[5分16秒] 美国黑人家庭如何培养下一代：挑战、教育与保护的真实写照

精选100篇经典TED演讲，时长8-15分钟，内容涵盖创新、成长与未来趋势。提供MP3在线播放、下载及英文文本，助你提升听力与口语。用思想的力量，点燃学习热情！下面是本期【TED】100篇经典演讲口语听力素材合集的内容，坚持积累，让你的英语更贴近生活！

I didn't always understand why my parents made me follow the rules that they did. Like why did I really have to mow the lawn? Why was homework really that important? Why couldn't I put jelly beans in my oatmeal? My childhood was a bound with questions like this. Normal things about being a kid and realizing that sometimes it was best to listen to my parents even when I didn't exactly understand why. And it's not that they didn't want me to think critically. They're parenting always thought to reconcile the tension between having my siblings and I understand the realities of the world while ensuring that we never accepted the status quo as inevitable. One of my favorite educators, Brazilian author and scholar Paulo Ferri speaks quite explicitly about the need for education to be used as a tool for critical awakening and shared humanity. In his most famous book, Pedagogy of the Oppress, he states, no one can be authentically human while he prevents others from being so. I've been thinking a lot about this lately, this idea of humanity and specifically who in this world is afforded the privilege of being perceived as fully human. Over the course of the past several months, the world has watched as unarmed black men and women have had their lives taken at the hands of police and vigilante. These events and all that is transpired after them have brought me back to my own childhood and the decisions that my parents made about raising a black boy in America that growing up, I didn't always understand in the way that I do now. I think of how hard it must have been, how profoundly unfair it must have felt for them to feel like they had to strip away parts of my childhood just so that I could come home at night. For example, I think of how one night when I was around 12 years old on an overnight field trip to another city, my friends and I bought super-soakers and turned the hotel parking light into our own water-filled battle zone. We hid behind cars running through the darkness that lay between the street lights, boundless laughter ubiquitous across the pavement. But within 10 minutes, my father came outside, grabbed me by my forearm and led me into our room with an unfamiliar grip. Before I could say anything, tell him how foolish he had made me look in front of my friends. He derided me for being so naive. Looked me in the eye, fear consuming his face and said, son, I'm sorry, but you can't act the same as your white friends. You can't pretend to shoot guns. You can't run around in the dark. You can't hide behind anything other than your own teeth. I know now how scared he must have been. How easily I could have fallen into the empty of the night that some man would mistake this water for a good reason to wash all of this away. These are the sorts of messages I've been inundated with my entire life. Always keep your hands where they can see them. Don't move too quickly. Take off your hood when the sun goes down. My parents raised me in my siblings in an armor of advice, in ocean of alarm bells, so someone wouldn't steal the breath from all lungs, so that they wouldn't make a memory of this skin, so that we could be kids, not casket or concrete. It's not because they thought it would make us better than anyone else. It's simply because they wanted to keep us alive. All of my black friends were raised with the same message. They talked, given to us when we became old enough to be mistaken for a nail ready to be hammered to the ground, when people made our melanins anonymous with something to be feared. But what does it do to a child? To grow up knowing that you cannot simply be a child. That the whims of adolescence are too dangerous for your breath, that you cannot simply be curious. That you would not afforded the luxury of making a mistake that someone's implicit bias might be the reason you don't wake up in the morning. But this cannot be what defines us. Because we had parents who raised us to understand that our bodies weren't meant for the backside of a bullet, but for flying kites and jumping rope and laughing until our stomachs burst. We had teachers who taught us how to raise our hands and class and not just the signal surrender. And the only thing we should give up is the idea that we aren't worthy of this world. So when we say that black lives matter, it's not because others don't. It's simply because we must affirm that we are worthy of existing without fear. When so many things tell us we are not. I want to live in a world where my son will not be presumed guilty the moment he is born where a toy in his hand isn't mistaken for anything other than a toy. And our fuse to accept that we can't build this world into something new. Some place where a child's name doesn't have to be written on a t-shirt or a tombstone where the value of someone's life isn't determined by anything other than the fact that they had lungs. A place where every single one of us can breathe. Thank you.