The reason I bring up the notion of what one argues verses how one argues, is that I see this as one of the primary differences between the U.S. and Chinese education systems. Standardized testing teaches us what to argue, a proper education complete with rich experience teaches us how to argue. Knowing how to argue is having the ability to recognize that debate is merely a tool to enable both parties to progress in the right direction, which often requires one or both parties to adjust their initial opinion. How one approaches arguments becomes even more important when the answer is not simply black or white, not “A” “B” “C” or “D”, but somewhere in between. Finding just the right hue requires both parties to give and take, to brainstorm, to think outside the box, to utilize lessons learned through past experience, to research, to communicate— and to do so efficiently and effectively in a selfless pursuit of the answer. I dare say that these qualities are not gained through mastering facts for a test, but through living freely, passionately, and with opportunities to explore the world up close. The U.S. education system has long been considered unique around the world to the extent that it teaches the “how”— i.e. how to think, how to argue, how to problem solve— by bringing reality and first-hand experience into the classrooms.

The center of the current debate about whether to standardize the U.S. curriculum at a national level hinges on the perceived value of standardized testing in education. Conveniently, the country I happen to work in puts their students through one of the most rigorous testing systems in the world. For those who are not familiar with the Chinese education system, I will be brief: Elementary school consists primarily of memorizing, with students expected to copy traditional Chinese poems and literature into their notebooks every night before solving dozens of math problems. Testing occurs for every subject on the same day every two weeks, resulting in major cramming sessions. Weekends, which for most 8 year-olds around the globe means cartoons and a date with the ballpark, are usually booked with “extra” classes— tutoring courses that parents feel obligated to sign their children up for so they don’t fall behind. Indeed, in a country with the largest population in the world, “competition” earns a very different meaning from the definition we assign in the U.S. Childhood is not categorized by pursuing one’s passion by dropping horseback riding one week to try out piano or tap dance the next— it is about securing the grades that will ensure one does not wind up working in a factory with nowhere to turn. Secondary school is much the same, and middle school students must take a final test that determines where they will go to high school. From there, one enters a three-year high school, which again consists of memorizing, completing daily homework assignments, and attending tutoring courses on the weekends. The only difference is, instead of merely preparing for tests every two weeks, one must somehow find time to prepare for the ultimate turning point in one’s life: the “gaokao” (高考) or a two-day, 11-hour test that will determine what college one gets into. The gaokao is offered exactly once a year, and unlucky students who come down with a fever or stomach bug on that day have been known to commit suicide—  pressure to test well is inconceivably high, admittedly higher than any pressure I have ever experienced in my soon-to-be twenty-three years of life.

This past week, a mother and son came into our company to obtain advice about how to prepare for college in the U.S. After considering his records (top student in mathematics, a few volunteering activities, leader in TEDx group) my coworker and I determined that his “extracurricular talents” i.e. art, athletics, and music, were lacking. American schools look for the most well-rounded students— or at least that’s what our education used to stand for. The mother then explained that because her son does not attend an international high school, the entire curriculum has been adjusted to allow students to prepare for the “gaokao” (that test to get into college). When I asked her to be more specific, she said that “all sports teams and after-school activities essentially end by sophomore year of high school”. In other words, the lives of these students literally consist of test preparation alone. Chinese students, and I meet with them every day, have limited skills beyond what they memorize in textbooks. Their overall level of maturity, communication skills, personal skills, creativity, and ability to have confidence in individual ideas or aspirations is far below that of American pre-college students. For most Chinese students, the fear of being wrong so heavily outweighs the benefits of guessing correctly that many refuse to answer a question unless they are 100% confident in their response. The fear of being penalized for guessing wrong corrupts not only their confidence, but also their willingness to think outside the box, their willingness to be creative, their willingness to problem solve. Everyone says China lacks creativity and the ability to innovate. China does not lack creativity— children go through their education essentially fearing to be creative— to be creative is to enter a multiple choice question with no answer choices. There is no right or wrong in creativity, yet these students fear that there is some hidden answer on the horizon, one that upon discovery may potentially prove them wrong and result in severe consequences. Some assume creativity can be taught, but I disagree. Creativity is innate, it is natural, and therefore it is different in every individual. What it needs is to be fostered, and that is what a good education does. Penalize a kid for being wrong (the essential result of an education centered about standardized testing) and you fail to foster creativity. You take away all time for natural experience and shred a child’s confidence down to a number, 0-100, while persuading he or she that all questions in life only have 4 answers, and the “right” one has already been determined by some testing company somewhere— there is no need for creativity.

Not surprisingly, many in China have awakened to the flaws in their education system and are turning their heads towards the West for ideas, with the United States front and center. The photograph below features some of China’s top educators at the 47th Education Conference in Zhengzhou, China, where they compared the Chinese and American education systems in an effort to adopt the best features from each. These guys are passionate about improving education, and I remember that on the day I took this photo, the guy in the pink shirt suggested they not break for lunch in order to continue the discussion and pursue concrete conclusions.

The photo above shows the audience for the two-day conference, which included top teachers from every province in China.

Now I’d like to share a quote that I recently read on Weixin, a cell-phone app that allows people to chat over the web and post twitter-like statuses. The statement was made by Yazhou Liu, 刘亚洲, a high-ranking official in the Chinese army, and touched upon everything Chinese should “fear” about the U.S., in terms of what positive characteristics the U.S. has (other than a strong military) that makes it superior to China. In his statement, Liu said, “The tragedy of our China, from the entire country down to individual companies, is that most of the time, those with ideas are not the ones making decisions, and those making decisions have no ideas. Those with brains have no seat, while those with seats have no brains. America is exactly the opposite, they happened to get a bunch of elites into the hierarchy.（我们中国的悲剧，大到国家，小到一个单位，多数的情况是，有思想的人不决策，决策的人没有思想。有脑子就没位子，有位子就没脑子。美国正好相反，他的宝塔尖体制，正好把一批精英弄上去了。）”Elites” here refers to intelligent and talented people— not merely those with wealth or connections.

Are we really the opposite of China? Or are we heading down the same path? A Harvard grad born and raised in Ireland recently published a short essay in the Harvard Magazine describing how a U.S. college education changed her perspective on learning. Most notably, she recalls, “Classes, instead of being full of answers, were full of questions. And for the first time, I discovered that I suited questions a lot better than I suited answers. I returned home filled with difference— with different ways of thinking and different types of friends, with different words for different worlds… I had knowledge that I could find an education of questions— a place where ceilings are only made of sky.”

That’s the good ol’ American education I know, and the rest of the world apparently knows it too. Let’s not allow our system to succumb to simplicity, convenience, and profit. All eyes are on us, and I dare say that no small number of people around the globe will be disheartened to see America’s education rust. If protecting the freedom and inspiration of our children in education is not a good enough reason, perhaps protecting our country’s influence on the international stage is.

Lately, I’ve decided that most undesirable human traits are all simple acts of habit— mental, physical, and emotional routines that, having been completed in the past, find refuge in the logic that they have the right to emerge again. This is not a new concept, but the avenues through which habit deepens grooves of cultural stereotypes, patriotism, and assumptions are more perceptible to one navigating new shores abroad.

Last week, I stopped to buy fruit from the same street-side vendor that I’ve visited since last June. It’s fair to say we’ve become friends, chatting about the weather or plans to visit family— all within the minute or so that it takes him to weigh my dragon fruit. Still, last week, as the man greeted me and began to strike up a conversation, an older gentleman to his right snorted loudly, saying that the vendor was crazy for trying to speak to me— I clearly didn’t understand Chinese. I took his words to be an older generation’s attitude towards those who lack Chinese features, an assumption grounded in habit.

If a local doesn’t automatically assume that I don’t speak the language, then they almost always assume I’m a teacher. I have rarely entered a conversation where one objectively asks why I am in Shenzhen; most presume that I’m a student or teaching English or, my personal favorite, that I grew up here.

Then again, I’m not the only one confronting the frustration that accompanies pre-conceived notions. A Chinese from Sichuan province must like to eat spicy food, right? I mean, like, everyone there grew up eating hot peppers. And a northerner must prefer mantou buns and noodles to rice— it’s just that way. Oh, you’re from Henan province?… yeah right, like I’d trust you. A few assumptions later and an entire country’s individuality suffocates inside cages of air-tight generalization.

Everything above has been mentioned tirelessly in the past, so I’ll try to describe a few new occurrences that have truly made me question how exactly habit fools with our brain. In China, it goes like this: follow the person ahead of you, and everything will be fine. When crossing a road, when parking a car, when choosing a place to eat— if other people are doing it, it must be right. And in this fashion, countless people narrowly avoid being hit by oncoming traffic, dozens discover parking tickets waiting on the hood of their cars, and even more pay for a meal that they may have previously categorized as dog food. This happens everywhere in the world, but the image of a girl foolishly following a pedestrian ahead of her while texting on her cell phone and blatantly entering an intersection just as a line of cars revs up their engines is etched into my brain on a daily basis. Then again, there is a certain power in numbers, and I can tell you that crowds of Chinese pedestrians can indeed stop taxis and Hummers in their tracks even after the light has long turned green.

I’ve always thought that marketing in China is truly an advertising agency’s paradise. Present a product in a way that will kick-start that “keeping up with the Joneses” mentality and there’s really no way you could go wrong. It is along the same strand that notions of culture and identity are formed. While there are real differences between cultures, I wonder to what degree our habits influence those differences and make them more pronounced. There is a reason why we were instructed to create a habit of saying the national anthem every morning at school— it engraved a patriotic identity in our hearts. Yet does saying the words generate genuine loyalty and respect for the beauty of the founding of America, or does it merely form some surface-level habit? China, too, has tried to instill patriotism in the blood of every citizen— to inspire individuals to sacrifice themselves for the good of all. In this kind of “follow-the-leader” society, one would not be surprised to discover that the love Chinese have for their country is nearly as strong as the love they have for family members.

But going forward, if I’m going to present a complete argument, this entry would require a fair description of how creativity and individuality is slowly maneuvering itself into daily life in China. There are more and more young start-ups sprouting up in Guangdong, Shanghai, and Beijing with young Chinese CEOs who are focused solely on establishing designs that are distinct from anything Japan or Western countries have previously marketed. There is more and more risk and innovation in style— I see it everyday on my commute. There is spontaneity and individuality in the eyes of everyone here, it just needs a place to flourish. On that note, look forward to a passionate entry about the current state of education in the United States and China within the next few days.

The day began with our tour guide explaining that she would take us to China’s leading company in green innovativation, “The Bamboo House”, which uses bamboo to create clothing and personal products of the utmost quality… or so they said. The woman above was our sly sales associate, who led us to a classroom where we sat and listened to an hour-long infomercial about bamboo washcloths that can repel oil and braces that use natural minerals to bring a healing warmth to sore joints. When we first arrived, my coworkers and I used a harsh skepticism to shield ourselves from the intrigue of the saleswoman’s words. However, as the minutes ticked away and we were allowed to touch and try out the products for ourselves, the wall of doubt that had previously blocked any desire to consume slowly crumbled amidst a growing perception that these truly were “one-of-a-kind” products whose value exceeded their price.

The photo above depicts one of our company’s secretaries (left), who after rolling her eyes throughout the first fifteen minutes of the presentation found herself dumbstruck and in awe of the heat she felt on the back of her neck after testing out “The Bamboo House” neck brace. One can also see the pure evil in the saleswoman’s eyes… to be discussed soon.

It’s hard to describe exactly how I felt while sitting in the classroom letting the woman’s words infiltrate my mind. It was as though my conscious was dying to give in and trust her while something in my subconscious questioned why she felt the need to emphasize the fact that “the company’s address and phone number can be found on each product, and you may return any product before 40 days if you are not fully satisfied, no questions asked!”. At one point in the presentation, another one of my coworkers turned to me and said “完了” or, “I’m finished”. He said he planned to spend at least ¥1000 on these products— gifts for his family and friends.

If my subconscious felt a bit funny during the presentation, it is nothing compared to how I felt when walking aimlessly through the store afterwards. It was like a never-ending Walmart— a maze of merchandise hanging from the ceiling to the floor and trinkets colorfully piled on tables as far as the eye could see. Hundreds of sales associates stood by, ready to pounce if they caught your eyes lingering a second too long on a particular product. After walking relatively fast through the store, I suddenly had the notion that I was walking in circles, stumbling across products that I had already seen once, twice, three times before. The stale, monotonous air suddenly made everything feel like polyester, not bamboo, and my mind spiraled into the kind of claustrophobia kids feel in clothing stores.

When I finally rounded the last corner of the store and burst through two swinging brown doors, I found myself face to face with the scene below: 
That’s right folks— store number two… another winding maze of thousands of “genuine” pearl necklaces, earrings, bracelets. It was here that I was told not to take any photos, heaven forbid somebody ever try to warn future tourists about this monstrous marketing hell.

I should say now that while these pictures may resemble a mall, the building we initially entered looked more like a modern museum or factory— sleek and white with the kind of precision that reminds one of an operating room. To discover room after room of products waiting to win one over with mysterious allure gave one the sensation of being brainwashed, though I now see that that is indeed what was happening.

Approximately two hours after entering the building, I was the first of the group to stumble drunkenly into sunlight. Hands free of packages, I looked around to see that I had fared quite well— almost 90% of other tour groups clutched shopping bags, some large some small, and everyone stood expressionless against the backdrop of the white building. The majority of tourists were retired, likely short on money to begin with but easily attracted by the “bargain” of purchasing 48 towels for ¥48 instead of one towel for ¥12.

After returning to the bus, we waited almost 30 minutes for two of our coworkers to return— one of whom was the guy who had warned me he was “finished” and planned to spend a wad of cash on what he had convinced himself were worthy products. It was then that one of my good friends handed over his cell phone with a thread of online posts about this so-called “Bamboo House” company. The following is one true account of a tourist who came before us:

Translation: “Our company went to Yangshuo, Guilin to vacation on September 6th, 2012. Our company has over 180 people total. On the 7th of September, we went to Guilin Yangshuo “Grape Village” (I’m not sure if this address is real or fake, but it’s also the address listed on the products). There was a factory inside, called “旭日集团” or “The Bamboo House”. After entering we were first brainwashed and told about each product’s use. Then they led us to shop. One is not allowed to take pictures when shopping. There were many different products inside, some of which were a magnetic mug- ¥168, a pair of underwear- ¥128, and a protective brace- ¥380. I spent over ¥300 in total, my girlfriend spent over ¥700. I don’t know how much our company’s coworkers spent in total, but everyone left with bags, big and small. I don’t know how many fake products were inside, but the magnetic brace was certainly fake. They told us the inside of the brace had tourmaline, but when I went online to check, I learned that this company actually puts hot pepper flakes inside, which are extremely hot to the tongue. Once your neck is a bit sweaty, apply the brace directly to the neck for three seconds and when you take it away, your skin will be painfully hot. Our saleswoman claimed this feeling was due to “moisture”. As soon as I went online and found out the products were fake, I immediately got out of the bus and prepared to return the products, but I was seen by our tour guide. When I told him the products were fake, he disagreed and said they were real, asking “how could they be fake when I’ve been taking people here for years and no one has ever returned the products?”. So I just believed him. That tour guide definitely has made some kind of deal with them. Our company was cheated into giving almost ¥10,000, maybe even ¥100,000. Now I don’t know how many people have been cheated in the past, but I still have the receipt from my purchase. I’m asking you all to please take these terrible people down and bring us justice. We have lost our hard-earned money.”

Yeah, so… remember when that coworker of mine started to believe them when her neck turned warm after using the special brace? Turns out it was just hot pepper flakes irritating her skin. Below are more photographs from other scheming businesses we were taken to during the same trip.

Later that day, after visiting the bedding company above, our tour guide brought us to a park. I was relieved to have the opportunity to tour and vacation instead of listening to infomercials. Towards the middle of our tour, we were led into a room and told it was used for “doing business with Taiwanese and Japanese guests”. To me, the room was far too ordinary to be used for either diplomatic meetings or high rolling businessmen, so I listened to the tour guide half-heartedly. Then a man entered saying he was from Hong Kong and told us that our tour guide had specifically asked not to take us to another shop to buy things— we had already been to far too many that day. He then invited us to watch a special ten-minute film, which he claimed would narrate the concept and importance of “feng-shui” in China, but turned out to be another obvious attempt at brainwashing/marketing. After the propaganda film ended, we were led into a room filled with Buddhist stone bracelets and told that we were “special guests” who could enjoy 50% off everything.

It was at that point— approximately our 6th experience dealing with marketers on a two-day trip— that I lost my temper. The fact that these people were lying to our faces and promising that they would not try to push us to buy more things made their marketing attempts simply insulting. I ran out into the park and told my coworker, who had long escaped outside for a smoke after the first minute of the film, that I was furious with the tourism industry in China. Had our company honestly paid money for a travel agency to make things easier for us only to empty our wallets on them again during the actual vacation? More importantly, our day literally consisted of touring two mediocre parks and suffering through four different marketing attempts.

That night, my coworkers and I vowed never again to book a vacation through a travel agency in China. It is a surprisingly lucrative business, however, even if it does happen to tug at the moral fiber of tour guides, sales associates, tourists, and the entire society as a whole. The truth is that there is rarely a truth in China— locals habitually doubt the quality of nearly everything they buy, and even the merry park-goer must question the legitimacy of a flowering tree (often times a beautiful blooming bush is the clever artistic result of plastic petals). One can say it’s just a business, but it’s hard to deny that this level of legal acceptance of fraudulent behavior will have significant repercussions on Chinese society and its reputation worldwide.

There is no evidence that the virus can be spread via human contact, with a majority of cases tracing back to the consumption of bird products, including chicken, duck, and goose. Below is a photograph of an empty “black original duck” restaurant near my office, which is usually swarming with customers. Most duck shops have advertised “free samples” throughout the past three weeks, trying anything to attract business amidst daily buzz about the flu.

Guangdong, China’s most southern province, which includes my city of Shenzhen, has not yet had any cases of the virus (though one of my coworkers, out sick today, answered “yes” to all symptoms when we read them out loud to him the other day). The majority of cases have been in Shanghai, with new instances in Jiangsu and Zhejiang.

In China, while the ease and affordability of going out to eat draws a majority of families and young people out of the house for meals, it’s still a smart idea to buy fresh produce and stir up a sizzling meal yourself, at least in times like these. As for me, it’s daily trips to a foreign supermarket for the next month or two— the price of imported food never felt so worth it.

When I first studied abroad in China, I happily ate steamed buns everyday and decided I knew something about “real” Chinese life after staying with a native family of strangers for a few days. On my second trip to China, I considered myself flawless in the realm of bartering and naively professed myself an expert on societal problems like income inequality and gender discrimination. By my third trip to China, I passed on various dishes I had previously called my favorite and proclaimed myself more familiar with China than Chinese themselves— many of whom had yet to travel to the rural locations where I’d set foot. This evening marks about the tenth month of my fourth time in China, and I am happy to admit that while I’ve reached a level of assimilation that I’d previously aspired to in my study-abroad days, I have barely proceeded beyond a surface-level understanding of this culture.

One reason, perhaps, is that I approached my time here with the attitude that I would dive into Chinese culture headfirst without looking back. For some time, I avoided my old world like the plague, believing that all exposure to expats and nightclubs and morning showers would somehow inhibit my integration into Chinese society. One look at my iPod or Internet history or cell phone would prove that I let no area of my life escape from the embrace of the mainland. I spoke Chinese back to store clerks who approached me in English, and glared whenever any waiter offered to bring me a fork. It was as though proclaiming my preference for China would allow me to discover and value its nuances, through and through. I thought I was getting ahead, which is funny now, seeing how far I’ve fallen behind.

It seems now that when trying to understand something or someone new, it is imperative to first have a grip on oneself. In other words, one must fully understand each and every cultural component that comprises one’s own soul, one’s own mind, one’s own logic or values. A person must first objectively assess exactly how he or she has been raised, how his or her own country has shaped his or her values, and how such factors will influence how he or she views another country. It is only when one holds onto this knowledge of native culture while simultaneously distancing oneself from it that one can attempt to make a humble analysis of the “other” and expect to do it objectively and fairly.

For example, it was easy for me at first to dismiss young Chinese girls who married for money and wound up disappointed and regretful years later, unhappy with their spouse. I found little sympathy for what I saw as selfish decisions, which, unfortunately, perpetuate a spiral of divorces, cheating, and the moral destruction of something I had always considered sacred. It is when one stubbornly and passionately believes one is right, after all, that it becomes nearly impossible to consider the other side’s point of view. Still, when an only child has the responsibility to care for her parents under a stingy government welfare system, limited career opportunities, and no sense of religious obligation, it is understandable and even reasonable for her to consider men according to their financial situation. To see the rationality behind these girls’ decisions, I needed to first consider why I held such a strong opinion of what marriage is “supposed to be” in light of how I was raised and what kind of society I grew up in. It is therefore only by letting myself remember where I come from that I can more easily understand and appreciate this new world.

Similarly, it pays to let some elements of cultural assimilation go… let them go and live a little. Like coffee, or drinking things iced, or going to bed with wet hair. The more time I spend abroad, the less I try to man up and act like I’m not an American. I need my dark beer on the weekends, I need to dance at weddings, and I need to spend far too much money on something like greek yogurt. Instead of finding satisfaction in some naive Chinese expertise, I’m finding comfort in who I am and where I’ve come from. There is no point in breaking down cultural barriers only to build up pride that you’ve completely “assimilated”. The greatest joy I’ve found is learning how to balance my Chen Yixun and Passion Pit days, knowing when to skip the latte for a steaming cup of pu’er tea before heading to bed with a few episodes of Gossip Girl… XOXO. Here’s to carving out happiness wherever you may find yourself.

New-fangled feminism.

Above is an article published last spring on the Economist blog. It delves into the modern state of women in China, from calls for girls to wear more “modest dress” in public to avoid harassment to the dilemma of surface-level equality with women comprising 46% of a workforce still largely influenced by patriarchal management.

The Chinese generation growing up around the time of our baby-boomers faced a slightly different society than exists for women in China today. No small number of families required their daughters to give most if not all of their salary to the family, which could then be passed on to the sons of the family as needed. Indeed, having a son was considered to be good fortune to the extent that he was better able to provide for his parents and need not worry about things like marrying into a wealthier family. Thus, throughout Chinese history, giving birth to a son secured a woman more respect and support from her husband’s family. Announce that you are having a daughter, however, and you may as well announce the beginning of your doom.

Now, it may be surprising to hear that Mao Zedong, the infamous man who the West holds responsible for initiating mass starvation during the Cultural Revolution, was somewhat of a feminist. Mao once said that women “hold up half the sky”. During the May Fourth Movement, which refers to a social, political, and cultural movement that began on May 4th, 1919 when 5,000 students from Beijing University took to the streets to protest the Chinese government’s weak response to the Versailles Treaty, Mao joined the body of youth advocating modernization and an end to ”Confucianism”— the philosophy that had governed Chinese society for thousands of years (and still underlies Chinese mentality today). Throughout the May Fourth Movement and New Culture Movement, the call for gender equality was consistently at play. Along with modern ideas of “freedom in marriage and love”, the notion that women deserved new clout in Chinese society and in the family was discussed in dozens of articles and journals, the most famous being the New Youth journal. Mao Zedong himself wrote a number of essays promoting the rights of women in his youth. Strongly opposed to Confucianism, a philosophy whose teachings were often compatible with a bourgeois and elitist society, Mao joined the New Culture Movement before going on to establish the Communist Party, where he succeeded as an extremely gifted and intelligent orator.

Many scholars write that Chinese experienced a period of quasi gender equality throughout the 1950s and 1960s under the rule of Mao Zedong. The poster above, however, which depicts China’s support for North Vietnam during the war with the United States, proves that the status of women at that time was perhaps not without its limitations. Female “red guards” were undoubtedly given important roles during Mao’s era, cutting their hair short and dressing more or less the same as men, but some argue that they were still being forced to adapt to a “superior image”— i.e., the male. Take a look at the poster above, for example. Replace the woman’s hair with a hat and roughen up her facial features and she is essentially a man. Sexual relationships were highly discouraged among red guards during the Cultural Revolution— romantic love was seen as infringing on one’s love for the country. Women were thus essentially de-sexualized and then embraced as “equals”. The debate about whether this period in Chinese history represents true progress for women is still active among academics today.

At the same time Mao’s country was desexualizing women, Mao had a number of intimate relationships with highly influential, intelligent women throughout his life. He is known for being a romantic, writing poetry to brilliant women who inspired him with their courageous spirit. His second wife and first true love, Yang Kaihui, was so taken with Mao that she gave her life in 1930 after being captured by the KMT (Nationalist Party, opposed to the Communists), saying “Even if the seas run dry and the rocks crumble, I would never break off relations with Mao Zedong… I prefer to die for the success of Mao’s revolution career”. Mao’s fourth wife, actress Jiang Qing, also took up Mao’s cause, forming the “Gang of Four” and playing a crucial role in the CPC Propaganda Department throughout the Cultural Revolution.

After Mao’s death, the country welcomed in a new leader, Deng Xiaoping, who opened the country to economic development, complete with western ideas of female elegance and grace. Today, China embraces femininity to the Nth degree— there are more shops selling cutesy bows, stockings, scarves, fake eyelashes, and short skirts than there are gas stations (okay, I admit that’s my own statistic). Really though, China has gone from foot-binding to red guards to girly headbands in one 100-year block of time. It is precisely this rapidity of social transformation that makes the role of women in modern Chinese society a crap shoot, at best, depending on who you talk to.

My conclusion: China is still decades behind the U.S. in terms of how it considers women. While many Chinese women are emerging as leading intellectuals, proving their ability on standardized tests, in the workplace, and in society, there is still an underlying sense that women do not have the same responsibilities of men, that somehow their lives are not as difficult. This is what I see as most dangerous. There is a recent trend in China where girls expect men to provide them with houses, cars, and designer bags before agreeing to date them. The Internet is overflowing with frustrated statements from males who are fed up with all the responsibility— they’re attempting to court selfish, materialistic girls who abandoned the idea of “love” long ago to secure their financial futures. So yeah, girls, there’s no way you’ll be equal in society with that attitude. Toughen up, find yourself a clear-thinking mind and then we’ll see how the world views us.

Cradled amidst the blur of Hong Kong— a love that surpasses words.

So what is guanxi in the Chinese sense? It’s a little like the “good word” a friend might put in for you at his or her company, with the complexity of Chinese gift-giving thrown in the mix. In other words, it’s an extended edition of bank consultants’ infamous “networking” game, with a pile of chips on the table and a lifelong score board. Needless to say, this is no easy game to play— most Chinese take at least until their third decade of life before mastering the ropes well enough to benefit from the system.

To play the game, one must be in tune with the needs and condition of all other opponents. In fact, “participants” is probably a more appropriate word, because one is often playing with friends or extended family members— people they genuinely like. Now, let’s say you are in the midst of changing careers and are in need of the support of an old teacher or friend to help you through the process (teachers in China generally function as lifelong references). They may vouch for you and help you confront your current boss to explain your decision or meet with you to chat or seek out new opportunities for you in a different area of work. Regardless of how they help you, if it was you who first approached them with a personal problem, it is generally expected that you do something kind for them in return— if only as simple as buying them a pack of name-brand smokes. Of course, the price of your nice gesture should be in line with their socioeconomic status, not yours. Then, down the road, they can freely ask for your support or for favors if you do not proactively inquire about opportunities to help them out. The more you call them up for dinners or gift fruit baskets on the holidays, they more willing they will be to stick their neck out for you.

That’s the simple part. Now to add to the puzzle: You find a friend who’s willing to introduce you to the leader of a nationally-recognized dance troop to discuss working there in the future. While you are a regionally-recognized dancer with a strong resume, your previous job included social security and health care benefits that have recently stopped being offered to new members of this dance troop. (Currently, many Chinese units have stopped providing the same benefits they used to due to financial constraints… sound familiar, anyone?) You plan to meet with your friend and the troop leader to discuss the potential of receiving future benefits in line with those you are currently receiving, all the while recognizing the reluctance of the troop leader— your career path has been inconsistent and she worries you will quit this new position within the next five years. Arranging benefits for you will be an up-front hassle for the dance troop that will require years of consistent contributions on your part before the cost of hiring you will be worth it. So, how should you approach the situation from a guanxi point of view? Should you treat the two to dinner? What kind of gift should you bring, if any? Should you give one to both your friend and to the dance troop leader? How will you know what this leader likes— does she smoke or drink? (Giving packs of cigarettes is a common gesture here, think U.S. in the 1950′s.)

Again, it is best to consider the socioeconomic status and prestige of the one you are dealing with— a renowned dance troop leader requires close to a 2000 yuan gift— over $300 USD. It is certainly your responsibility to treat the two to dinner, and you should inquire as to what type of food they like best, while booking a private room to discuss the matter in silence. In essence, you must pay the equivalent of how much hassle the troop leader will go through to hire you plus the upfront cost of the benefits. Over time, the benefits will be a long-term gain for you, while your contribution to the dance troop will be a long-term gain for the leader. Thus, you two get off fair and square, more or less. After the dinner, you can take your friend out for drinks or gift his kids a “hong bao” or red envelope filled with money for the Chinese New Year.

This is just one example of how gift-giving intertwines with Chinese guanxi, or networking. To merely use a friend as an “in” is not nearly enough— one must work to form a new bond with the top executive. At the same time, one must work to maintain the casual friendships he or she has. Of course, once one reaches a certain level of trust and comfort with a friend, one can ease up on the formality of gift-giving and cease keeping score. Play the cards too selfishly though, and you’ll always be caught red handed.

Two weeks ago, I scoped out the “Temple of the Six Banyan Trees” in Yuexiu, Guangzhou to see whether it would be a decent place to take my parents on their visit. After touring around for a few minutes or as long as would make the ¥5 entry fee worth it, I exited the sacred 1000 year-old cove into an open breeze of unprotected streets beyond. Pulling my jacket close around my chest, I spotted an old changfen restaurant streaming with people huddled around plastic tables made to look like wood. I decided to stop in and grab a bite of southern China’s steaming rice tortilla to ease the sting of a chilly afternoon hunger. As I waited for my meal, a man dressed in drab robes walked up and handed me a square golden token that, like the tables at the restaurant, was trying as hard as it could to conceal its plastic identity. The token was slipped into a small red envelop, which featured an image of a buddha with the Chinese phrases, “出入平安” and “吉样如意” or “safety wherever you go”  and “good fortune as you wish”. The man then bid me well and turned to walk away, moving only a few paces before I, in my helplessly curious spontaneity, called him back. “What is this?” I asked. He considered my question, face contorting between surprise and a concerted strain to hide emotion. Though upon recalling the memory, I’m pretty sure there was a hint of triumph in his expression as well, given his next response: “Oh, it’s a good luck token. Please sign your name here. Any donation you choose to make will be greatly appreciated”. Damn. My question had undoubtedly given him an opportunity to use his native language to explain his fund-raising strategy in more persuasive lingo than an English phrase like “give money”. I signed my Chinese name illegibly and handed over ¥5— less than a dollar. When I asked what temple he was from, he responded something like, “Oh, the one just down the street”, which a quick Google maps search later that day proved otherwise.

Tricking or ripping someone off, usually translated, 骗人 pian ren, is one of the most commonly-heard phrases in this society, though it’s often only used to joke and say that one’s job is so easy it feels like one is swindling a boss or using a persuasive argument to fool someone into doing something. Still, China has no shortage of palm readers, fortune tellers, and superstitions, all of which contribute to the worrisome idea that unknown risk exists in our world, a risk that can then be shaped and molded into whatever fictional information most attracts customers. Then again, while we may scoff at fake monks or honest attempts at trickery, it might be worthwhile to consider what percent of the world’s so-called “legitimate” business also relies on manipulating information and risk— perhaps there’s a market for China’s fake monks and palm readers on Wall Street. 

Peng first gained recognition from her performances on CCTV’s New Year’s Gala, where she almost always sang the finale, ending the show on a high note. She joined the People’s Liberation Army (PLA) vocal troop in 1980 when she was only 18— a prestigious position for any talented artist looking for a secure opportunity to develop a long-term career in the arts. Peng is often categorized as a “folk” singer to the extent that she sings about ethnic or rural Chinese themes, tuning in to the sentiments of rural citizens. She is highly respected by the Chinese populace, and is currently president of the Chinese People’s Liberation Army Institute of the Arts, one of the country’s top art universities.

President Xi and Peng Liyuan have been married for over 25 years.

This year, Peng chose to step out of the limelight as first lady and opted not to perform at the annual New Year’s Gala. As her husband trudges onto the diplomatic battlefield, Peng appears to be carving a political road for herself as well, recently joining the 11th National Committee of the Chinese People’s Political Consultative Conference. Still, it is Peng’s grand presence on stage that has won the hearts of families nationwide and forged a bond with citizens that may potentially shield the couple from political criticism later on.