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This morning my friend was going to attend to a workshop, and she was worrying about her 4-year-old daughter. The baby’s father had to go out to do a labor job. So I volunteered to baby-sit her baby.
A baby-sitting job was simple. That was watching cartoon movie with her. But suddenly I realized it was time to know who would host the 2008 Olympic games. “Would you like me to find you a more funny movie?” I suggested. Then I changed the channel to where the news on the Olympic-bid was reported. Then I saw the ocean of the waving banners and the cheerful crowd before the Tiananmen Square. “No, I don’t like this, I want to watch cartoon.” The little girl protested. I persuaded her, “ this is more funny, and,” I added, “this is our HOMELAND”. “Homeland?” obviously she was not clear about what is homeland, but she calmed down and asked me, “is the place where my grandma lives?” and she looked at the television wondering, “will my grandma be there?” after a while, she told me, “ I want to cry.” At that time, tears floated down my face.
I seldom speak such word as homeland and something like. For I don’t know what does it mean. And today from a little child I know what is homeland. In a little girl’s eye, homeland means where her grandparents live. And for me, it means where I have worked; where I waited till midnight in the classroom with my classmates for the result of the Olympic-bid several years ago, cheered at first when hearing the name of Beijing then fell in deep sorrow when knowing it was not Beijing that wined.
All that far away!
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