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.

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.

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.

]]> http://www.jasonpatent.com/2009/09/17/ph-balance/feed/ 6 http://www.jasonpatent.com/2009/09/16/now-thats-what-i-call-individualism/ http://www.jasonpatent.com/2009/09/16/now-thats-what-i-call-individualism/#comments Thu, 17 Sep 2009 01:25:10 +0000 Jason Patent http://www.jasonpatent.com/?p=799 On an email list I subscribe to, we’ve been discussing stereotypes, and how Americans often conflate “generalization” with “stereotype,” leading to a reluctance to talk about groups at all, for fear of dishonoring individuality. Back when I was designing a research project several years ago, I wanted to look into differing ways Chinese and Americans had of thinking and talking about racial categories. Given my experience in China of people freely sharing their opinions about the traits of China’s ethnic groups, I felt free to ask whatever I wanted. So I created a question in Chinese. Back-translated into English, it goes:

China is a multi-ethnic country, consisting of Han, Mongolian, Hui, Tibetan, and many other ethnic minorities. Do you believe that the abilities and natures of all ethnic groups are the same?

中国是一个多民族国家,象汉,蒙,回,藏,以及各个少数民族。你觉得每个民族的能力和天性都一样吗?

As I expected, these (highly educated) natives of China dove right into China’s different ethnic groups and all the stereotypes that are commonly held about the groups.

With the Americans I felt the need for kid gloves. It’s just not okay to be explicit about racial stereotypes in the U.S., or even to admit their existence — especially on a college campus. So instead of translating the Chinese question into English, I came up with a new, very different question in English:

There are stereotypes about certain ethnic groups in the United States. Some claim, for instance, that because few African Americans play volleyball, that this says something about abilities possessed by certain ethnic groups. Is there any truth to such stereotypes?

It’s almost painful to read. It feels like I’m literally walking on eggshells, carrying a tray of the finest crystal champagne glasses filled to the rim with Dom Pérignon. And sure enough, even with this ginger wording, the Americans were halting and hesitant in their discussions. For example:

A: Each person has talents that they can contribute to a body.

B: Right. More of an individualist…instead of having a broad label of being a part of a certain ethnic group, it’s more that each person brings a certain set of skills or interests to the table.

A: Yeah, and that each one is unique, not that we have to include everyone in every particular aspect of life, because that’s not where each individual person fits.

B: The way to look at it would be, you know, to basically, to break away this whole concept of the ethnic group. You’d have to look at people as having their own separate sense of values, or each individual as having a sense of special value, or interests. Everyone’s different in that sense, yeah.

I’ve written plenty about individualism, and I’ve called into question the sacred cow that Americans are “individualist” and Chinese are “collectivist.” Here, though, I think there’s a lot of validity to the claim that Americans are “individualist.” It’s meant in a very specific sense: the American belief — faith, really — that each human being has something unique to contribute to the world, and that this uniqueness must be honored (see also earlier posts on dreams). This sense of individualism is so strong that, as we can see from the excerpt, even the notion of group membership can be deemed offensive.

Now, there are all sorts of issues that come up as far as the eggshells go, and the equating of “stereotype” with “generalization.” That’s worth addressing another time.

]]> http://www.jasonpatent.com/2009/09/16/now-thats-what-i-call-individualism/feed/ 0 http://www.jasonpatent.com/2009/09/14/contracts-versus-hetong-redux/ http://www.jasonpatent.com/2009/09/14/contracts-versus-hetong-redux/#comments Tue, 15 Sep 2009 02:20:02 +0000 Jason Patent http://www.jasonpatent.com/?p=765 Today we’re revisiting the topic of contracts versus hétong. There’s rich territory to explore here. I was recently revisiting Lin Yutang’s classic book, My Country and My People, and it spurred some more thinking on this issue.

I’ve quoted from the book before: it was Lin Yutang who referred to China as “a nation of individualists” in this book, published in 1935. Lin addresses what he calls Chinese “indifference,” which, he argues, is a function of the world’s unpredictability, especially with regard to (lack of) legal institutions to protect citizens:

Chinese youths are as public-spirited as foreign youths, and Chinese hot-heads show as much desire to “meddle with public affairs” as those in any other country. But somewhere between their twenty-fifth and their thirtieth years, they all become wise, and acquire this indifference, which contributes a lot to their mellowness and culture. Some learn it by native intelligence, some by getting their fingers burned once or twice. All old people play safe because all old rogues have learned the benefits of indifference in a society where personal rights are not guaranteed and where getting one’s fingers burned once is bad enough. (pp. 48-9)

This connects directly to what Americans sometimes perceive as an indifference to the “letter of the law”:

In one word, we recognize the necessity of human effort but we also admit the futility of it. This general attitude of mind has a tendency to develop passive defense tactics. “Great things can be reduced into small things, and small things can be reduced into nothing.” On this general principle, all Chinese disputes are patched up, all Chinese schemes are readjusted, and all reform programs are discounted until there are peace and rice for everybody. (p. 56)

No wonder Americans, laser-focused as we are on “honoring our word,” sometimes get up in arms. Contracts are about “honoring our word”; hétong are about reducing differences and working together to create “peace and rice for everybody.”

A caricature, to be sure, but one to bear in mind — and really think through — as you continue to develop your relationships in China.

Two years into his tenure, Schulze recommended reducing the work week for Chinese workers from six days to five. In an internal memo, he reasoned: “The employees will gain more time for their housework and still have time for rest and social activities.” (p. 257)

From an American perspective it’s easy to see the appeal: reduced costs from one more idle day per week, plus rested and rejuvenated workers. Why wouldn’t workers want more time away from the factory, to do “housework,” pariticipate in “social activities,” and such?

It turns out there were plenty of reasons Schulze’s proposal didn’t fly, and was never implemented. Here we’ll take a look at one major cultural factor.

Deep in our American bones is a belief that, when we’re not consumed with life’s usually unpleasant necessities like work, we should be off doing fun, fulfilling things — in short, pursuing happiness, just like the Declaration of Independence says is our unalienable right.

People the world over want happiness; there’s nothing particularly American about that. What sets Americans apart is our quasi-religious belief in our right to pursue happiness, and our often absolute prioritization of the pursuit of happiness over other things.

In China other concerns often take precedence. I’ve already looked at this in earlier posts on following dreams. Pursuing happiness is closely related to this; the stakes are just lower than they are with dreams, because we aren’t talking about the entire purpose of someone’s life.

In the case of Beijing Jeep, Jim Mann’s own words best capture the cultural miscalculation. Schulze’s proposal “recommended for China the American ideal of regularly alternating hard work and leisure.” (p. 258) To an American it’s natural to assume this ideal; to the Chinese workers and management, there were countless practical obstacles, including the factory being thrown off kilter with other Chinese factories (all of which were at that time on a six-day work week), and calling, in Mann’s words, “for fundamental changes in the entire rhythm of Chinese life.” (p. 258)

Beyond some frustration on the part of Ed Schulze, the repercussions for Beijing Jeep were minimal. It’s not hard to imagine other scenarios, though, where a cultural miscalculation like this could cost real time, money and goodwill. It’s crucial that we remain mindful of our own cultural assumptions and their impact on our success.

The original Chinese Esquire series referenced in the Time piece is here (in Chinese only). It seems Chinese Esquire is using the power of dreams, along with fashion photography, to narrate a thoroughly modern Chinese man.

This kind of “modernity” highlights the shift, in certain young and “fashionable” circles in China, to a more future-based orientation. Dreams are by definition grounded in the future. The “pragmatic” aspects of Chinese culture in which we find resistance to dreams are, in contrast, based in the past: long and bitter experience has shown that the whims of the world can and do thwart the best of human intention and effort.

In an earlier post I wrote of Hoftede’s concept of “time orientation.” I mention it here because the drag of China’s deep past upon dreams can be formidable. And still we have the portraits in Chinese Esquire of China’s modern dreamers. No wonder so many Westerners return from China scratching their heads at the contradictions and the complexity. And while what I’m about to say is to some degree true of every place, and while I’m not nearly the first to say it, China defies all our efforts to put it into tidy boxes.