those leather seats, on the open road, with just the hum ofthe engine and the swishing of the wind as our accompaniment. My mother, the operasinger, taught me scales, but my father taught me songs that made me laugh.
Thank you for the mountains
The Lake of the Clouds
I'm picturing you and me there right now
As the crystal cascades60 showered down
—“Sunflowers for Alfred Roy”
Occasionally we would go to Lime Rock Park, a racetrack in Connecticut. It was aslightly more glamorous61 experience than a typical NASCAR venue62. Paul Newman had ateam there, and world- class drivers like Mario Andretti were regulars. I found theracetrack pretty boring, but going to the races was a favorite activity for Alfred Roy, andhe made all of his kids join him. This was one rare thing we kids all could agree on: carsgoing around and around in a circle wasn’t high entertainment.
When we were on our drives or at the racetrack, I was often just around while he didregular adult things. While he listened to or watched football (which he loved, and which Ifound extremely boring) I would be close by, quietly reading or drawing—observing theways of an adult.
My father did have a few books just for me in his house. The one I remember mostdistinctly was about a little Black boy who was blind. The cover was white, with large red,orange, and yellow circles. It was full of colors and told the story of a boy who saw theworld through touching and feeling shapes, rather than through color.
When I think of that storybook, I think of Stevie Wonder. Reading it, I wondered ifthis was the reason why Stevie Wonder could create such vivid worlds and emotionsthrough his songs: he was seeing without eyes; he was seeing with his soul. StevieWonder is by far the songwriter I respect and love the most. He is beyond genius; Ibelieve he writes songs from a holy place. I think that having this book about the blindBlack boy was one way my father attempted to introduce the concepts of racism63 andperception to me, because we really didn’t talk about it. We didn’t talk about the shadesand the shapes of us.
Perception was also very important to my father. Once, while drawing alongside himon a quiet Sunday afternoon, I made what I thought was a very clever cartoon. It was apicture of our family with the caption64, “They’re weird65. But they’re okay.” But when Ishowed it to my father, he got really upset.
“Why would you say we’re weird?” he demanded. I was shaken by his stern tone, andI had no idea why the idea made him angry.
“I don’t know. I probably heard it somewhere,” I said. In my cartoon I had also added,“But they’re okay,” which I thought was optimistic. It was a little tongue-in-cheek.
With an absolute seriousness that chilled me, he said, “Don’t ever say that.”
I never intended to offend him, in fact, I’d wanted to delight him. I felt really bad thatday. But the heavy load he carried, his deep desire to be accepted as a full human being,was something I wouldn’t learn about until much later—something I am still trying tomake peace with.
At the time, I didn’t have the language to tell him that weird was how I felt. I didn’tknow how to say that was how I felt other people saw us—as weird. I thought everythingwas weird. My hair was weird; my clothes were weird; my siblings and their friends wereweird; my mother and all the shabby places we lived with her—they were all weird.
I thought the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship was a weird church. We had startedattending when the family was still together. The five of us would go to this old medieval-style stone castle with thick walls and a tall tower, filled with a congregation of whatlooked like every odd person on the Island. To my little-girl self it appeared like theChurch of Misfit Toys at a Renaissance66 fair. The pastor67, who was formerly68 Jewish, hadchanged his name from Ralph to Lucky. “Reverend Lucky?” Okay. The teens would go upin the tower and do whatever weird things teens did. Even as a little girl, I knew this wasnot my scene. But my father, though the only Black person, felt like he was accepted thereamong the other outsiders, so he stayed at the fellowship forever.
I don’t think my father understood how different we were from everyone in theneighborhoods I lived in with my mother. It was weird to be living in a makeshiftapartment on top of a deli when everyone else lived in a house. We lived in a smallcommercial section of Northport where there was a strip of stores on the ground level of acluster of Victorian houses. They were small-town businesses: a bicycle shop, maybe ageneral store, and then the deli. A staircase alongside the deli’s entrance led up to a small,dim railroad-style apartment where I lived with my mother and Morgan.
I had a room at the end of the hall, no bigger than a typical walk-in closet. Theapartment was small, the floors were covered in pea-green carpeting, and the walls anddoors were thin; the sound of laughing and voices often kept me awake at night. I had veryfew things in that tiny room that brought me comfort. The most precious, perhaps, weregifts from my father—a little ceramic69 bunny and a sweet molasses-colored teddy bearnamed Cuddles, which I kept until it was destroyed many years later after a flood in aManhattan apartment that was on top of a bar and nightclub (apparently, there are levels toliving on top of establishments, and I have gone through all of them).
I remember when you used to tuck me in at nightwith the teddy bear you gave to me that I held so tight—“Bye Bye”
Even with Cuddles by my side, I frequently had nightmares, and it was in that dismalapartment where my troubles with sleep first began.
I don’t recall anyone else living around there, and there were certainly no other Blackpeople for miles. Morgan’s was the only Afro in sight. Once, after he got in trouble, mymother meekly70 admonished71 him to “stay in his room.” Shortly after, the owner of the delidownstairs called my mother to inform her that he was watching her son jump fromrooftop to rooftop above the other stores. Morgan had climbed out of the window onto theroof and was making a daring escape. He eventually went through a phase when he shavedhis head bald and would wear karate72 pants, with a snake casually73 draped around his neck.
He would walk through the town looking like a punk ninja, full of anger, hoping to find afight. Even without his hair he was impossible to miss.
My father might not have liked me calling the Careys weird, but weird things certainlyhappened to us. Every now and then, Alison would crash into the apartment like a meteor,and friends of hers and Morgan’s would hang out all night.
One night Alison booked me as the entertainment. Earlier that day she’d taught me thesong “White Rabbit” by Jefferson Airplane. It was an odd selection for sure, but I figuredmaybe she liked it because the refrain of “Go ask Alice” sounded close to her name. WhenI was brought out to the living room to perform, all of the lights were out, and I wassurrounded by burning candles and a circle of teenagers (as well as my mother). WatchingAlison’s face for approval, I let out the first verse:
One pill makes you larger, and one pill makes you smallAnd the ones that Mother gives you, don’t do anything at allGo ask Alice, when she’s ten feet tall
A song about taking drugs and tripping is not typical (or appropriate) lyrical contentfor a little girl. But I sang it because my big sister taught it to me. I loved nothing morethan learning and singing songs, but this one was full of scary images (“the White Knightis talking backward /and the Red Queen’s off with her head”) and what seemed to me likecreepy nonsense (“the hookah-smoking caterpillar”—what?).
Of course, I wondered what this song was about and why I was singing it in the dark.
It was past midnight, and while all the other kids my age were nestled in their beds, I wasbelting out, “Feed your head!” for a candlelit gathering74 of wannabe- hippie teensconducting a pseudo-séance. Tell me that’s not weird.
“See you next Sunday!” That was our thing. My father and I gave that little promise toeach other with a wave each week as I left him to return to life with my mother. But as Igrew a little older, my seriousness as a singer-songwriter began to swiftly envelop75 mywhole world. I was in the profession by the time I was twelve. My father did not see it orsupport it, largely because he did not understand it.
Music, as a career, was not logical to him. When I talked about writing poetry andsinging, he would shift the conversation to grades and homework. He didn’t see the focusand discipline I was cultivating as an artist. He didn’t see how I was learning the craft,sitting in on jam sessions with accomplished76 jazz musicians with my mother anddeveloping the skills of scatting and improvisation77. He never saw how I spent hourswriting, enriching my ear, and studying popular music trends on the radio. Above all, wehad a fundamental difference in belief: I followed my heart, while he was guided by hisfear of not being accepted. From that awful and auspicious78 day when Nana Reese laid herhands on me and spoke into my heart, I truly believed anything I wanted was possible. Itwas real to me. Absolute. My father did not believe anything was possible. On thecontrary, he expected the world to vehemently79 deny his desires, not the least of which wasdignity.
Alfred Roy was a man who lived his entire life under threat of humiliation80 anddehumanization as a result of his identity. He placed all his hope in the notion that societalrespect would be awarded him through his discipline, diligence, and excellence81 ontraditional institutional tracks like academics, service to your country, and respectablework. His other two children had all the makings of great students. When they wereyounger, he demanded that they produce all As on their report cards, and mostly they did(yet he would still sometimes question why each A wasn’t accompanied by a plus). Theonly class I excelled in was creative writing, in which I was always in the advancedgroups. But I was tragic82 in mathematics and really couldn’t connect with most othersubjects or material.
The two potential academics took terrible turns in their teens, fulfilling a Blackfather’s greatest fears. The boy had been “institutionalized,” placed in the precarious“care” of the state, the first stop on a dangerous fast track to becoming a statistic83. And thegirl, pregnant before her sixteenth birthday, had already arrived at one. And I, the baby,who wasn’t a wild one, rejected the traditional, “safe” route to a secure career and beganto pursue what he saw as an improbable, mysterious, and dangerous path. My father wasextremely strict with my siblings, and they would often complain or joke about his tightand eccentric ways to my mother. However, in an effort to shield me from their harshperspective, I often overheard her tell them, “Don’t say that in front of Mariah.”
There were moments when my father did disappoint me. After Alison was no longerliving with him, he went from being a divorced single father to a true bachelor. Therewere times he wouldn’t show up for our dates.
As a child, there were them times
I didn’t get it, but you kept me in line
I didn’t know why
You didn’t show up sometimes
On Sunday mornings
And I missed you
—“Bye Bye”
So, over time, our Sunday ritual became sporadic84. My music was driving so much ofmy time and energy by that point. I worked on it every moment I could. I was determinedto rise above my conditions, rise above all the people who didn’t believe I was going tomake it, rise above the sad place my sister had fallen into, rise above my brother’s angrydysfunction. I was going to rise above it all—even if that included my father, the onestable family member I had. After paying for one summer at a performing arts camp, themost my father ever did for my career was to warn me about how uncertain andtreacherous the entertainment business could be.
Years later, I called my father and played “Vision of Love” from the recording85 studio,putting the phone receiver right up to the Yamaha speaker.
“Wow,” he said, “you sound like all three Pointer Sisters!” He wasn’t a big musicman, so this comparison was high praise coming from him. It meant he had noticed all ofthe layers of the background vocals86, in addition to the strong lead. He was really listeningto my song. And I could tell he was happy with it and with me. After all those years, itwas truly validating87.
Yet, even after all I had accomplished I wasn’t immune to the perfectionism he hadprojected onto his other children. After I had garnered88 two Grammys within my very firstyear in the industry, he remarked, “Maybe if you were a producer you could win more,like Quincy Jones.” That same year, the legendary89 Quincy Jones took home sevenGrammys for his epic90 project Back on the Block, which spanned the entire history ofBlack American Music and featured giants from Ella Fitzgerald and Miles Davis to LutherVandross.
I had done astonishingly well as a new artist (who had written her own hit songs), andhere my father was, comparing me to arguably one of the greatest musical giants theindustry has ever known, with decades of experience and endless accolades91 and honors tohis name! I was immediately thrust back to my childhood, as if my two Grammys weretwo A’s on my report card and he was asking me what had happened to the pluses. I thinkmy success in music scared him because he had no idea about, and seemingly no influenceon, how I’d arrived. He didn’t ask and I didn’t tell.
Gradually, “next Sunday” turned into a month of Sundays. I had to let go of ourSundays so I could manifest my own day in the sun.
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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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stoic
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| n.坚忍克己之人，禁欲主义者 | |
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labored
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| adj.吃力的，谨慎的v.努力争取(for)( labor的过去式和过去分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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transcend
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| vt.超出，超越(理性等)的范围 | |
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siblings
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| n.兄弟，姐妹( sibling的名词复数 ) | |
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logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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enlisted
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| adj.应募入伍的v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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raped
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| v.以暴力夺取，强夺( rape的过去式和过去分词 )；强奸 | |
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camouflage
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| n./v.掩饰，伪装 | |
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plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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transgression
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| n.违背；犯规；罪过 | |
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apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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surgical
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| adj.外科的，外科医生的，手术上的 | |
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monastery
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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frivolous
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cracker
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| n.（无甜味的）薄脆饼干 | |
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allure
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swirl
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crackers
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| adj.精神错乱的，癫狂的n.爆竹( cracker的名词复数 )；薄脆饼干；（认为）十分愉快的事；迷人的姑娘 | |
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intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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meticulously
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| adv.过细地，异常细致地；无微不至；精心 | |
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gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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31
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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savory
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| adj.风味极佳的，可口的，味香的 | |
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nibble
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| n.轻咬，啃；v.一点点地咬，慢慢啃，吹毛求疵 | |
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relishing
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| v.欣赏( relish的现在分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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36
crumb
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| n.饼屑，面包屑，小量 | |
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clam
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| n.蛤，蛤肉 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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39
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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aromatic
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| adj.芳香的，有香味的 | |
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41
rumbles
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| 隆隆声，辘辘声( rumble的名词复数 ) | |
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42
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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43
fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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wig
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| n.假发 | |
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45
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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jingle
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| n.叮当声，韵律简单的诗句；v.使叮当作响，叮当响，押韵 | |
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47
squeals
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| n.长而尖锐的叫声( squeal的名词复数 )v.长声尖叫，用长而尖锐的声音说( squeal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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48
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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51
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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52
blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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barter
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| n.物物交换，以货易货，实物交易 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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tuned
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| adj.调谐的，已调谐的v.调音( tune的过去式和过去分词 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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59
wart
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| n.疣，肉赘；瑕疵 | |
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60
cascades
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| 倾泻( cascade的名词复数 )； 小瀑布（尤指一连串瀑布中的一支）； 瀑布状物； 倾泻（或涌出）的东西 | |
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glamorous
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| adj.富有魅力的；美丽动人的；令人向往的 | |
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venue
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| n.犯罪地点，审判地，管辖地，发生地点，集合地点 | |
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racism
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| n.民族主义；种族歧视(意识) | |
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caption
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| n.说明，字幕，标题；v.加上标题，加上说明 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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ceramic
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| n.制陶业，陶器，陶瓷工艺 | |
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meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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admonished
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| v.劝告( admonish的过去式和过去分词 )；训诫；（温和地）责备；轻责 | |
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72
karate
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| n.空手道(日本的一种徒手武术) | |
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73
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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74
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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75
envelop
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| vt.包，封，遮盖；包围 | |
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76
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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77
improvisation
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| n.即席演奏(或演唱)；即兴创作 | |
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auspicious
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| adj.吉利的；幸运的，吉兆的 | |
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vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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80
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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81
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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82
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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83
statistic
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| n.统计量；adj.统计的，统计学的 | |
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84
sporadic
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| adj.偶尔发生的 [反]regular；分散的 | |
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85
recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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86
vocals
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| （乐曲中的）歌唱部份，声乐部份( vocal的名词复数 ) | |
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87
validating
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| v.证实( validate的现在分词 )；确证；使生效；使有法律效力 | |
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88
garnered
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| v.收集并（通常）贮藏（某物），取得，获得( garner的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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89
legendary
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| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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90
epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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91
accolades
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| n.（连结几行谱表的）连谱号( accolade的名词复数 )；嘉奖；（窗、门上方的）桃尖拱形线脚；册封爵士的仪式（用剑面在肩上轻拍一下） | |
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