Home>News Center>Life
         
 

Linglei escape mainstream with no destination
By Hannah Beech (Time)
Updated: 2004-06-23 15:29

We want the physical freedom to travel where we want, work where we want, have the friends we want -CHUN SHU, 20, The Writer

The country's population of young iconoclasts is expanding so quickly that, like America's beatniks and hippies and Japan's shinjinrui who came before them, they now have their own moniker: linglei. The word's meaning was once derogatory, connoting a disreputable hooligan. Not anymore.


Chun Shu, 20, the writer of 'Beijing Doll,' once hit the cover of Time magazine as a symbol of China's freshly born alternatives. [file photo]
This year, the Xinhua New Word Dictionary amended the definition of linglei to just mean an alternative lifestyle, without an accompanying sniff of disapproval. Unlike countercultural movements in the West, which often germinate in protest activities, most linglei are not motivated by economic anxiety.

Their rebellion against conformity is largely an exercise in self-expression, a mannered display of self-conscious cool. "People born in the 1970s are concerned about how to make money, how to enjoy life," says Chun Shu, another young writer who dropped out of high school. "But people born in the 1980s are worried about self-expression, how to choose a path that fits one's own individual identity."

While China's economy is now conducive to entrepreneurial individuality, the nation's education system is still mired in uniformity. At the Songjiang No. 2 Middle School, Han was a literary savant, the winner of a 1999 national writing competition so conversant in ancient texts that he would taunt his teachers by quoting arcane passages at them during class.

But in other subjects, he was barely mediocre, dooming his chances of getting into a good university. The college entry-exam system is based on a comprehensive score, leaving little room for individual talents like, say, a young chess champion in the West, who would have a pick of top universities.

So Han dropped out of 10th grade, wrote books, and began his auto buying spree. Meanwhile, the mainland press debated whether the education system was blunting creativity precisely when the new economy needed more innovative workers. Even Xinhua, the state media agency, voiced its opinion in an editorial last year, writing that China's traditional education system created "learners as lifeless and characterless as stuffed ducks."

Han was later offered the rare chance to take courses at Shanghai's prestigious Fudan University. The offer was a vindication, but Han refused. He was too busy racing cars to go back to the old track. The very idea of voluntarily dropping out-as opposed to being ostracized for incorrect thought or action-is a new concept in mainland society.

Before, only the poor left school, to help their parents in the fields or factories. But today, the emergence of linglei has meant that not just the children of the underclass are forsaking school. For many kids, China's new alternative has provided another potential path to happiness.

Wu Wei was a diligent student at the Jinan Foreign Language School in the eastern province of Shandong. Earlier this year, he was supposed to go study in Germany. But SARS intervened and Wu's chance for an overseas education was thwarted, meaning another stultifying year at his Chinese school.

Desperate for a little creative freedom, Wu sought options at an IT job fair this summer. Elbowing aside graduates from the nation's best universities, he explained to recruiters in his high-pitched voice that although he was only 17, he also happened to be the youngest Microsoft-certified computer programmer in China. Within a day, the boy with a mouthful of braces was being considered for five different positions.

In July, he dropped out of school and started Jinan Hanyu Technology, a software-design firm. Among his five programmers, two are even younger than he is. "In my parents' generation, a diploma was considered the only proof of excellence," says Wu. "But for us, as long as you can prove your ability in a certain area, there are many ways to success."

The evolution of a mainland standard of cool is already starting to change China's society in subtle but manifold ways. In marketing, for example, ad campaigns are no longer relying on testimonials about superior function or low price to sell products. Instead, hip imagery is creeping into mainstream media as a promotional tool.

In one recent TV spot, the camera pans in on a Chinese yuppie family gathered in its Ikea-style living room. Suddenly the father's new mobile phone with color-screen capability beeps. The family leans in to see what has arrived. It's an SMS picture of the family's son showing off his new hairstyle, a spiky, green-hued halo that perfectly frames his mischievous grin.

The message: if you're hip enough to sport a linglei look-or at least have a son who does-then maybe you, too, can own a China Mobile phone with a color screen. "In the 1980s, ads in China focused on the quality of the product," says Sun Yi, a customer supervisor for the Shanghai Weilan Advertising Co. "But starting in the 1990s, ads began focusing on a product's image. For sectors like clothing, electronics and fast food, the most popular image is that of the linglei."

Publishing is another stronghold of linglei chic. Several years ago, China's state publishing houses lost their government subsidies and were forced to become profitable or die. To survive, many turned to publishing quickie biographies of Fortune 500 executives or how-to guides on starting your own business.

Others delved into youth culture, figuring that tens of millions of young urban Chinese were an untapped market. The strategy paid off. Over the past three years, linglei literature has topped the best-seller lists. The most successful of all is Han, whose four books have sold more than 2 million copies-a singular achievement in a country where piracy takes a big bite out of book sales.

Chun Shu is another hot young writer, a 20-year-old high school dropout who recently bared her sex life and punk fetish in a best-selling memoir called Beijing Doll. Like most linglei authors, Chun writes bluntly about her own life, but she stays away from the grander ideologies such as democracy, freedom and equality that have often motivated her alternative brethren in the West.

In some ways, her aversion to politics isn't surprising, given that her father is a proud People's Liberation Army man, and she's recently moved back home to live in the Wanshou Road Military Family Members' Compound-making her, surely, the only kid on the block to wear a camouflage jacket as an ironic statement.


Page: 1234



 
  Today's Top News     Top Life News
 

Price hikes not to stop until October

 

   
 

DPRK: Concrete plans can help nuclear talks

 

   
 

China set to clarify bankruptcy protection

 

   
 

Audit: US$170 million discovered misused

 

   
 

Boat sinks killing one, 43 lost

 

   
 

Locust plague devastates crops

 

   
  Linglei escape mainstream with no destination
   
  Dao Lang: I'm an ascetic for music
   
  Inksticks write an interesting page in China's history
   
  Xiushui market stall bid price skyrockets
   
  The eyes have it
   
  Gypsies to sue IBM on 'Nazi link'
   
 
  Go to Another Section  
 
 
  Story Tools  
   
  Feature  
  Kidman shuns search for love waiting for Tom  
Advertisement