My heart sank when the man at the immigration counter gestured to the back room. I was born and raised in America, and this was Miami, where I live, but they weren’t quite ready to let me in yet.

　 “Please wait in here, Ms. Abujaber,” the immigration officer said. My husband, with his very American last name, accompanied me. He was getting used to this. The same thing had happened recently in Canada when I’d flown to Montreal to speak at a book event. That time they held me for 45 minutes. Today we were returning from a literary festival in Jamaica, and I was shocked that I was being sent “in back” once again.

　　The officer behind the counter called me up and said, “Miss, your name looks like the name of someone who’s on our wanted list. We’re going to have to check you out with Washington.”

　　“How long will it take?”

　　“Hard to say…a few minutes,” he said, “We’ll call you when we’re ready for you.” After an hour, Washington still hadn’t decided anything about me.

“Isn’t this computerized?” I asked at the counter, “Can’t you just look me up?”

“Just a few more minutes,” they assured me.

　　After an hour and a half, I pulled my cell phone out to call the friends I was supposed to meet that evening. An officer rushed over. “No phones!” he said, “For all we know you could be calling a terrorist cell and giving them information.”

　　“I’m just a university professor,” I said. My voice came out in a squeak.

　　“Of course you are. And we take people like you out of here in leg irons every day.”

　　I put my phone away.

　　My husband and I were getting hungry and tired. Whole families had been brought into the waiting room, and the place was packed with excitable children, exhausted parents, and even a flight attendant.

　　I wanted to scream, to jump on a chair and shout: “I’m an American citizen; a novelist; I probably teach English literature to your children.”

After two hours in detention (扣押), I was approached by one of the officers. “You’re free to go,” he said. No explanation or apologies. For a moment, neither of us moved. We were still in shock. Then we leaped to our feet.

　　“Oh, one more thing,” he handed me a tattered photocopy with an address on it, “If you aren’t happy with your treatment, you can write to this agency.”

　　“Will they respond?” I asked.

　　“I don’t know—I don’t know of anyone who’s ever written to them before.” Then he added,” By the way, this will probably keep happening each time you travel internationally.”

　　“What can I do to keep it from happening again?”

　　He smiled the empty smile we’d seen all day, “Absolutely nothing.”

　　After telling several friends about our ordeal, probably the most frequent advice I’ve heard in response is to change my name. Twenty years ago, my own graduate school writing professor advised me to write under a pen name so that publishers wouldn’t stick me in what he called “the ethnic ghetto”—a separate, secondary shelf in the bookstore. But a name is an integral part of anyone’s personal and professional identity—just like the town you’re born in and the place where you’re raised.

　　Like my father, I’ll keep the name, but my airport experience has given me a whole new perspective on what diversity and tolerance are supposed to mean. I had no idea that being an American would ever be this hard.

1.The author was held at the airport because ______.

A. she and her husband returned from Jamaica

B. her name was similar to a terrorist’s

C. she had been held in Montreal

D. she had spoken at a book event

2.She was not allowed to call her friends because ______.

A. her identity hadn’t been confirmed yet

B. she had been held for only one hour and a half

C. there were other families in the waiting room

D. she couldn’t use her own cell phone

3.We learn from the passage that the author would ______ to prevent similar experience from happening again.

A. write to the agency?????????? B. change her name??

C. avoid traveling abroad??????? D. do nothing

4.Her experiences indicate that there still exists ______ in the US.

A. hatred???????????????????? B. discrimination?????

C. tolerance?????????????????? D. diversity

5.The author sounds ______ in the last paragraph.

A. impatient?? B. bitter???????? C. worried??????????? D. ironic (具有諷刺意味的)

I watch her and her mother decorate her college dormitory room. Everything is in place organized and arranged. Her room nicely accommodates not only her clothes and bric-a-brac(小擺設(shè)), but her ___36___ as well. I begin to accept that her room at home is no longer hers. It is now ours, our room for her when she ___37___.
I ___38___ myself thinking of when I held her in the cradle of my arm, in the chair alongside my wife's hospital bed. One day old. So ___39___, so beautiful, so perfect, so ___40___ dependent on her new, ___41___ parents. Time marches relentlessly(不停地).
She looks up now, catching me ___42___ at her, causing her to say to her mother." Mom, Dad's looking at me ___43____”.
The last few days, I touch her arm, her face--- ___44___ that when my wife and I return home, she will not be ___45___ us. I have so much to say, but no ___46___ with which to say it.
My ___47___ changed from the day I drove this child home from the hospital. I saw myself ___48___ that day, and it has led to a lot of places that I would never have found on my own.
She says, “It'll be all right, Dad. I'll be home from school ___49___.” I tell her she will have a great year but I say little else. I am afraid somehow to speak and I only hold on to our good-bye hug a little longer, a little ___50___.
I gaze into her eyes and ___51___to go. My wife's eyes follow her as she leaves us. ___52___ do not. Maybe if I don't look, I can imagine that she really hasn't ___53___ ; I know that what she is embarking upon(開始) is exciting and wonderful. I remember what the world looked like to me ___54___ everything was new.
As I walk to the car with my wife at my side, my eyes are wet, my heart is sore, and I realize that my life is ___55___ forever.

I watch her and her mother decorate her college dormitory room. Everything is in place organized and arranged. Her room nicely accommodates not only her clothes and bric-a-brac(小擺設(shè)), but her ___36___ as well. I begin to accept that her room at home is no longer hers. It is now ours, our room for her when she ___37___.
I ___38___ myself thinking of when I held her in the cradle of my arm, in the chair alongside my wife's hospital bed. One day old. So ___39___, so beautiful, so perfect, so ___40___ dependent on her new, ___41___ parents. Time marches relentlessly(不停地).
She looks up now, catching me ___42___ at her, causing her to say to her mother." Mom, Dad's looking at me ___43____”.
The last few days, I touch her arm, her face--- ___44___ that when my wife and I return home, she will not be ___45___ us. I have so much to say, but no ___46___ with which to say it.
My ___47___ changed from the day I drove this child home from the hospital. I saw myself ___48___ that day, and it has led to a lot of places that I would never have found on my own.
She says, “It'll be all right, Dad. I'll be home from school ___49___.” I tell her she will have a great year but I say little else. I am afraid somehow to speak and I only hold on to our good-bye hug a little longer, a little ___50___.
I gaze into her eyes and ___51___to go. My wife's eyes follow her as she leaves us. ___52___ do not. Maybe if I don't look, I can imagine that she really hasn't ___53___ ; I know that what she is embarking upon(開始) is exciting and wonderful. I remember what the world looked like to me ___54___ everything was new.
As I walk to the car with my wife at my side, my eyes are wet, my heart is sore, and I realize that my life is ___55___ forever.

Each of us fails from time to time. If we are wise, we accept these failures as a  21  part of the learning process. But all too often  22  parents and teachers we disallow this same right to our children.

When I see a child  23   from this kind of pressure, I think of Donnie.

Donnie was my youngest third-grader. His  24   of failure kept him from classroom games that other children enjoyed. He  25   answered questions--- he was afraid he might be wrong. I tried my best to build his  26   . But nothing changed until midterm, when Mary Anne, a student teacher, was assigned to our classroom. She was young and pretty, and she loved children. My pupils, Donnie included, all  27   her very much.

One morning, we were working on maths problems at the chalk-board. Donnie had  28   the problems with pains-taking tidiness. Pleased with his progress, I  29   the children with Mary Anne and went for art materials. When I returned, Donnie was in 30  . He’d missed the third problem.

My student teacher looked at me in despair. Suddenly her face  31   . From the desk we shared, she got a container filled with pencils.

“Look, Donnie,” she said, kneeling beside him and gently  32   the tear-stained(弄臟的) face from his arms. “ I’ve got something to  33   you.” She removed the pencils, one at a time, and placed them on his desk.

“See these   34   , Donnie,” she continued. “ They belong to Mrs. Lindstorm and me. See how the erasers are   35   . That’s because we make mistakes too. But, we erase the mistakes and try again. That’s what you  36   learn to do, too.

She kissed him and stood up. “Here,” she said, “I’ll leave one of these pencils on  37   desk so you’ll remember that everyone makes mistakes,  38   teachers.” Donnie looked up with love in his eyes and a smile.

The   39   became Donnie’s prized possession. That, together with Mary Anne’s frequent encouragement, gradually  40   him that it’s all right to make mistakes--- as long as you erase them and try again.

Jack is a good friend _______, and he often comes to our home for a visit.

1. A.
   of my father
2. B.
   of my father’s
3. C.
   for my father
4. D.
   in my father’s