Who will shape Chinas youth narrative—millennials， or the Westerners who cant stop writing about them？

是誰的聲音在講述

中國“千禧一代”

的故事？

BY JEREMIAH JENNE

I

n the opening chapter of Young China： How the Restless Generation Will Change Their Country and the World， author Zak Dychtwald stumbles across the PRC border—and straight into China Expert territory.

“As both an empire and a modern culture， one of Chinas most distinguishing features was its insularity from the world，” he writes. “However inefficient the Great Wall was at repelling enemies， it was an apt metaphor for Chinas attitude toward the outside： Keep out.”

It doesnt bode well for whats to come.

Dychtwald， who begins the book as a study-abroad student in Hong Kong， sets out to describe the ambitions and aspirations of the “post-90s” and “post-00s” youth， “the first modern Chinese generations less preoccupied with needs and more involved with wants， in particular， ‘Who do we want to be？” In this generation is “Tom，” whod stood in long lines to sample KFC as a boy and is now studying for a graduate degree， trying to distinguish himself from the sea of fellow graduates； “Bella，” meanwhile， is looking beyond academia after failing the required exams， lamenting， “[In China] there are doors to your dreams…China has many people. Those doors are very crowded.”

This generation may focus on wants， but this means surviving near-gladiatorial competition at every stage of their lives. The ability to field this intense competition， argues Dychtwald， challenges the outdated tropes of “l(fā)ittle emperors，” the spoiled offspring of Chinas one-child era. Millennials are continually seeking new strategies to cope with the enormous pressure they face， and somehow succeed.

Dychtwald describes family life in China in transactional terms： “Parent Eaters，” kids who stay at home and use up their parents savings， versus parents who expect their offspring to adhere to socially constructed timetables for career， marriage， procreation， property ownership， and financial security. These may be boom times， and todays youth might be free of the crushing burden of survival faced by earlier generations， but that does not mean these kids are alright.

There seems to be a rule that， when one is young and in China， one ought to write a book about others who are also young in China. Dychtwald deserves praise for doing his research in cities other than the elite centers of Shanghai and Beijing， and he follows in the （unacknowledged） literary footsteps of 2017s Wish Lanterns： Young Lives in New China by Alec Ash， 2016s Little Emperors and Material Girls by Jemimah Steinfeld， and Chinas Millennials： The Want Generation by Eric Fish.

The recipe for these books seems relatively simple： Interview local friends and acquaintances， weave their life stories into a compelling and semi-connected narrative， add commentary to taste， and garnish with adventurous anecdotes from the authors own life in China. The trick is， while simple recipes are hard to botch， they can be fiendish to master.

At their best， these books provide data points； disparate stories acknowledged as part of a larger mosaic. The ablest authors avoid generalizations while deftly letting their subjects speak， if not for themselves， then at least with a minimum of editorializing. An example is Wish Lanterns， in which Ash shows admirable restraint， judiciously and sparingly contextualizing the stories at the heart of his book.

Unfortunately， Young China too often feels like a book about the author as much as his subjects， and at times the narrative slides disconcertingly close to being another China memoir， in which the expat interpolates his discoveries of KTV and internet slang with pedestrian exposition on Chinese history and society. Certainly there are some excellent and compelling stories in Dychtwalds book， in particular about changing attitudes toward sexuality and gender， and the lives of young LGBTQ people in China.

But these tales speak truths that are diminished by excessive exegesis. Rather than let Chinese voices carry the narrative， Dychtwald comes across as a dinner host trying to shout over his guests. At times， he is illuminating， but too often， especially when he contradicts his subjects or tries to explain the ways in which they are misguided， it comes off as laowai-splaining.

Finally， there are issues with sources and data. Its not clear why the author chose not to mention the aforementioned titles， all of which were already published while Dychtwald was writing his. （Since Dychtwalds text also used the terms “l(fā)eftover” and “women” in close proximity， we should be all grateful that he did cite Leta Hong Fincher， thus avoiding another social media spat）

What Dychtwald does cite are blogs， newspaper articles， podcasts， or other secondary materials easily sourced on the internet. Much of his information comes from folks whose names will be all too familiar to the incestuous circle-jerk of the China blogosphere.

And when primary data is used， it is not always correctly. For example， Dychtwald suggests that todays youth face greater pressure to care for their parents because， “Historically， in China， most people did not age and retire. They died…in 1950， the average life expectancy at birth was between thirty-five and forty years old.” The data is correct， but the average life expectancy at birth doesnt tell us how long somebody lived after they become parents. Moreover， infant mortality in the 1960s was well over 80 per 1，000 live births. By 2015， that number was around 8 per 1，000.

There are phenomenal stories of young people in China， stories which can easily be drowned out by the inflated static of great power relations， political intrigue， economic development， and term limits. Dychtwald should be commended for bringing some of these to life. While the book does not quite achieve the level of its predecessors， it is clear that Dychtwald is a talented young man with considerable ambition—much like many of his subjects.

THE DEVIL??S ADVOCATES

S

hanghai between the two world wars was a city of many names and reputations—both the Paris of the East and the Whore of the Orient. It was also a city of a refuge， and “a home，” writes Paul French in his latest book， City of Devils： A Shanghai Noir， “to those with nowhere to go and no one else to take them in.”

Among the “flotsam and jetsam” were European Jews fleeing Fascism， Russians escaping Bolshevism， Chinese peasants looking to get away from the grinding poverty and chaos of the Chinese countryside， and， later， the surge of the Japanese Imperial Army. There were also adventurers seeking their fortune and escaped convicts looking to evade the long arm of the state.

Shanghai was not a colony； it was a concession. In the waning days of the imperial era， it had been， at best， a lopsided and frequently improvised collaboration between the Qing state and various foreign powers. With the demise of the Qing Empire in 1911， China entered a period of prolonged instability， including periods where the term “failed state” would easily apply. Despite the turmoil and war of early 20th-century China， Shanghai—neither a formal outpost of colonial power， nor locally governed municipality—became both a zone of stability and a refuge for the stateless.

It was also a city of opportunity and reinvention.

French introduces us to this wild world through two Runyonesque figures， born to be characters on a quirky binge-worthy BBC series. （Frenchs earlier non-fiction work， Midnight in Peking， is being developed for television by HBO.）

Jack Riley was an escaped convict， born in the American West， who used a combination of luck and grit to move up the ranks of the underworld from bar owner and bouncer to the slot king of Shanghai. Joe Farren， born Josef Pollak in a Viennese ghetto， arrives in Shanghai to become the citys great showman and entertainment impresario.

The Shanghai of these characters is a world of equally colorful characters including gun runners and grifters， con men， gamblers， rumormongers， madams， and drunks.

To reconstruct this world， French relies on Shanghai Municipal Archives， consulate records， documents from the US Court for China in Shanghai， contemporary newspapers， and personal interviews. This is first and foremost a story of the subaltern. The less romantic term for “criminal milieu” is “urban underclass，” and accessing such accounts through official archives can sometimes be tricky. No doubt， interpretations were made when it come to speculating about the motivations and even actions of certain characters—a similar narrative strategy French deployed to great effect in Midnight in Peking— but these decisions work for the story， and rarely seem an implausible reading of the source material.

Those readers unfamiliar with Republican-era Shanghai will benefit from the series of maps， lists of street and place names， and a glossary of key terms and slang the author has thoughtfully included. Part of the charm of this world is the polyphony of languages and accents— not just Chinese and English， but Russian， French， Japanese， Tagalog， German， and a host of others. This multicultural patois—and Frenchs narrative style—are reminiscent of hard-boiled detective fiction of an earlier era.

This is also a book about endings. The opening chapter， set against the backdrop of the Japanese consolidating their control around Shanghai， immediately alerts the reader that little good awaits these characters. Invasion and war， the horrors being perpetrated outside the city and concessions limits—and increasingly inside them—are a sobering backdrop for the garishness of Jazz Age Shanghai， reminding the reader that there are higher stakes here than the usual gangster tale （something Hollywood， or the local equivalent， is sure to appreciate too）.

– JEREMIAH JENNE