Tom is about to graduate from high school. He decides he doesn’t want to go to college, despite his parents’ wishes. Instead, he wants to join a rock band. What will the family members all say to one another? What will happen in the end? Who is right?

To overgeneralize: if you are an educated American, you probably have some sympathy for Tom, and you may even think he should go for it and forget his parents’ advice, even though you also think he will probably fail. You may think that he should pursue his dream; you may even think that he must pursue his dream, if he has truly been given a rare talent. You may believe that no matter what his parents say or do, they will not and cannot change Tom: he needs to learn lessons on his own, even if they are hard lessons, even if he suffers. His life is his to make, and the most valuable lessons are the ones learned through direct experience.

When I was a graduate student in linguistics doing research for my dissertation, I asked this question to several pairs of U.S.-born, native-English-speaking people. I also translated the question into Chinese and posed it to pairs of China-born, native-Chinese-speaking people. (The native dialects of the Chinese interviewees varied, but, being educated, all spoke Mandarin with great ease.) The summary I just offered of possible American views reflects a standard set of “cultural models” which my American interviewees turned to consistently in discussing this scenario.

Brief terminological aside: “cultural model” is a quasi-technical term used by scholars at the margins of linguistics, anthropology and psychology. Essentially it refers to an idealized notion of how the world works or should work. If I go to a restaurant and my server asks me to fill out a deposit slip or endorse a check, I will be surprised because the question violates my mental “model” of how restaurants should work. These models are called “cultural” because they are shared: I can reasonably expect my restaurant companions to be equally surprised about the server’s actions.

The cultural models that make up the “standard” Chinese view of the rock band question diverge sharply from the American cultural models. Before describing the “standard” Chinese view, though, I need to stop for a moment and address a concern that I hear every time I present my research. The concern is usually expressed as a statement like, “But that’s not how I think,” or “That’s not how it would go in my family.” My response is not to quote statistics, because I have none to offer. Instead, I say: Absolutely. No one person is going to follow the “standard” line entirely. I certainly don’t. The “standard” view I’m referring to is an approximation or aggregation, based on responses from interviewees, and, in the years since the research, on countless conversations with Americans and Chinese on the topic. The analysis will not stand up to rigorous scientific scrutiny; no social science research ever can, no matter how many statistics are quoted. It is by nature inexact, because the subjects, human beings, are by nature inexact.

The “standard” Chinese view (I’ll now stop “scare-quoting” the term) differs radically from the standard American view. Tom — or, more properly, his Chinese alter ego Wang Er — has an opportunity to receive an education. Fewer things are more valuable than this opportunity, because in an overpopulated world, competition is intense, resources are scarce, and you need every edge you can get. Wang Er’s parents are absolutely right to insist that he go to college. Nothing is stopping Wang Er from pursuing music as a hobby. But his focus should be on studying hard and getting a solid, reputable job upon graduating. Not only will this set up Wang Er and his family with a strong economic foundation to guard against future calamity, but everyone will look good too and gain the respect of those around them.

That said, it’s worth looking at the cause of the annoyance. From a cultural standpoint, the quality in question is self-righteousness. It’s a fine line between self-righteousness and universalism, which I’ve discussed a lot on this blog. I think the link between the two stems from the conflation of two ideas: that there should be a standard worldwide, and that the standard should be our standard, where “we” are a particular cultural group: in this case the U.S. or the West.

When self-righteousness is present, it tends to take over. I become more concerned with how I’m better than you than I am with what you might actually be up to in your life. In fact, it becomes hard for me to hear about what you’re up to in your life, because in my eyes it doesn’t really matter, because you’re not really the kind of person whose actions and interests matter. After all, I’m better than you.

Whether or not this exercise in pop-psych is accurate, it characterizes what I see in much Western media coverage of China, and much of what China novices from the West are curious about when it comes to China. Few Western journalists and publications seem interested in the myriad, and quite concrete and difficult, actions taken by officials, businesspeople and other leaders all across China to improve the lives of the Chinese people. There is much to be learned and gained from a careful study of these efforts. And thankfully it’s not all deficit, as shown by this piece from Time. Here’s a teaser:

Could the world’s lone but weary superpower actually learn something from China? It’s a politically incorrect question, of course. China is an authoritarian nation; its ruling Communist Party deals ruthlessly with any challenge to its hegemony. It remains, relatively speaking, a poor, developing country with huge problems to confront, massive corruption and environmental degradation being Nos. 1 and 1a. Still, this is a moment of humility for the U.S., and China is doing some important things right. If the U.S. were to ask the Chinese what it could learn from their example, it might gain some insight into what it’s doing right and wrong.

Now if I wanted to I could complain about the shock the author seems to be expressing at the very possibility that the U.S. could learn from China, but I’ll refrain. Or not.

Now that I’ve written this thoroughly self-righteous post, feel free to let me have it.

Mr. Obama’s statement also pointedly noted the U.S. belief in the importance of universal human rights that should be enjoyed by “all peoples, and all ethnic and religious minorities,” and called for the Chinese government to resume dialogue with representatives of the Dalai Lama, the Tibetan spiritual leader whom Beijing considers a separatist.

Huh? I thought I was going to be reading about how Hu and Obama are working through their differences across a range of complex issues. Then, out of the blue, this. I expect this type of reporting from the New York Times, not the Wall Street Journal.

Don’t get me wrong. Of course human rights need to be respected. Nothing I write here should be taken to impugn the thinking or writing of anyone working to benefit human beings worldwide. The thing is, there’s no shortage of verbiage in Western newspapers about how China comes up short on human rights, and I expect something different from the WSJ.

I was reminded of a conference I co-hosted in Beijing in 2006. At the time I was directing Stanford University’s study abroad program at Peking University. We were welcoming Stanford students, staff and faculty from Stanford’s centers in Kyoto, Berlin and Washington to participate in a workshop on globalization. It seemed that every other question I got from our guests was something akin to: “What’s up with China and their failure to support freedom, democracy, and human rights?” Unfairly, I found myself annoyed by these questions. To me, there were so many other important topics our guests “should” be interested in. Why obsess about these old, tired questions?

I was prompted to put some thought into why I was bothered, and what this all said about key cultural differences between China and the West. I’ll take this up in the next post, and perhaps beyond.

The most common theme I witnessed was suspicion, on the part of some of the Americans, of the motives of the Chinese partners. I kept being reminded of the bugaboo of attributing intentions (usually erroneously) based solely on behavior. There was a particular kind of behavior observed by the Americans which made them uncomfortable, and it didn’t take long, as the Americans talked among themselves later, to create agreement about the (ill) intentions behind the behaviors. This is a savvy group of executives, though, and they were receptive to other interpretations of the behavior.

One thought that recurred frequently during the week was this: what about all the other organizations working in China, which either aren’t aware of intercultural issues, or which are aware but don’t want to invest in intercultural consulting? I thought of how intercultural misunderstanding grows over time, often without our noticing, until it’s too late. A former colleague once put forth the “fish poop” model of human relations: over time, a fish tank accumulates fish poop. From one day to the next, you won’t necessarily notice a difference. But over time you end up with a stinky, fetid mess of a place to try to live, let alone thrive. Human relations, like fish tanks, require constant attention to accumulating fish poop — especially in intercultural environments, where the poop is likely to come fast and furious.

My experience with this company left me with a profound appreciation for them and companies like them, who can see the importance of the intercultural piece for their future success.

All societies give certain of their members higher status than others, signaling that unusual attention should be focused upon such people and their activities. While some societies accord status to people on the basis of their achievements, others ascribe it to them by virtue of age, class, gender education, and so on. The first kind of status is called achieved status and the second ascribed status. (Fons Trompenaars and Charles Hampden-Turner, Riding the Waves of Culture: Understanding Diversity in Global Business, Second Edition, New York: McGraw Hill, 1998, p. 105. Emphasis in original.)

One of the probes used to get at this difference is the following statement, which participants were asked to answer with a number from 1 (“strongly agree”) to 5 (“strongly disagree”):

The most important thing in life is to act in the ways that best suit the way you really are, even if you do not get things done. (p. 107)

The percentage of participants disagreeing with the statement (i.e., answering 4 or 5) for China is 28, and for the U.S. 75 (p. 108).

Americans are conditioned to evaluate people based on what they accomplish. While race, class, gender, and other social categories matter a lot, as they do everywhere, the expressed ideal that we are all “created equal” carries great cultural weight. “Created equal” means equal opportunity — to get things done.

Americans chafe at the notion that someone would be accorded status based on factors unrelated to accomplishing things. What does it matter that you went to a fancy school, or have a flashy pedigree? Prove to me who you are by showing me what you can get done.

In China, factors such as age, gender, and rank matter much more than they do in the U.S. Hierarchies are more rigid. This causes problems for Americans who either aren’t aware of this, or who stubbornly resist it.

Societies which conduct business have developed two major orientations towards nature. They either believe that they can and should control nature by imposing their will upon it, as in the ancient biblical injunction “multiply and subdue the earth”, or they believe that man is part of nature and must go along with its laws, directions and forces. The first of these orientations we shall describe as inner-directed.…The second [as] outer-directed.… (Fons Trompenaars and Charles Hampden-Turner, Riding the Waves of Culture: Understanding Diversity in Global Business, Second Edition, New York: McGraw Hill, 1998, p. 145. Emphasis in original.)

Differences between the U.S. and China show up starkly in responses to the following:

A. What happens to me is my own doing.

B. Sometimes I feel that I do not have enough control over the directions my life is taking.

The percentage of people answering A is 39 for China (second only to Venezuela, at 33) and 82 for the U.S. (fourth highest after Norway (86), Israel (88), and Uruguay (88)). That’s a pretty big difference, and it plays out all across the board when Americans are doing business in China. To take but one major example, see these earlier posts on contracts: it’s hopeless and counterproductive to think we can control the future, which is in essence what a contract seeks to do. This difference also shows up frequently in people’s explanations for why things do or don’t happen.

For instance, one of our children’s caregivers once didn’t show up at a certain place and time to meet our family. Frustrated, I called her to find out what had happened. Her explanation was that “Beijing has a lot of intersections.” How could she be expected to find the right one? Of course my “inner-directed” American brain went nuts, seeing this as merely an excuse, and a lousy one at that.

The problem for the American in China is that our inner-directedness is just one particular way of thinking of things. Be ready for explanations that seem odd, even maddening. Using words like “unaccountable” or “irresponsible” will get you nowhere. Showing anger will only set you back. Instead, work hard to see an outer-directed orientation as a legitimate way of viewing the world, on equal footing with yours.

There are no quick and easy prescriptions here. One thing is certain, though: your chances of success will be much greater if you’re ready for this than if you’re not.

The dimension is called “specific” versus “diffuse,” with Americans toward the “specific” side and Chinese toward the “diffuse” side. The metaphor of a peach versus a coconut helps explain the dimension.

Think of a peach. Its soft flesh makes it easy to cut into and to separate into “specific” areas. This is meant to capture two things. First, that it’s easy to make entry into the life of someone from a “specific” culture — though not too deeply, as you’ll soon run into the pit. Second, that people from “specific” cultures tend to have many distinct groups of people that they do different things with, with some but overall little overlap: your golf buddies, the people you work with, etc. Americans, as “specific” people, thus end up having relatively superficial relationships with a large number of people — just as Francis Hsu and Fei Xiaotong noted about America.

The “diffuse” coconut is hard to crack. Once you’re in, though, you’re in everywhere. Diffuse cultures tend to mix business and personal. If you’re in my in-group, you’re in my in-group, period, regardless whether the relationship began as a work relationship or as a personal relationship. Relationships are hard to get going, but once they’re going, they go deep — just as Francis Hsu and Fei Xiaotong noted about China.

If you’re an American in China, and if you’re not prepared for these differences, you’re liable to make serious missteps. The divide between “business” and “personal” that we like to keep hermetic in the U.S. is much more porous in China. You will find yourself being invited to social functions that might not seem appropriate for business. Remembering that China is “diffuse,” and that your Americanness has trained you to be “specific,” can help you overcome your automatic resistance to such affairs, and help you succeed in China.

As with any of these dimensions, we shouldn’t take them too seriously by themselves. They’re best thought of as useful guidelines that capture high-level differences among cultures.

Fei, whom we heard from once before, spent academic year 1943-44 in the United States, during the closing phase of World War II. He observed that America is a “land without ghosts,” which became the title of a collection of essays by Chinese visitors to the U.S. (Land Without Ghosts: Chinese Impressions of America from the Mid-Nineteenth Century to the Present, ed. R. David Arkush and Leo O. Lee, Berkeley, University of California Press, 1989). His own childhood, filled with ghosts, stood in stark contrast to ghostless America. He wrote:

How could a ghost gain a foothold in American cities? People move about like the tide, unable to form permanent ties with places, to say nothing of other people.…

Outside the family there is certainly much social intercourse, but dealings with people are always in terms of appointments. On my office desk is an appointment calendar marked in fifteen-minute intervals with a space for a person’s name beside each. Apart from business there are various kinds of gatherings, but if you go to one you will find it is no more than social pleasantries: a few words with this person, a few words with that one — it is hard even to remember their names. I cannot say all Americans pass their lives like this. But I once asked a fairly close acquaintance how many friends he had whom he could drop in on at any time without a previous engagement. Counting on his fingers, he did not fill one hand.…

…[Americans'] movements are so easy and they have contacts with so many people, that there seldom comes about the kind of relationship I had with my grandmother, living interdependently for a long time, repeating the same scenes, so that these scenes came to seem an inalterable natural order. Always being on the move dilutes the ties between people and dissolves the ghosts.…

In a world without ghosts, life is free and easy. American eyes can gaze straight ahead. But still I think they lack something and I do not envy their lives. (pp. 179-181)

If we combine this with the notion, from last Friday’s post, that culture goes extremely deep within us, we get a picture of Americans as thoroughly conditioned to form a certain kind of fleeting relationship with a great many individuals over a lifetime. We will naturally import these habits into our dealings with China, and this gets us into trouble.

Two groups of subjects — European Americans and Asian Americans, all undergraduates at the University of Michigan — took the “rod and frame” test. The apparatus looks like this:

What subjects see when they peer into it looks roughly like one of these configurations:

One of the uses of the test is to detect “field dependence”: to what extent is perception of the rod’s orientation affected by the orientation of the frame? That is, how able are people to “factor out” the frame and make accurate judgments about the orientation of the rod?

If we take a common metaphorical understanding of how “East” and “West” differ, we might think that “Easterners” would be more field-dependent than “Westerners,” since “context” is said to matter so much more in the East. Relationships matter more than individuals.

At the same time it’s an absurd claim. Vision is vision, right? Let’s not be fooled by the metaphor. There’s no way actual perception could differ culturally.

Except that’s exactly what the researchers found: the European Americans were less field-dependent than the Asian Americans. Not only were their judgments of rod verticality more accurate irrespective of the frame, but they got even more accurate when given control of the rod. The East Asians tended to see “rod and frame” together, and gave less accurate judgments when given control over the rod.

To me this finding is absolutely astonishing. I share it in many of my talks, because it makes the point so profoundly that culture goes to the very root of who we are as human beings: if how I literally see the world is partly a product of my cultural background, then how could any part of my life not be touched by culture?

It also serves as a stark reminder to anyone operating in an unfamiliar culture that we’d best be on guard against assuming our own perceptions are right and others’ are wrong. Chinese and Westerners actually see the world differently. Knowing that brute-force fact can help us immensely if we’re willing to distance ourselves from our own perceptions.

Puts a new spin on “seeing is believing.”

In 1971, anthropologist Francis Hsu published the intimidatingly titled “Psychosocial Homeostasis and Jen: Conceptual Tools for Advancing Psychological Anthropology” (American Anthropologist, New Series, Vol. 73, No. 1, pp. 23-44). In the essay he sketches out a model for understanding differences between the psychologies of Chinese and Westerners.

He uses this image (p. 25) to make his point:

Hsu places special emphasis on Layer 3:

The need for Layer 3 is literally as important as his requirement for food, water and air. This is what basically gives the individual his sense of well being. Sudden loss of inhabitants in Layer 3 may be so traumatic as to lead to aimlessness and to suicide. (p. 29)

Hsu goes on to claim that through the development of intimate family ties, the Chinese have an abundance of Layer 3 companions, leading to “psychosocial homeostasis” — a state of relative stability and contentment.

He contrasts this with Westerners, whom he sees as having few people in their Layer 3. Instead, most Westerners have a relatively rich Layer 1 and Layer 2, and they will recruit people into their Layer 3. The problem is that these relationships are naturally unstable; as a result, Westerners have difficulty populating their Layer 3, leading to a general lack of psychosocial homeostasis. Hsu claims many effects of this, including the Western need to conquer.

While the claims may be a bit grandiose, I’ve found this a useful framework. What I like most about Hsu’s model is that it gives us something more concrete and explanatory than a broad cover term like “collectivism.” It’s not just that “Chinese are group-minded.” It’s more nuanced than that, and Hsu shows us how. The model also seems to explain a number of Chinese behaviors that I found confusing when I first arrived in China. I could never understand why, for instance, nobody seemed to do anything alone. Didn’t they value their personal time? And why wouldn’t they leave me alone when I was shooting baskets late in the evening? I deduced that for the Chinese, “alone” meant “lonely.”

In the intervening years I’ve gained much more appreciation for the Chinese love of company. When in China I’m still pulled at times by my automatic American hermiting instincts. But when I can push through those, the rewards of the human connection are great and enduring. This is a lesson for all of us from the West who have business in China.

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