Wang Ping

April 3, 2011, Ai Weiwei was detained at the Beijing Airport .......................    hello hello hello    ...    Weiwei    ...    where have you been?    ...    I see you in dreams    ...    bleeding    ...    in the darkness of the sun    ...    81 spots in the flame    ...    each a nightmare one cannot wake up from    ...    Weiwei    ...    the last son    ...    you told me as we said goodbye    ...    your last night on the Lower East Side    ...    未未    ...    the last child of your Mother and Father    ...    born in the labor camp    ...    exiled from Beijing to the far desert    ...    watching your Father clean public latrines for singing the truth    ...    beaten cursed spat upon at every street corner    ...    why did you want to return?    ...    I asked    ...    did nyc streets no longer stir your blood?    ...    or the blackjack in Atlantic City get stale?    ...    you smiled    ...    as you flung dumpling skins out of my 13th floor window    ...    I need to go home    ...    to my father    ...    I need to speak    ...    speak indeed    ...    Weiwei    ...    with your big mouth that earned whips and bricks ever since you learned to talk    ...    and love from the people    ...    the small    ...    the poor    ...    the nameless    ...    babies poisoned by fake milk who had no time to cry mama    ...    children crushed under 
schools    ...    their bags flew across the sky like a dragon    ...    seeking their names    ...    you raked through the rubble    ...    through government files    ...    hide-and-seek with cops    ...    beaten until your brain hemorrhaged    ...    and you speak    ...    in Germany    ...    Tiananmen Square    ...    you speak    ...    watching your studio ransacked    ...    bulldozed    ...    and you speak    ...    threatened    ...    under house arrest    ...    and you speak    ...    inviting the guards into your studio for a cup of tea    ...    and you speak    ...    I’m used to pain    ...    you say    ...    and I’m ready to die suddenly or to disappear    ...    I’m the last son    ...    you say    ...    to your tormentors’ eyes    ...    I’m here for you    ...    so your babies will never again have to drink milk laced with poison    ...    so your daughter will never wonder when the classroom ceiling will drop on her    ...    so your parents will have shelter medicine food    ...    so you will never have to work at this job    ...    avoiding my eyes as you burn cigarettes into my chest    ...    push my face under the water    ...    I’m here for you    ...    all of you who speak the truth    ...    for China    ...    hello hello hello    ...    未未    ...    I mean why can’t you keep your mouth shut and enjoy what you have    ...    I mean you got money    ...    I mean you got fame    ...    I mean you got a beautiful wife and a two-year-old son    ...    don’t you want him to grow up like a normal child?    ...    but I am the son    ...    the last son of China    ...    
I have to speak as long as I have breath    ...    no matter how thin    ...    even if  you tear out my tongue    ...    I’ll still have my teeth    ...    even if you pull out my teeth    ...    I’ll still have my eyes    ...    even if you gouge out my eyes    ...    I’ll still have my ears    ...    even if you pierce my eardrums    ...    I’ll still have my hands    ...    even if you chop off my hands    ...    I’ll still have my guts    ...    even if you grind up my guts    ...    I’ll still have my heart that won’t stop beating    ...    even if you smash my heart into a million pieces    ...    they will turn into a billion sunflower seeds    ...    I mean how can you stop a sunflower from facing the sun    ...    how can you stop the sun from lighting up the earth    ...    hello hello hello    ...    Ai Weiwei    ...    
11 weeks have passed    ...    81 days and nights    ...    1,944 hours    ...    that’s 6,998,400 heartbeats from each of us    ...    whose heartstrings are tied to yours    ...    未未    ...    the last son of China    ...    艾未未    ...    pulse of the earth    ................

At fifteen, my father ran away from his widowed mother to fight the Japanese. “I’ll come back with a PhD and serve my country with better English and knowledge,” I pledged at the farewell party in Beijing. Home — 家 —Jia: a roof under which animals live. When asked where I’m from, I say “Weihai,” even though nobody knows where it is, even though I’ve never been to the place. He lost his left ear in a bayonet fight with a Japanese soldier. Two years later, American cannons split his eardrums. The night I arrived at JFK, the Mets won the World Series and the noise on the street went on till dawn. I got up and went to work in my sponsor’s antique shop in Manhattan. The bag lady stopped her cart on the busy street and peed onto a subway grate. “Did you jump or fly?” asked my landlady from her mah-jongg table. Then she laughed and told me that her husband had jumped ship ten years ago. When he opened his fifth Chinese takeout, he bought her a passport and flew her to Queens. The only thing he liked to talk about was his old home, Weihai, its plump sea cucumbers and sweet apples, men with broad shoulders, thick thighs, and girls with long braids making steamed bread. “Back home, I had no money, but I never felt poor,” she said, shivering behind her fruit stand. “Here, if my money goes down below four figures, I panic.” She scanned the snow-covered streets of Chinatown. “I guess I really don’t want to be homeless here.” I hired the babysitter when she mentioned her hometown was Weihai. The president visited the rice paddies in Vietnam where a pilot had been downed thirty-three years ago. My father tried to return to Weihai after his discharge from the Navy. With his rank, he could find work only in a coal mine town nearby. My mother refused to go. He went alone, and got sick with TB. Mother ordered me to date the county administrator’s son so he could help father come home. “No, I’m not sad.” The street kid shook her head. “How can I miss something I’ve never had?” On her sixtieth birthday, my grandma went home to die, sailing from the island to Shanghai, from Shanghai to Yantai, then two buses to Weihai. I carried her onto the big ship at the Shanghai Port, down to the bottom, where she’d spend three days on a mattress, on the floor, with hundreds of fellow passengers. “How are you going to make it, Grandma?” I asked. She pulled out a pair of embroidered shoes from her parcel and placed them between my feet. “My heart and liver, come to 老家 soon, before it’s too late.” House — 房 —fang: a door over a square, a place, a direction. He never lost his accent, never learned Mandarin or the island dialect. Weihai, a small city in Shandong Province, on the coast of the North China Sea, a home, where my grandfather and his father were born, where my grandma married, raised her children, and now lies in the yam fields, nameless, next to her husband, an old frontier to fend off Japanese pirates, a place I come from, have never seen. It’s my 老家lao jia, old home. Back from America, my mother furnished her home on the island, bought an apartment in a suburb of Shanghai, and is seeking a third one in Beijing. “A cunning rabbit needs three holes,” she wrote to us, demanding our contributions. They swore, before boarding the ship, that they’d send money home to bring more relatives over; in return, they were promised that if they died, their bodies would be sent back home for burial. I drink American milk — a few drops in tea. I eat American rice — Japanese brand. Chinese comes to me only in dreams — in black-and-white pictures. My mother buried her husband on the island, where he lived for forty years. Room — 屋 —wu: a body unnamed and homeless until it finds a destination. We greet a stranger with “Where are you from?” When we meet a friend on the street, we say, “Where have you been? Where are you going?” 家 — a roof under which animals live 房 — a door over a square, a place, a direction 屋 — a body unnamed and homeless until it finds a destination — my tangled roots for old home.