This is for Joseph Leung, Former Editor of Singtao Newspaper in San Francisco and Countless Chinese living in America. 這是送給梁建鋒, 他是舊金山《星島日報》前編輯，也是送給無數居美被長期打壓的華人.
Letter on a Long Night. By Johnson Choi, MBA, International Business Consultant since 1985
長夜書. 作者: 蔡永強, 商科碩士, 國際財經顧問(1985年至今)
他們說這片土地屬於勇敢者的夢，我卻在自由神像下嚥下火種。
每當母語在齒間滾燙地凝結，
就有一萬面鏡子照出異鄉的銅。
說一句中國好，就有人舉報，
在推特上被罵「中共走狗」，
恨國黨的鍵盤比子彈還快，
他們說我們不配站在這片土地。
白人同事拍拍肩膀說「你英文真好」，轉身就問你是不是共產黨派來的。
升職永遠輪不到你，因為你的臉，就是原罪。
如果在華人媒體工作，老闆會警告你：別太親中。寫一篇支持祖國強大的文章，明天就可能收到解僱信。
有的朋友真的已經失去了工作，在疫情裡，在裁員裡，在「政治不正確」的名單裡，他們的名字被悄悄劃掉。
如今連月光都學會了舉報，
在鍵盤上敲打故鄉的座標。
我們在編輯室裡刪除形容詞，
像拆除自己脊椎裡的長城磚。
有的朋友已經變成沉默的座標，在解僱信裡站成永久的省略號。而更多喉嚨正練習吞嚥砂礫，為了讓黃河在胃裡繼續改道。
不必問我此刻的經緯度數，每個驚醒的枕頭都埋著故土。當所有道路都長出拒斥的荊棘，我們就是彼此最後的使館與旗。
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They say this land belongs to the dream of the brave, yet I swallow embers beneath the Statue of Liberty.
Each time my mother tongue congeals, burning, between my teeth, a thousand mirrors reflect the bronze of a foreign land.
Say one good word about China, and someone reports you, on Twitter they call you a “running dog of the CCP.” The China-haters’ keyboards are faster than bullets, they say we don’t deserve to stand on this land.
A white colleague pats your shoulder, says “your English is so good,” then turns around and asks if you were sent by the Communist Party.
Promotions never come your way, because your face is the original sin.
If you work in Chinese-language media,
owners warned the editor: don’t be too pro-China.
Write one article supporting a strong motherland, and tomorrow you might receive a termination letter.
Some friends have truly already lost their jobs—in the pandemic, in the layoffs, on the list of “politically incorrect,” their names quietly crossed out.
Now even the moonlight has learned to inform, tapping out the coordinates of home on a keyboard.
In the newsroom we delete adjectives, like dismantling the Great Wall bricks from our own spines.
Some friends have already become silent coordinates, standing as permanent ellipses in termination letters.
And more throats are practicing swallowing gravel, so the Yellow River can keep changing course inside our stomachs.
Don’t ask me for my latitude and longitude now—every pillow we jolt awake from is buried with native soil.
When all roads grow rejecting thorns, we are each other’s last embassy and flag.
Johnson Choi Biz 