Incompréhension D'une Question

[chingy59]

Bonjour, voilà, je suis en train de faire une étude de texte, et , je bloque sur une question, voici ce texte:

In 1982 Sally Morgan travelled to her grandmother's birthplace in Western Australia. What started as a tentative search for information about her family turned into an extraordinary emotional and spiritual pilgrimage. Sally and her family were confronted with their own suppressed history of humiliation, and with fundamental questions about their identity. One Saturday afternoon, I was over visiting Mum when she asked me to help her with Curly. "He's in one of his cantankerous moods", she said. "He won't come inside, see what you can do with him." I eyed Curly in disgust from my standpoint on the front porch. He was lying in the middle of the road as usual. All morning, cars had been tooting at him, all to no avail. Curly moved for no one. "You'll get run over, Curl", I called in my Lei's Be Reasonable voice. "You'd better come in." Still no response. "I don't think he'll come in, Mum", I replied. "I wish Paul were here, he always obeys Paul." "You don't think he's going deaf in his old age", Mum asked with a concerned look on her face. "Naah, just stupid." "He's a good dog, Sally", she protested. "You shouldn't talk about him like that." "I think you'd better go inside, Mum", I advised. "He'll never listen to me with you standing there." Mum disappeared and I called once again to the flat layer of black fur lying on the road. "Curl, Mum's gone now. If you don't come in, I'm gunna drag you in." Curl raised his head slightly and growled. I knew what that meant. As soon as I touched him, he'd bite me, I'd been through this before. "Listen, you bloody mongrel", I yelled. But before I could continue my tirade, Nan came up behind me and said, "Don't say that, Sally, it hurts me here", she patted her chest. "Fancy, my own granddaughter sayin' that. I never thought you'd be the one," "You're as bad as Mum", I complained. "I'm not allowed to say anything." "I been called that", Nan replied. "It makes you feel real rotten inside." \ "It's no use you going on, Nan", I said without listening, "he is a bloody mongrel!" "Don't! Don't!" she said, as though I was inflicting some kind of pain on her. "Nan", I reasoned, "someone has got to be firm with him or he'll get run over one day". "What are you talkin' abouts Sally?" "I'm talking about Curly", I replied in exasperation, and then paused. "Why, what are you talking about?" Nan gazed towards the oval directly opposite our house. Just where the bitumen ended and the grass began sat a small Aboriginal boy, I recognized him as belonging to a house around the corner from us. He was intent on some sort of game. "Nan!" I said in shock. "You don't think I was calling that little fella a bloody mongrel, do you? Oh Nan, I'd never call a kid that.. That's a terrible thing to call anyone. How could you think I would do such a thing?" "I've heard them called that. It's not right, they got feelings." "Nan, did you say you'd been called that?" She put her hand over her mouth. "Who was it, Nan? What rotten bugger called you that?" "Don't want to talk about it, Sally", she shook her head. "You've been called that more than once, haven't you, Nan?" She ignored my question and turned to go inside. Half-way through the doorway, she stopped and said, "Sal?" "Yeah?" "Promise me you won't ever call them that? When you see a little bloke like that, think of your Nanna." I nodded my head. I was too close to tears to reply. I wish I could wipe memories like that from her mind. She looked so vulnerable) not like her usual complaining self. It was times like that I realized how much I loved. her.

[yveslouis]

Tu parles d'un pavé !

[yveslouis]

Je viens de lire le texte... Je pense qu'il faut prendre des éléments se référant à Curly et qui pourraient s'appliquer à un homme.

Donc :

Bloody mongrel

You don't think he's going deaf in his old age.

Voila ! j'espère ne pas être trop loin de la réponse.

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