Dear H,

Published on: Reed Magazine, Issue 158, May 2025

“When I was translating your script the other day, I thought about the state of being a young artist. However, I was hesitant to even think about this matter because I don’t like calling myself an artist. It sounds too pretentious, plus I haven’t made anything as an artist yet. According to a writer friend of mine, it’s probably because, in Chinese, artist is 艺术家, writer is 作家, and painter is 画家. There is a 家 in every word, which grants these words a grandiose tone: 家 not only means house/home but also carries a sense of entitlement, belonging. And I’ve never felt I truly belonged anywhere…”

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At His Father’s Funeral

Published on: The Poplar Review 杨高, May 2021

“That was Grandpa,” my father said. “Cremated.” He walked
towards me outside of the crematorium, his eyes still tired but
slightly more at ease. During the service, he had kept a perfectly
diplomatic front until now, as he made that elusive statement to me.
He put his arm on my shoulder and squeezed a smile, the kind that
made me wonder who he really was, this tan-skinned, round-faced,
and chubby man whom I called father. I was looking for signs of
tears running in his eyes, but all I could find were veins, patterned
like dendrites that only made his eyes red. We were standing in the
most glamorous funeral home in my hometown, Shandong, a small
city in the northern part of China. We had just finished the service in
the ceremony hall in the next room, and the family members would
move to the cemetery to bury the ashes now, according to custom…

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