ShanghaiMamas

Ennui as an Tai Tai?

Monday, May 19th 2008

In Annie Wang’s naffly titled, but entertainingly informative ‘‘People’s Republic of Desire,’’ there’s a little bite amongst the racy exploits of the lead character and  her girlfriends, spun-out self-analysis and yearning for lost love that caused me angst.

I reference Wang’s 2006 novel — one of the many things I have tried to absorb in aid of navigating my way as a newcomer to China — as chicklit certainly saves a lot of exhausting reading of sociological texts.

And secondly, in defense of this reader happily avoiding anything that threatens to exercise too many brain cells, chicklit often has a knack of identifying and offering insights on modern truisms and trends, and  helpfully wrapping them in a titillating tale.

And so to Wang and her analysis of young-ish women and social class in modern China.

Not hailing from a country that talks so openly about class, and where residents risk being labeled in  the most unflattering of terms if they attempt to class themselves, let alone others, it was a bit of a shock that Wang’s heroines were just itching to find where they belonged in the new class concepts in China.

Wang talks of the xiaozi, or petit bourgeois. To have been called xiaozi, she says, was dangerous during the Cultural Revolution, although not as dangerous as being called counterrevolutionary. Wang writes one was still condemned by Red Guards if they committed offenses against the People’s Fashion, such as wearing high heels or perming their hair. There certainly would have been none of those fashionable young things on Nanjing Lu who can be seen strutting around today in the cutting edge get-up of odd-ball ubermodel Agyness Deyn.

But, Wang writes, being called xiaozi is now extremely cool. Like dressing like Agyness Deyn. Being cool is reading Chinese versions of Elle and Cosmopolitan and drinking coffee instead of tea. Xiaozi are possessors of good taste and are quite comfortable spending a large chunk of their income on entertainment and the arts.

Then, Wang writes, there is the new elite, xingui, who read Fortune magazine or Business Week. They’re also cool. They’re also rich.  They drive a BMW, have lovers, and attend banquets every week. Xingui are often the kids of the Shanghai or Beijing upper class, who went off to get a western education and work for multinational banks or Fortune 500 companies

Then there’s the bobos , bourgeois bohemians.  A class, of course, not limited to China, universally considered very fashionable and, if nothing else, in possession of a cool sounding name. They’re the SUV-driving, Time magazine-reading world traveling vegetarians and Starbuck-coffee sippers who have an IPOD full of new age music and do yoga. Wang says bobos also have more than 15 years education and sleep under down quilts.

I think I’m getting a touch of class envy.  This brings me to the point that in a society that loves a label, my angst stems from feeling left out. Nowhere in this chapter, or anywhere that I can find, is there anything that remotely categorizes me. In a land where class is so openly discussed and people so aware of their place in the social strata, I fear I am suffering an acute case of labelessness.

The tag ”expat” obviously can’t adequately cover us in this increasing meld of Chinese, foreigners and returnees. And I think I would like a label. Yet, nowhere in the book, or even Shanghai Daily buzzwords, have I found a term for the bumbling, working expat mother trying ever-so-hard to adapt to a different culture.

We are the women and mothers who are straddling work and home, embracing a new culture while trying to provide comforts of the homeland.  We are the ones who try, but just don’t quite get it right. In winter, we wander down the street to the sounds of locals tut-tutting over our inadequately clothed children who refuse to wear gloves or hats and whose warm pants have ridden up exposing their little legs and bellies. We’re the ones who ignorantly buy strawberries and other fruit out of season and are then told we shouldn’t have, but if we did, should have soaked them in a solution containing nothing less than hospital grade bleach. We are the mums who don’t know the little trick to blow chicken eggs out of their shells so kids can make the them look pretty and recall a little of home at Easter, but are getting close to being able to recite the Seven Chinese Brothers by heart. We run around cleaning up before the ayi arrives, and feel quite guilty we even have the help. We’re well educated but rarely have time to read, don’t drive but walk or take taxis, and baulk at the cost of a Starbucks coffee. We’re happiest spending money on our kids. We’re really uncool. And we would never consider taking lovers, basically because we’re too damn tired.

So, is there a term for us in China? Do we fit neatly into a category, one that might give us a sense of belonging in this stratified society and relive social angst?

Do we have a label?

Or should I just look up ”really lucky?”

 

By Katrina Beikoff*

* Katrina Beikoff is an award-winning Australian journalist and columnist, now with the Shanghai Daily. Her regular column which can be found at www.shanghaidaily.com. She also contribute a fortnightly piece to www.shanghaimamas.com  

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