I complied. Lily raised her voice sharply for effect, gesturing toward my face. “There! Do you see it? The double eyelid fold.” Lily pointed at me with her pen for the benefit of the crowd. “Foreigners have the double eyelid, even young men. We Chinese do not,” Lily explained.
Lily was in the business of eyelid stickers, small strips of plastic about a third of the size of a piece of litmus paper that you can stick on your eyelids to cause their skin to fold over. This creates a double eyelid effect. “Most Chinese are cursed with flat features, eyelids included,” Lily declared for the crowd. “Our eye stickers help solve the curse Chinese women live with that even foreign men like this don’t have to worry about! The effect is a deeper, more complex look. The stickers and the double eyelid add dimensionality.”
Lily’s major competition is double eyelid surgery. She explained that the decision to get the surgery was partly a financial one. “What, do you expect a Chinese person to not do the math? A lifetime of stickers or a few-minute operation? Easy decision. I can’t compete with women or men willing to do the procedure, and with little social stigma it becomes more and more popular all the time.”
There isn’t much social stigma around body enhancement in China. Eyelid stickers are commonplace, and products like colored contact lenses are daily wears for many young people who want to stand out in a populace with predominantly black eyes. For the aspiring Chinese, “self-improvement” of this sort has become normalized. Who is to say that a minor surgery is going too far?
“We live in a face-centric society,” Yang said, citing a popular bit of social commentary about selfie culture and Chinese social media, where people take daily close-ups of their face to share with their whole network. “I know I am pretty, but my single eyelids make me feel very average. Xiao Qi is handsome, and his job is fairly good. Other girls probably would be interested in him. The double-eyelids procedure gives me my own 安全感, ānquán gǎn, sense of security.”
Yang paid for the procedure by using an online voucher—she paid on Alipay, Alibaba’s e-wallet—on 11/11.
A week later she took a two-hour train ride from Chengdu to visit the Chongqing Plastic Surgery Clinic. From the banks of the Yangtze River the sign for the clinic blinks like a hotel’s.
The procedure for double eyelids is quick. There is almost shockingly little to do. Two quick incisions on the eyelids, and the scarring will cause the crease.
Just like that, Yang, like thousands and thousands of other young women, now met a standard of beauty that didn’t exist in China a few decades ago.
* * *
China’s galloping GDP has always had an invisible running partner—China’s rapidly rising social expectations. In a country that thirty years ago had a per capita GDP of less than US$200, notions about what it takes to lead a “good life” have mutated faster than China’s economy. TV shows and movies showcase the latest trends in China’s development. The chasm between the expectations of Chinese young people—their dreams of the life they’d like to lead—and their financial reality is often bigger, broader, and more harrowing than any other such gap in the world. They suffer the frustration that comes from sitting at a roadside stall and eating a dollar plate of fried rice while a Ferrari zooms by.
Rebecca had just moved back to Chengdu from Shanghai. There, she had worked at a Korean barbecue restaurant downtown. She was twenty-three, from Anhui Province, and single. She had moved to Shanghai for the opportunities. “I didn’t actually know of any specific opportunities, just that everyone in the country says Shanghai is one of those cities where you can make your dreams come true,” she told me. Rebecca’s dream was only to make it big in a modern city. Anhui had no big cities, and few in the world could rival the glitz and glam of the coastal metropolis of Shanghai.
Rebecca didn’t have a lot to offer the job market. “I graduated from a three-year trade school in Chengdu,” she told me. “I could have gotten a decent job back home, but then I would have had to stay in my tiny hometown or a fourth- or fifth-tier city. I’m young! I wanted to experience the big city for myself like I’d seen on TV.” When she had trouble finding and keeping a job in Shanghai, she came back to Chengdu, one of the fastest-developing economic hubs in China.
Despite her job troubles, she was determined to buy an iPhone on this Singles’ Day.
How on Earth does someone making US$500 a month afford an $850 phone? Rebecca’s parents were not wealthy. Rebecca borrowed only a little from them for rent and food, because she didn’t want to place undue financial pressure on them. “This phone I want to buy myself!” she asserted proudly. So she waited for Singles’ Day, when the phones would be somewhat less expensive.
Two of China’s most popular media personalities and podcasters, Liang Dong and Wu Bofan, devoted a show to the question: “How do servers at an average Chinese restaurant afford that iPhone they are using to snap selfies of themselves at work?”
On the surface it makes little economic sense. Although iPhones are assembled within China, they are more expensive there than almost anywhere else in the world. While an unlocked iPhone cost $649 in the United States, the same phone was $851 in China.*
iPhones also cost Chinese consumers a greater percentage of their income than they do shoppers in other countries. The cost of an iPhone is more than five times Rebecca’s monthly rent. A server in California who works full time might make about $30,000 per year. That server might be able to cover the cost by scrimping for a few months. If Rebecca doesn’t eat, pay rent, take the bus to work, pay any bills, or spend any money whatsoever for a month, she still cannot not afford to buy an iPhone with her month’s earnings.
Dong and Wu hypothesized that people who cannot afford an iPhone insist on buying one because the Born After ’90 generation is intensely aspirational, and they want to be living their best life now. Someone who makes 3,000 RMB (US$440) a month will never be able to afford a car. Buying an apartment is even less of a possibility. An iPhone, then, is the nicest big purchase they can afford that feels loosely within reach.
In Shanghai growing numbers of women were looking to buy their own apartment. Doing so is a statement of independence, especially for urban women who are choosing to pursue their career rather than marry young. Rebecca had considered saving for an apartment but quickly ditched the plan. “It just would never have been possible without huge help from my parents,” she said with a shake of her head. But an iPhone? If she saved diligently, maybe took out a small loan, or went on a payment plan, the luxury of an iPhone could be hers. It was her reach-for-the-stars purchase, her pride-and-joy investment, and her way of reveling in the moment. “I could save for a lifetime for an apartment to enjoy when I’m old, or I could save for half a year to enjoy myself now,” she reasoned.
Chinese young people possess a new determination to enjoy themselves today, a “be here now” mentality that’s become pervasive. Rebecca didn’t want to save for an apartment and become what she and millions of others called 房奴, fáng nú, “apartment slaves.” Her parents emphasize delayed gratification, but she wants to live fast while she is young.
And so iPhones sell wildly, although they are a financially insane purchase for the vast majority of China’s youth. It is a luxury they can have now.
* * *
Xiao Qi withdrew his arm from around Yang’s waist and scribbled, “An entire year’s planning begins in spring” on a piece of paper. This Chinese proverb dates to 500 AD. When farmers first harvested rice eight thousand years ago, they initiated a proud agrarian culture in China that today produces and consumes about a quarter of the world’s rice. Planting begins in spring, and so Chinese rice farmers must work especially hard to set up a proper foundation upon which the year’s plantings—their livelihood—can grow. Dreams of bumper harvest must take root in spring.
In the abstract, the proverb is about youth. Youth in Chinese is 青春, qīngchūn, literally “young spring.” I once watched as a teacher at a middle school in Jiangxi Pr
ovince wrote that idiom on the blackboard and had her forty students write it one hundred times in their notebooks. Her message? The seeds of a person’s fate are sown in the spring of their life; work hard now so your future can blossom.
Xiao Qi added the character 节, jié (festival) transforming spring to Spring Festival, commonly known as Chinese New Year, and by far the most important Chinese holiday, like Christmas amplified. “There,” he said, admiring his modification. “A whole year’s plans depend on Spring Festival. It is good to update these sorts of proverbs, am I right?”
Perhaps Jack Ma’s greatest stroke of genius in creating Singles’ Day was its place on the calendar before Spring Festival. The holiday is the only time when nearly everyone in China returns to their hometown and to their family. It is one of the largest human migrations on Earth; in 2014 the Chinese booked 3.6 billion one-way train tickets for the festival (the China Railway Corporation does not sell round-trip tickets).17
Renée blinked several times at the idiom Xiao Qi had written on the napkin before turning to the rest of the table and asking, “What is he talking about?”
Xiao Qi replied, “You’re buying a new comforter for your parents. You’re buying two vitamin sets for them for the next year. You’ve got sneakers for your dad and a purse for your mom. You’ve got booze for your uncles.” Renée continued to stare at the proverb. Xiao Qi added, “The point is that these are not items for Singles’ Day; these are purchases in preparation for Spring Festival.”
Just as China’s is a culture of treated meals, it is also a culture of gift giving. The vibrant gift economy, as it is called in China, is both an expression of love and a social necessity. That’s why the master stroke of Jack Ma’s Singles’ Day may be its timing. Because Singles’ Day always arrives close to China’s most important holiday, the country can do all of its Spring Festival shopping at a major discount.
Going home means facing the fusillade of questions from the 七姑八姨, qīgū bāyí, the seven aunts and eight uncles discussed in chapter 4. Last year, on a seven-day trip to his hometown for Spring Festival, Xiao Qi tracked how many times people had asked whether he had a girlfriend. It came to 107.
This year Xiao Qi described the process of going home as a sort of championship lap for him. He had the answer to the big question always asked by his parents, who now would have an answer to the big question asked by his relatives, who would have the answer to the big question the neighbors would ask: Are you seeing anyone? He had a wonderful girlfriend. They expect to get married. His job is alright and his future looks fine, even bright. Because he had a reply to the one major question on the community’s mind, he was at ease.
Because he was pursuing a nontraditional profession, Renée’s homecoming promised to be much more difficult than Xiao Qi’s. “How will you ever make money as a director?” his aunt would ask. “How can you ever find a girlfriend without a better income?” his uncle would ask. “When am I going to be able to hold my grandson?” his mom would ask.
So Singles’ Day provided three opportunities. Singles’ Day purchases might prove to be bait for finding a steady girlfriend or boyfriend before heading home. (Through Taobao you can pay for someone to accompany you and pose as your significant other during Spring Festival.) Because Chinese believe they can use Singles’ Day purchases to improve their appearance, they also believe that these purchases improve the perception of your life in the city. People often marry someone from their hometown, so Singles’ Day provides an opportunity to impress the neighbors at half the price. Finally, buying great presents for all your relatives is an expression of magnanimity that they will use to gauge your financial status. Win. Win. Win.
* * *
Alibaba’s headquarters is in the ancient Chinese capital of Hangzhou, a two-hour ride on the bullet train from Nanjing, where those college guys started Singles’ Day.
Back in 2012, the pens, pencils, binders, folders, staplers, and notebooks in the stationery aisle at a Chinese supermarket were dominated by an instantly recognizable visage, and it wasn’t Jack Ma’s. The late cofounder and CEO of Apple, Steve Jobs, was the king of the back-to-school section.
Young students should aspire to be like America’s greatest innovator, the notebooks were saying. Then, in 2014, Ma took Alibaba to the New York Stock Exchange and broke the record for world’s largest initial public offering. It made Jack Ma a hero of innovation in China. Today Ma’s face presides over the stationery section, and he has been immortalized in documentaries, dozens of biographies, and on the rubber eraser of #2 pencils.
Taobao has turned China into a country of entrepreneurs. For college students and young adults like Xiao Qi and his friends, Taobao was something of a club—“for us by us.” Hundreds of thousands of small resellers populate Taobao, and many are young people trying to supplement their income. They are able to get inventory—phones, wallets, handbags—at wholesale prices by making monthly trips to Hong Kong and bringing them across the border in luggage to avoid paying the various taxes that were imposed on large retail stores.
E-commerce has done so well in China in part because Chinese consumers are natural early adopters. In 2016, 82 percent of Singles’ Day purchases on Taobao were made through its mobile app compared with only around 25 percent three years earlier.18 China’s apps, especially for smartphones, are in many ways much more advanced than those available in the West. Yu He, an exchange student at San Francisco State, once told me, “Compared to how easy it is to buy with Taobao and Jingdong, it honestly feels like your companies here don’t want my money.”
* * *
We finished the stew and headed to a nearby cafe. “Fast, reliable, cheap Wi-Fi,” Renée assured me.
When the clock struck midnight, the shoppers were unleashed. The crowd at the café shouted out their buys as they were confirmed. A minifridge. Pu’er tea, a gift for Xiao Qi’s parents. A Xiaomi cell phone. One year’s worth of Korean face-moisturizing masks to repair skin and maintain that youthful glow. Huawei computers. A pair of Nikes for Wang’s dad. Two pair of Nikes for her. A couple two tables down bought a car—a Cadillac, no less—at half price. They hugged and jumped, hugged and jumped.
I watched online as the sales streamed in to Alibaba headquarters. In the first eight minutes Alibaba made its first $1 billion in sales for the day.
Xiao Qi bought Yang the winter boots she had wanted so much. Yang bought Xiao Qi the new winter jacket he needed, replacing the one she’d spent so much time nuzzling. Xiao Qi bought a Xiaomi phone for his mom. He bought his dad Puma shoes to ease the pain in his feet. He also bought a briefcase-sized box of vitamins for Yang to give to her parents on Chinese New Year, a common gift for those for whom you are trying to express caring and consideration. “This is a gift for in-laws,” Renée noted. “Is there something you want to tell us? Is there a wedding proposal on the way?” Xiao Qi socked him in the arm. He had still not met Yang’s parents.
Rebecca bought an iPhone for herself, vitamins for her parents, and a variety of Sichuanese delicacies to bring back to her friends and family in Anhui Province. “The spice is going to make them cry,” she said with a smile. No one quite understood how she afforded it, but Yang said she saw stacks of instant noodles last time she was at Rebecca’s apartment.
Renée bought expensive boxes of vitamins for his parents, good booze for his uncles, and fancy tea for his aunts. “I get that they want the best for me, but the questions are a real pain in the ass,” he said. “Truthfully, they make me feel like I’m failing here by going after my dream. These gifts ought to show them that I’m doing OK.”
In the States, 2016’s Cyber Monday had raked in just shy of $3.5 billion in twenty-four hours across all companies and all buying platforms, easily blowing past initial estimates and last year’s record.19 By 1:00 a.m. shopping sites like Taobao, Tmall, AliExpress, and Tmall Global had poured more than $5 billion in sales into Alibaba’s coffers.20
When Yang went home a few months later, her paren
ts took in her eyelids with a quizzical look. “What beautiful boots!” her mom said, an artful diversion. “Where did you get those boots?” Yang’s dad asked.
“Actually, someone bought them for me.”
“Who?”
Yang handed her parents the yearlong supply of vitamins Xiao Qi had gotten for them. “The same person who got you these.”
They looked at each other, looked at the box of vitamins, and then looked at Yang. Her mom smiled and laughed excitedly. Her dad shrugged and scratched his head. “When will we be getting to meet him?”
8
Test Monsters Dream of Innovation
Will China’s Superstudents Reinvent Their Country?
When Lin Lin sat down at the table, her eyes surveyed my tape recorder and notepad in one deliberate sweep. “It is a pleasure to meet you,” she said in lightly accented English. She slipped her backpack straps over the back of her chair, placed a book with a light blue cover on the table, and promptly rested her hand on top. A portrait of a young woman peeked out from beneath her fingers. Before I could get a good look, her résumé materialized on the table for my perusal. The server arrived. Lin Lin ordered an apple juice.
I was interviewing Lin Lin because I was working on behalf of the Columbia University admissions office. My small role was to speak with students, primarily in western China, who had made it through the first few stages of the college admission process. After each interview I wrote a report, one of many components that comprise the strange alchemy of a Columbia University admissions decision.
“Your SAT scores are quite good,” I said, looking over her materials. “Was taking the test in English difficult for you?”
The young woman across from me smiled broadly, revealing a full mouth of braces. “The test portion was OK, but I struggled with the writing portion.”
Young China Page 14
