Young China

by Zak Dychtwald

  * * *

  If demography is destiny, as the common saying goes, then for the last six decades China has been tampering with its own fate.

  China’s one-child policy created a baby bust, an artificial plunge in the average birthrate, through forced and unforced abortions and required family-planning measures. What gets far less attention is that this baby bust came on the heels of, and really in reaction to, the biggest baby boom in human history.

  In a thirty-year span—1949–79, the three decades before the one-child policy began—China’s population increased by 440 million people. When Mao and the Communists first took over China, they regarded a large population as a strength. Mao banned the import of contraceptives and condemned birth control. At its peak, the average fertility rate in China was nearly seven children per woman.

  China’s baby boom was also a story of plummeting child mortality rates, a factor that drove the boom at least as much as the banning of birth control. Chairman Mao’s rule brought turmoil but also greatly improved the health of the average Chinese family. When Mao took over the country, 30 percent of children were dying before the age of five. Thirty years later, shortly after his death, child mortality had plunged to about 6 percent.2 Today it is about 1 percent.3

  In a speech delivered at the Supreme State Conference in 1957, eight years after he and his Communist Party formed the People’s Republic of China, Mao stated to those responsible for charting China’s future: “China’s greatest advantage is our large population; China’s greatest weakness is also our large population.” China had roughly 20 percent of the world’s population but less than 10 percent of its arable land and about 7 percent of its potable water. By the late 1960s, ten years before the one-child policy officially began, Mao feared his population had grown too large. He created the Later, Longer, Fewer program and began forced abortions. The fertility rate plummeted to fewer than three children per woman. By the time the one-child policy began in 1979, three years after Mao’s death, the world’s largest baby bust was already well under way.

  The leading edge of China’s giant boomer generation is now in its late sixties. From the front of the classroom I could see China’s modern history on full display in the creases etched around the mouths of Jiangguo’s grandparents and the bend of their sturdy backs. Although most people did not die prematurely during the Mao era, they merely subsisted. China’s baby boomers are almost uniformly shorter than their children by a full head. They endured famine, malnutrition, and hard physical labor as children. Their skin is worn. Their hands are used and rough. When they smile at Jiangguo, the skin around their eyes is a sea of wrinkles. Despite the comparative wealth of their children, Chinese boomers still often dressed in simple Mao-style cotton trousers and jackets.

  The hard upbringing of China’s boomers played a big role in molding the stereotype of the little emperor. In China a grandparent plays a crucial role in raising children. China is one of the few industrializing countries in the world where 隔代教育, gédài jiàoyú (“skip-generation child rearing”), is commonplace. The first generation raises the third generation—grandparents raise their grandchildren or, more commonly now, their only grandchild—thereby freeing both parents to work. Skip-generation child rearing creates a more involved corps of elders, which multiple experts on aging I’ve spoken with, both Chinese and otherwise, suggest could play a role in keeping China’s massive boomer generation healthier and more active than their aging counterparts around the world. Betty, my TA at the school, echoed the thinking of most proponents of skip-generation child rearing: “It gives grandparents a sense of significance. We don’t put our grandparents out of sight. They remain an active and much-needed part of society. Sure, there is a bunch of annoying bits [for the child] of having your parents and your grandparents be such a large part of your life. But there are a lot of positives as well.”

  A grandparent-led childhood is part of why excess, and greater wealth, is so central to the experience of China’s only children. A study published in the International Journal of Behavioral Nutrition and Physical Activity found that a child raised by grandparents in China is twice as likely to be overweight or obese as a child raised by their parents.4 Of course. A population that survived hunger during the Great Leap Forward would have no comprehension of the concept of overeating.

  China is traditionally more of a “show, don’t tell” culture when it comes to the expression of love. Here, food is the most basic unit of love and the most intuitive way for Chinese grandparents to quietly express their devotion. They heap it on. Partially as a result, 23 percent of Chinese boys and 14 percent of girls younger than twenty are now obese or overweight, higher percentages than those found in the populations of Japan and South Korea, the East Asian powerhouses that developed before China did.5

  * * *

  When the one-child policy was first decreed, vast numbers of people were thrown into a panic. Some even protested, despite the risk of government retribution. In 1985, six years after the policy began, protesting citizens in the southern inland province of Guangxi carried a big red banner with white characters that read:

  计划生育好，政府来养老。

  (FAMILY PLANNING IS FINE; GOVERNMENT, COME CARE FOR THE OLD.)

  The pushback against the one-child policy was not “our body, our rights.” Instead the country wondered, “Who will care for our old?”

  Chinese children are, by tradition, a retirement plan. China operates on a system often summarized by the six-hundred-year-old phrase “养儿防老，积谷防饥,” pronounced yǎng ér fáng lǎo, jī gǔ fáng jī. It means, “As one stores up grain against lean years, one also rears children against old age.”

  Retirement is also partly why so many more boys than girls survived infancy in only-child households.* Tradition dictated that a son would stay in his family and a daughter would join the family she married into. Dream of the Red Chamber (1792), considered one of the four greatest novels in Chinese literature, describes a married daughter as being “like spilled water” because she no longer nourishes the family tree. That’s why Chinese children have different words for their maternal and paternal grandparents. They call their paternal grandparents Grandma and Grandpa. But they traditionally call their maternal grandmother 外婆, or wàipó—“Outside Grandmother.” Traditionally, only your father’s parents are considered part of your direct family.

  China has embedded the idea of caring for elders within the larger notion of what it means to be a good person. Inscribed in the bedrock of modern interpretations of Confucianism is this saying: “Of all behavior, filial piety comes first” (Bù xiào yǒu sān, wú hòu wéi dà). It inextricably ties the moral concept of “good person” to “good son or daughter.”

  But it was easier to be a good person in the past. Historically, in China, most people did not age and retire. They died. When Jiangguo’s grandparents were born in 1950, the average life expectancy at birth was between thirty-five and forty years old. Alongside the baby boom and the incredible drop in infant mortality, China in the last century has undergone one of history’s greatest longevity revolutions: by 1980, China’s life expectancy rose to over sixty years old, and today it is over seventy-five.6

  So, historically, the life cycle was simple: you’d turn eighteen, have children, raise them, they’d turn eighteen, and then two years later you’d be dead. Grandparenthood was usually a relatively quick experience. Caring for the old was also straightforward because you had help: a Chinese family had a lot of children and few, if any, elderly. The Confucian society was based on China’s demographic structure, which was historically shaped like a pyramid. At the bottom was a broad base of young people; at the top was a narrowing segment of the elderly. Built around the family, Chinese society was stable and self-supporting.

  Not anymore. China’s population is getting older. The number of Chinese citizens older than sixty-five will increase from 100 million in 2005 to 329 million by 2050. The boomer generation wa
s able to pull China out of poverty and fuel China’s manufacturing boom partly because they were so numerous. In 1980 the median age in China was twenty-two. Now the median age is about thirty-five years. The Pew Research Center projects that the median age will be forty-six by 2050.7 As the age of China’s working class changes, the type of work they are able to do also changes. Jiangguo’s generation is too few in number to sustain an economy dependent on manufacturing. If they want to be able to support aging Chinese, they will have to earn more and work better jobs.

  Jiangguo’s education is both an extremely local issue and a national priority. Jiangguo’s family pressured him to perform well in school for their and his well-being, and the future of his country will rely heavily on his intelligence and ability to innovate. Jiangguo’s generation will have to shoulder the tremendous economic burden of caring for their aging country. Long life is a blessing, but it comes at a sizable financial and cultural cost.

  So Jiangguo spends his Saturdays learning English words for a test he will take thirteen years from now. His success represents the difference between China’s transforming itself into a new era of continued growth and stalling under the weight of its aging demography. For China’s so-called little emperors, uneasy lies the head that wears the crown.

  * * *

  The applications Xiao Lu filled out during dishwashing lulls at Trade Winds paid off. He was offered a position as a chemical engineer at L’Oréal. Naturally, we celebrated over a meal. We took the bullet train to Shanghai, which had cut a three-hour drive down to a twenty-three-minute glide, for some refined dining. We watched Suzhou blur into Shanghai in a matter of minutes. Partly because of its proximity to Shanghai, Suzhou had been transformed from a “heaven on earth” to just another suburb of China’s megalopolis of twenty-four million people. Industrialization brought wealth, but Suzhou has lost much of its ancient beauty and charm. Yet in a sense Suzhou remained a heaven on earth to a Chinese family: Jobs there paid well and the air quality was not too bad. It was known nationally as a great place to raise a family.

  Xiao Lu’s new job had come through at exactly the right time for him. A week earlier someone had posted a notice on the back gate of Suzhou University; the notice consisted of only the character 拆, chāi, a simple word that has become emblematic of China’s persistent development. It means “to tear down.” The same notice was pasted on the doors of all the establishments along the narrow food alley, including Trade Winds. The Financial Times estimates that 40 percent of Chinese local government revenues come from land sales; Guan Qingyou, director of Tsinghua University Center for China Studies—Energy and Climate Project, believes that number to be as high as 74 percent.8 Soon, 拆 would be spray-painted in red on many of the old restaurants and apartment buildings along the student alley, including my small concrete apartment building. The street was one of the few areas in Suzhou that had kept its local, quiet charm, but now it would be razed to develop a tourism district.

  Despite the rapidity of development in Suzhou, emerging from any subway station in Shanghai feels like stepping out into Las Vegas. With all the flashing lights, people, cars, and noises, it’s a city that feels ready to burst. Xiao Lu and I reeled for a minute before transferring to the subway line that would take us to the restaurant.

  A family of five squeezed behind us into the subway car. Xiao was surprised to see more than one child and speculated that they were Miao Chinese, perhaps able to have more children as part of the exemption to the one-child policy for ethnic minorities. For most, having a second child without paying the fine for doing so would make it impossible to get a local hùkǒu, an identification card that verifies you are a local resident and allows you to attend school. Without the hùkǒu, which is often described as an internal passport, second children were essentially considered illegal migrants in their own cities.

  The fine for having a second child in China once was many thousands of dollars, depending on which province you were from. The fine increased with income and was almost always double a family’s yearly wages. The highest fine was paid by the filmmaker and choreographer of the Beijing Olympics’ opening ceremony, Zhang Yimou, who was reported to have paid $1.2 million for his third child.

  The one-child policy was relaxed in 2013 and then abolished entirely in 2015 in an attempt to regenerate China’s workforce. Xiao Lu and I had discussed the changes. Now couples who are both only children are allowed to have a second child. The problem is, most families are choosing not to.

  Xiao Lu looked at the family of five. “When I was growing up, my neighbors had two children. They just paid the fine,” he said. “For my neighbors the fine wasn’t so bad, really. My neighbors were better off than most and had savings. They decided they’d rather have the kids than a large bank account.”

  Young Chinese couples today seem to have little desire to have a second child. Before the one-child policy was done away with, thirteen provinces had fertility rates significantly below the allowances, and the fertility rate has changed the most in those urban and coastal areas where the policy was most strict.9 Cities like Shanghai and Beijing now have fertility rates of about 0.7, which means women are having only one child or none at all. Demographers joke that urbanization is the best form of birth control, and China’s fertility statistics show that in an increasingly expensive and competitive China, families were choosing to have fewer children, even when the one-child policy was still in effect.

  “When I was young, I was able to attend the extracurricular clubs and courses, which cost money. When I had trouble in a class, we were able to afford a tutor,” Xiao Lu told me. “When I was in high school, our house had a computer and Internet. I took gāokǎo study courses online. I never had to look after anyone younger than myself. I was given the tools to help me succeed in life.

  “Now I live in Suzhou. I just got a highly desirable job, and those other kids with siblings are all still stuck in our hometown with few future opportunities. You know why?”

  Xiao Lu did not wait for me to answer: “Because my family was able to invest all of their resources in me.”

  From Xiao Lu’s perspective as a single child, the decision for many to not have a second child is an issue of competitiveness. Why have a second child if you’d only be putting both at a disadvantage?

  When representative samples of a thousand schoolchildren from four Chinese provinces were examined for a comparison of the success rates of only children and firstborn and later-born children, the study found that only children significantly outperformed multi-child households on academic tests. Entitlement, self-centeredness, depression, anxiety—none of these long-predicted side effects were found to be present at significantly higher rates in only children. The study concluded, “Taken together, these results suggest that the one-child policy in China is not producing a generation of little emperors.” Rather, the only side effects seemed to be superior testing ability and an extra inch or two around the waist. The study found that single children in two provinces were more obese.10

  Xiao Lu watched the children play together in the subway car and shook his head.

  “I was able to be competitive enough to get into this university only because I am an only child. It is the first step to being competitive in life, to being able to attract a wife, look after my parents in old age, and support my child.”

  “Just one child?” I asked.

  Xiao Lu grinned, “It will depend on what I can afford. But, yes. I think it’s for the best.”

  4

  How to Eat Your Parents

  China’s Housing and Marriage Markets Collide

  Li described himself as average. At twenty-six he was of average height, had average looks, and held a slightly above-average job at a bank. His suit was tailored slim, industry standard. The black-framed glasses he wore were generic; up to 90 percent of young Chinese suffer from near-sightedness.*1 His thick black hair was cut close along the sides and a bit longer on top, the haircut you’d get if you walked
into any barbershop anywhere in China and said, “I’d like a haircut.” When he talked about money, kids, politics, or relationships, his expression remained blank, befitting his dispassionate role as a bank teller. In China his job commands a certain amount of respect. His parents beam when they tell their friends. “Don’t be impressed,” Li said every time anyone seemed on the verge of complimenting his position. “I’m not the guy planning investments.”

  By most measures, Li was successful. He came from a lower-class family and had recently entered China’s new middle class. It was a transition the vast majority of people were pushing, and being pushed by the government, to make. Li was at the top of his graduating class in high school, which, he pointed out, might have meant something if he had been from a first-tier city like Beijing or Shanghai or Guangzhou or the newly minted first-tier city Chengdu. But because his hometown is a fifth-tier city and he was now living in a fourth-tier city, being first in his high school class didn’t mean much. Still, he hadn’t cracked under the weight of the fearsome gāokǎo and had gone to a good college. Although he had harbored hopes to study abroad, his English, by his own admission, was never good enough. “And my parents couldn’t afford it anyway.” His income was around 9,000 renminbi (RMB) a month, or US$1,400, and a fair notch above the national average. His work and wage earned the respect of everyone who asked. In China everyone asked.

  Yet, despite all these obvious successes, Li was a parent eater.

  “You’re a what?” I asked, sure I’d misheard.

  “A parent eater,” he said patiently, shrugging his shoulders ever so slightly in his padded suit. “I eat my parents.”

  * * *

  When I first read about parent eaters, 啃老族, kěn lǎo zú, I thought the expression was a joke. China’s demographic predicament is grave, and I thought this was the often-boisterous Chinese Internet responding with a solution: If we have too many old people, why not simply eat them?