On December 12, 2018, the poet Meng Lang died in Hong Kong. He was 57. He was a well-respected writer, a human rights advocate, and tirelessly promoted Liu Xiaobo, the Nobel Peace Prize Laureate.
One year later, to commemorate the anniversary of his death, his long-time friend and collaborator, Beiling requested essays from friends and colleagues who knew Meng Lang, so that he could put together a book dedicated to Meng Lang’s memory.
I contributed this piece which was translated into Chinese and published in December 2019.
www.sacred-truths.com
On December 12, 2018, the poet Meng Lang died in Hong Kong. He was 57. He was a well-respected writer, a human rights advocate, and tirelessly promoted Liu Xiaobo, the Nobel Peace Prize Laureate.
One year later, to commemorate the anniversary of his death, his long-time friend and collaborator, Beiling requested essays from friends and colleagues who knew Meng Lang, so that he could put together a book dedicated to Meng Lang’s memory.
I contributed this piece which was translated into Chinese and published in December 2019.
www.sacred-truths.com
On December 12, 2018, the poet Meng Lang died in Hong Kong. He was 57. He was a well-respected writer, a human rights advocate, and tirelessly promoted Liu Xiaobo, the Nobel Peace Prize Laureate.
One year later, to commemorate the anniversary of his death, his long-time friend and collaborator, Beiling requested essays from friends and colleagues who knew Meng Lang, so that he could put together a book dedicated to Meng Lang’s memory.
I contributed the following piece which was translated into Chinese and published in December 2019.
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Meng Lang and I had a unique relationship for we did not have a shared language. When I met him, my Chinese language skills were rudimentary; he hardly ever used English and seemed very self-conscious when he did. Still, I understood his character just by his presence.
I don’t remember exactly when, but I know we met sometime in 1995 after his arrival in Boston when he spent a night in my apartment before beginning a residency at Brown University. At that time I was a graduate student with a full-time, demanding job at Harvard. I often returned home at 10:30 pm or midnight, exhausted and bewildered by the activity in my home. This was when Beiling lived with me in my Cambridge apartment, near Harvard University, and my dining room served as the editorial office of his underground literary magazine, Tendency Quarterly. Numerous people from China came through that apartment in those days, either connected to Beiling or the magazine. They would visit for an hour, an afternoon, or spend the night. One of them had been Meng Lang.
Meng Lang was an editor of Tendency with Beiling and during the late 90s became an almost daily visitor to my home. He often came over to deliver papers to Beiling, or work with him, or discuss issues. He never imposed himself in any way on me or my lifestyle. He was respectful of my privacy, sometimes leaving tactfully and promptly when he saw the exhausted look on my face as I came through the door late at night. He was never presumptuous. With Meng Lang, there was no hidden agenda, no manipulation. He had a certain innocence – not naivete – but an innocence that comes when someone has a purity of heart and intention. He was intent upon his work, about his mission as a writer and as a human rights activist. I’m a private person, but I never minded his presence and indeed, during those times when he and Beiling had to work late into the evening, I sometimes shuffled out to the dining room area in my robe and slippers with him there, because it just didn’t matter.
When one doesn’t understand a language, one instead relies on or focuses on other features such as a person’s profile, facial expressions, mannerisms, and tone of voice. I was intrigued when I observed Meng Lang’s face: the strong jaw, the high, protruding cheek bones, the broad nose and wide forehead. His was a face that rarely smiled in photos, but in real life was often cheerful and animated. I enjoyed his presence in the apartment, for it was steady and focused. Peaceful.
There is much that one can take in from a person, even if they do not share your language. Meng Lang was of sound character. He played no games. He saw me as a fellow human being, trying to make sense of the world, just like him. Equals. I would describe Meng Lang as steadfast and loyal. He was reliable. He was heartfelt. He had empathy and diligently worked for justice. These things I knew.
Sometimes he attempted to use English with me. He would then become child-like, his eyes rolling up to the left as he searched for the words, laughing as he spoke them – self-conscious at his attempt, his eyes sparkling with glee.
Other memories: driving across the city one summer day to retrieve my grandmother’s bowl from Meng Lang’s apartment, in which Beiling had brought a dish to a pot luck and left it behind. Meng Lang good-naturedly handed me the bowl, smiling as I explained the sentimental value of the bowl to him. Another time, when I woke him up early one morning at his place in Chinatown to retrieve materials for the magazine on my way to visit Beiling at Yaddo. Meng Lang greeted me at the door with disheveled hair, yawning and scratching his bum. And many times I remember him standing on the street outside our apartment, softly calling up to our 3rd floor living room window to Beiling (this was before cell phones), so as not to disturb me.
In August of 2000 Beiling was arrested in Beijing. I had seen a small newspaper clipping about it in the New York Times, but I didn’t believe it to be serious for he was often delayed by the police when he traveled to China. That night Meng Lang called me with the news that it was true and it was quite serious. I knew he was doing everything he could, through all of his networks to facilitate Beiling’s release. For that two-week period, Meng Lang called me every night. Beiling’s imprisonment was such a complex subject, and neither of us had the language skills to discuss it properly with the other, or to discuss our concerns and anguish. Sometimes he had news: like when a local TV news station was scheduled to broadcast Beiling’s story. Often he had nothing to report. Still, he called me anyway and after we’d said what we could to each other, as two distraught people without a shared language, we each took comfort in the sound of one another’s breath over the phone. And then finally the day came when he called to joyfully tell me that Beiling had been released and was returning to Boston. His voice was singing as he said in English, “Emmy, Beiling released!” I didn’t know any of the details but there would be plenty of time for that later. That same evening Beiling called me after landing at Logan Airport to tell me he was safe.
I left Boston in 2002 and in 2004 moved to Washington state where I worked on an organic farm on the Olympic peninsula. That spring Beiling told me that Meng Lang was giving a poetry reading in Olympia, about a two-hour drive from me. I arranged for the day off and eagerly drove to the location where I greeted Meng Lang. He seemed genuinely happy to see me. I also met Denis Mair, his translator, for the first time. This was my first opportunity to hear Meng Lang’s poetry in English. I knew he was smart and capable, and was articulate and gifted with words, but there is so much nuance missed when one can’t understand Chinese. Here, I had an opportunity to experience Meng Lang the poet. I was moved by his poetry, but not surprised by what I found to be great courage in his naming of the ugliness of life, and great beauty in his ability to be honest and heart-felt in conveying his tortured feelings. It was a delightful reunion for us – wonderful to see him in a new environment and to see him honored as the poet that he was. I felt very satisfied to have been able to attend and my heart was full as I drove back to the farm at the end of that day.
The last time I saw him was 2018 in early July in a hospital in Hong Kong where he was dying of lung cancer. I had flown into Hong Kong on my way to visit friends in Shenzhen. From my hotel, I jumped in a waiting taxi and as I hurdled over the hills of Hong Kong, a city that had changed so much in the 30 years since I had last seen it, it seemed sad, unreal and strange that I was on my way to say a final good-bye to Meng Lang, whom I hadn’t seen since the poetry reading in Washington almost 14 years earlier. It had only been less than a year earlier that, while visiting Beiling in Boston, we had skyped a healthy Meng Lang living in Taiwan, so he could see me and my then 11-year old daughter.
Once at the Prince of Wales Hospital, I made my way to Meng Lang’s ward, following the instructions Beiling had given me. In a most surreal procession, I walked down an aisle flanked on either side of me by rows of patients in beds, searching among all the sick faces for the one that belonged to Meng Lang. He found me first, crying out with a soft bird-like cry and extending a thin arm out from under his bed sheets. I took his hand immediately and kept one hand on his arm for the duration of the visit. I wanted to keep a physical connection with him, patting him– a little token of love and physical support.
His familiar mane of hair was cut off, cropped close to his head. His cheekbones protruded even more on his now, very thin face. Beiling had explained that he might not remember me, or might be confused, but he was very lucid. His wife, Tu Chia-chi, served as translator for us. As we talked, it was clear he remembered everything from our Boston days and the poetry reading in Washington. I thanked him for calling me every night when Beiling was in prison. He stared straight ahead, nodding solemnly and I could see by his face that he remembered everything from that period.
I watched as his wife fed him a little egg custard, glad to see him eating. I told him about my visit to China, that I had just arrived the day before and was heading to Shenzhen that afternoon. He spoke to me in English, wishing me a good trip and we (his wife and I) waited patiently while he painfully searched for each word, his face scrunched in concentration. I didn’t want him to exert himself so much on my behalf. But he was strong that day. Just that morning he had stood up for the first time in many weeks and was able to get a bit of air out on the balcony.
I prepared myself to say good-bye to him for the last time. How was I to express the complexity of feelings I had for him in that moment?I wished to convey to him how much I admired him, that I saw him as a man of true, sound character, of integrity, and that he had lived a noble life. I wanted him to know that he had helped to make the world a better place, attaining something many people fail to accomplish. My pitiful Chinese was even worse after 20 years of non-use. I couldn’t possibly convey all that was in my heart: all the respect and gratitude I had for him. And knowing that it takes great courage to die and to die so young, for he was only two years older than I. I wanted to throw my arms around his diminished chest and sob.
I leaned down close to his face and in my simple Chinese simply said, “I know you are a good person.” Without hesitation he looked at me and repeated my words back to me, “I know you are a good person.” Reluctant to leave, I kissed his forehead, squeezed his hand, and said good-bye, knowing I would never see him again. The pain in my heart was quite palpable; it was difficult to stifle my tears. His wife walked me back to the main hall. After she left me at the elevator, I darted into a bathroom stall and wept.
On December 12, I was back home in Oregon where I now live. That day I was in our local college cafeteria, waiting for my daughter to finish a special school program there, when I got a message from Beiling on my phone. I knew before I listened to it that Meng Lang had died. Beiling’s voice in the message was emotional and full of grief in relating the news. Standing in the cafeteria, I burst into tears. I could not control my sobbing and could not bear the heart ache as I remembered our last moments together in the hospital.
Now I keep Meng Lang’s photo in a special place in my home. Meng Lang’s light lives in my heart, where it will continue to shine bright.