In this book post, the first in a while, we delve into a world quite the opposite of the ethereal "God" world of the last book post — though we return to this world toward the end.

A starkly different picture is painted by the Chinese data. This matter-of-fact statement encapsulates the essence of the predominant Chinese view, articulated by the pseudonymed Mr. Song:

I think that these days in Chinese society, ninety-five percent of parents would not want Wang Er to do this. Because it is common for Chinese parents to hope for their children to get into a famous university, and then in the future get a creditable job.

That’s really it: the famous university and the creditable job give both face and income. Later on Song supplements his thinking with this:

I think I would support his parents. Because in fact after he has finished college he can still have all sorts of interests and hobbies to be developed in all sorts of ways. But I think knowledge level is an important aspect in determining humanity’s quality. So it is no problem for him to form this rock band after finishing college, after he has the definite ability to analyze problems and solve problems. Then he can once again consider this idea of his.

The message is clear: what is important is to focus on building problem-solving skills. Yes, Wang Er wants to play rock music, but his “hobby” can wait.

The Chinese picture isn’t quite that simple, though. There is room for individual uniqueness, as Song elaborates later:

There are many paths to becoming a useful person. It’s not at all necessary that you go to college, and then get a master’s degree and then a Ph.D. This is a common route for people to become a useful person. But I think one should consider each person separately. If a person is truly suited to scholarship, or if a person can truly make contributions to academia, or if afterwards he can do research, or do some kind of practical work, do engineering work, and can attain a lot of development at this, I think he should go to college.But if a person isn’t all that suited to studying, but he has some other hobbies and interests, plus he can develop these aspects well, I think it’s not necessary for him to take the difficult path of taking college entrance examinations. In fact every person, in their life’s development, has many choices. He can choose a path that is suitable to his development. That is, the expression of his life’s value isn’t at all manifested in his level of erudition, or how high his position is, or how much wealth he has. I think in this sort of development situation he can really manifest his value.

There’s a lot to ponder in Song’s words. A few key points:

• “Becoming a useful person”: the Chinese term is chéngcái, literally “become wood,” as in the kind of wood that can be used for building. An alternative definition given in a standard Chinese–English dictionary is “grow into useful timber.” Note the emphasis on practical usage, and the focus on playing a role in the world. This contrasts starkly with the American prominence of human desire and passion.

• Focus on “suitability”: It’s about finding work that is suited to one’s talents. This is a fact about the world, or about a mesh between the world and the person. It is emphatically not about what a person wants or “dreams” about.

• Focus on “value”: Similarly, “value” being “expressed” is fundamentally different from dreams being followed.

I have dubbed this cultural model Suitable Path, to contrast with the American Life Path model.

As I transcribed and read the Chinese and American responses to the interview questions (because they didn’t really register as I was listening during the interviews), I reacted strongly at times as an American, my academic “objectivity” helpless against my human pride. No responses caused a stronger reaction in me than the responses to the rock band question.

I recall letting Song’s words sink in, and feeling the “responsible scholar” in me fade to the background as I began to stew. To my American mind, Song’s words seemed so cold, calculated, distant. Lacking in human feeling. Just plain wrong. Which is a testament to the power cultural models hold over humans. Our cultural models are not abstract hypotheses; they are truths.

What is the truth that I was so desperately holding onto here? I think the key is in how the word waste is used by several of the American interviewees. I touched on this above. Here are Sarah’s words again:

I think he's right too, because if his parents force him to go to college, and he ended up going to college instead of joining the rock band, he wouldn't try hard, he wouldn't study, he wouldn't do any of that, because that's not where he wants to be, so it'd be a waste of his time and of the parents' money and of just…it'd be a waste of everything.

The word also shows up in Helen and Lynn’s response, just after the piece quoted above, repeated here:

(Lynn) I think he should do it. 'Cause I mean, you're only one life, right? Do what you want.

(Helen) And also, if he really wants to join the rock band, but he doesn't want to go to college, then if he's being forced to go to college, he's not gonna like do well, and he's not gonna take it seriously. It's gonna be a waste.

A waste of what, exactly? Helen doesn’t say. Probably time and money. But also, I think, more deeply and fundamentally, a waste of Tom’s life.

Whenever we’re talking about waste, we’re talking about resources, which are by definition limited. Where resources are involved, there is scarcity. And it is in the realm of scarcity that we can see most clearly how the American and Chinese models differ most fundamentally.

What we see in the American responses is the scarcity of human life, and inside of this the scarcity of the opportunity to use one’s God-given talents. “Only one life.” Not two. Because we only have one life, we “have to do” what we want to do, because if we don’t do it this go-round, we’re out of luck.

On top of this, it isn’t just our life that is rare and precious, but also our talents themselves, for they are given to us. We have been entrusted with them. How often in our lives are we entrusted, literally, with a precious gift? When we are, how do we treat it? I had occasion recently to see the kind of energy that can be created around this kind of scarcity.

While on a long trip to China, my eight-year-old daughter found what she thought was the perfect gift for a close six-year-old friend back home: a small, round, perfect jade cup. When she finally witnessed him open the gift, the small room, with our two families of four, was filled with wonder at the simple beauty of the object, and at the love with which it had been chosen and was being given. And then horror, as my daughter’s friend dropped the cup and a chip disappeared from the rim. Thankfully everyone held it together and nobody got angry, but the disappointment on everyone’s face was obvious, and the collective (if silent) groan that went up sucked the celebratory air right out of the room — for a few seconds, at least, while everyone recovered.

The magic came from the scarcity of the gift, and from the beauty of entrusting another with something so precious. A special gift, given in trust, is the rarest of all. Our human talents, from the standard American viewpoint I have been sketching, are nothing if not these.