Defining Manhood in China and America

In America, masculine stereotypes are easy to spot.

Photo by Brad Kinney, 2006

Being a man is rocking a six pack (beer or abs will do), scoring chicks, driving a nice car - generally showcasing your independence while masking any sense of vulnerability.

Ironically, even though we're sitting on the couch gaining weight as we watch them, Americans worship the Jack Bauers and James Bonds of the world, those heroes who can kill a man with their pinky as quickly as they can get a lady to go to bed with them.

While we err on the side of bullet-proof bravado, Chinese society seems to expect a softer man. In traveling to the country over the past eight years, I've met many demure guys with wet-fish handshakes and designer man purses. In educational and social gatherings, I've seen men stay in the background while the more outgoing girls steal the spotlight.

A New York Times article today discussed how boys are being left behind in China's education system. Girls in urban areas, perhaps thumbing their noses at society's preference for sons, are outpacing their male counterparts in a variety of subjects and on the all-important gaokao, or college entrance exams.

Tasked with carrying on the family name, boys in China are squeezed by the pressures of growing up as "little emperors."

On one hand, they're coddled. But the investment in their development raises the entire family's expectations for their future. Immense pressure to achieve leads to countless hours of study starting at a young age. With all this on your shoulders, who has time to ponder things like masculinity?

Apparently, 16-year-old Wan Zhongni does, and he's not liking what he's seeing.

“I should have used my free time to play sports, to play basketball. I think I lack masculinity. I need to improve," the NYT article quoted him as saying.

The piece goes on to enumerate reasons for the gap in male/female performance, but I couldn't get past the honesty and uncertainty in his statement: "I think I lack masculinity." How many of us could say the same thing?

It struck me that whether it's Chinese guys spending days immersed in Internet games or Americans collecting tattoos, deer heads or polo shirts, their problem is the same: Manhood in each culture is a moving target. No one is defining it, and few men in either society are inviting boys into a higher calling for their masculinity, which should be focused on submission to God and sacrifice for neighbors.

Where are the Chinese fathers? Many of the rich send their kids off to the best schools, while the poor go to find work in the cities, leaving their sons to be looked after by grandparents in the villages. Divorce isn't as prevalent as in the U.S., but Chinese families are practical. They will split up if it means better careers and more money for kids' education and parents' care.

Where are the American fathers? Many are parked in front of the TV, while some sit staring at computers in the offices where they spend 60-plus hours per week. Others left minutes after their child was conceived and never came back.

In America, it's well-documented that kids from fatherless homes are more likely to commit crimes and drop out of school. Many Chinese are worried that their country is losing its moral compass and sliding into materialism.

In both countries, it's going to take men defining manhood for boys like Wan Zhongni to avoid rough sailing ahead.

For a clearer view of manhood, read "Making Men: Five Steps to Growing Up" by Chuck Holton, which I edited. I've also found the teachings of Robert Lewis helpful. They're encapsulated in the book "Raising a Modern-Day Knight". 

Debtors to History

What makes me who I am?

I've been wrestling with that question over the past few years.

As I approach the age at which my father died, and I've had a growing urge to know my history, the story before my story began. I want to dig deep, to unearth the roots of my family tree like a curious scientist seeking an elemental glimpse at what made its fruit grow.

When I was in Mongolia last year, I had a chat with U.S. Ambassador Jonathan Addleton about his memoir. I had ample time to read it on a 30-hour train ride from Beijing to Ulaanbaatar, the Mongolian capital. As I flipped the pages, I was struck by how deeply he understood his family history and how he  relayed vivid stories of events that happened before he was born.

The key to getting such detail, he said, was humility - a deep respect for how the lives of his forebears laid the path for his own and how his experiences seemed to afford him advantages for each new stage. His upbringing in Pakistan gave him an international outlook. The zeal of his missionary parents solidified a strong sense of faith. His journalism degree helped him communicate better than many of his peers. He was, in his own words, a debtor to history, barely able to take any credit for his own accomplishments.

I can see the same pattern in my life. As much as our American mindset tells us that we are masters of our own destiny, and though our faith reminds us of the truth that we were customized in our mother's womb, we can't really understand ourselves if we don't tip our hats to what happened before and beyond us.

Maybe this is real to me because my father's absence has shaped my journey probably as much as his presence would have. In a strange way, I've been guided by lacking his guidance. I have searched for my Father because my father wasn't there. I've been driven to understand manhood because there was always a missing piece in mine. Some call this fate. I call it grace and providence.

In some Asian cultures a person's role in the family defines his identity. There's a piece of universal truth to this. We're all letters on the pages of a great novel, forming words and sentences that make a story when bound together. Without context we're nothing. With an author we're captivating.

It can be maddening not knowing what's on the next page, but I take comfort in being connected to the plot. My debt to history is one I'm glad to leave unpaid.

Please Help Send Me to Taiwan!

If you know me or have read this blog for even a few days, you've probably noticed my passion for China.

This love was first stirred up during four trips to the Middle Country in college. Each was a unique adventure, whether traversing the dusty deserts of Xinjiang province or teaching English in remote villages in tropical Yunnan. But for me, one common thread made them all a joy: Brad Kinney.


Brad is one of my best friends. Throughout our time at the University of Georgia, we had some crazy experiences in Asia and Central America - facing repeated interrogation by Chinese border guards and hiking across a former Panamanian prison island in the Pacific, to name a few. We also had a few quirky schemes here at home, including a (successful) quest to win free flights by diving in Wendy's dumpsters.

Now, we have a chance to return to East Asia as a team for the first time since graduation. But we can't do it alone.  We're not asking for money; we simply want one minute of your time for each of the next 10 days.

Here's the deal: We've entered a photo contest in which the top three vote-getters on a Taiwan government website will be sent on an all-expenses-paid trip to Taiwan. The contest lasts from Nov. 21-30. We believe we have a good shot at winning with a little help from our friends. Will you commit to voting once per day for us? 

If so, please post YES on the wall of our Facebook group or email me so that we can send daily reminder messages. We will only send one message per day. The messages will stop either by Nov. 30 or whenever it becomes evident that we have no chance of winning, whichever comes first. 


In the meantime, please follow the below instructions to vote. It literally takes less than one minute: 

1) Click this link: http://activity.taiwan.gov.tw/twfriends/SayHelloToTaiwanFBList.aspx?cword=U&cid=198&tid=123
2) This is our team page, "Flying Tigers - Happy Birthday, Republic of China.' Click the green Facebook 'Like' button.
3) Click 'Login with Facebook.'
4) Click 'yes' to Facebook integrating with the site. *Note that this will not post any activity to your wall.
5) Enter your email/phone number and security code (this info, from what I understand, will only be used to notify the daily voter prize - yes, you are entered by voting). Click 'OK'.
6) YOU HAVE VOTED! WE ARE ONE STEP CLOSER TO TAIWAN!!!
7) Repeat when you receive our daily email reminder.


Thanks for your help! We are already No. 3 in the U.S. and climbing, but it's critical that we move into the top 10 in the world today, especially while our competitors in Asia are sleeping!  

Stop Waiting on the World to Change

It's a friendly sounding little tune, but simmering under the catchy melody is a sinister message.

Though I'm mostly a fan, John Mayer's "Waiting on the World to Change" has always irked me. It's not just the sound of the song (though I hate those bells used in the intro and interludes). It's the lyrics.

I would ask if you've heard the song, but I'll assume that you've turned on a radio in the last three years. On the surface, it's a protest against against the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, a cry of frustration from a generation that's misunderstood and exasperated with stubborn leaders and a perceived powerlessness to effect change.

The sentiment seems right on target, especially as our legislators butt heads over raising our national debt ceiling. How can We the People be blamed for the polarized political system we've inherited? Maybe we should just hold on until the crisis passes, like an earthquake or a seizure. Maybe we should just wait, and the world will heal itself.

But listen a little closer and you'll hear the problem with the song. It subtly permits us to do nothing, assuming our efforts will be futile anyway. It's classic ostrich mentality, where passivity becomes a form of self-righteous protest.

Though the song presents it in a government-citizen context, I think waiting on the world to change has become a guiding personal philosophy for many. We see it in the erosion of responsibility in our country as more people rely on the government to meet their needs, their entitled mind telling them all the while that this is the way it should be. 

Even worse is the way it has seeped into men's lives. I need look no further than the mirror for evidence. I'm often waiting on my job, marriage, faith, Chinese language ability or any number of aspects of my life to change, rarely recognizing that if I would just do something about it, they probably would.

We live in a spoiled generation - at least I do. Pessimists will disagree, pointing out issues like global warming and the fact that last year's doomsday recession still has some people checking the unemployment rate like it's the weather.

Still, think of the progression our fathers and grandfathers faced: World Wars I and II, the Great Depression, the Korean War and Vietnam. They knew real crises; we often melt down at the slightest inconvenience.

This is neither American nor manly nor Christian. Men take responsibility, even when it's not their fault, knowing that ownership of the problem gives them the ability to fix it. Christian men don't lament that the world is going to hell in a hand basket. They dive into the fire to keep the basket from burning. We must reclaim that spirit.

Start today. Whatever the problem is - family, finances, career - become the solution. Stop waiting on your world to change. Change it yourself.

Puerto Rico on Four Wheels

The motorcycle zipped past, riding the dotted center line that separated my rental car from the one just a few feet into the next lane. My wife gasped. We looked at each other, eyes wide, then wondered aloud why someone would risk his life to show off for motorists he doesn't know or shave a few seconds off his commute.

I would say we couldn't believe it happened, but after a few days of driving in Puerto Rico, it wasn't much of a stretch.

I was warned that driving would be an adventure in the island territory, and we weren't disappointed. Along with the motorcycle fiasco in San Juan, we were trailed by an old clunker in Isabela that rode our bumper for miles, beeping fanatically until we finally pulled over to let him pass. 

Generally, driving in Puerto Rico isn't stressful if you see it as an exercise in cultural adaptation. Just as you reset your watch in a new time zone, you have to learn a different brand of road etiquette when entering a new place, even if the traffic laws are the same. Here are a few rules that I learned while urging my gray, four-cylinder Kia Rio up near-vertical hills in the rainforest and across freeways spanning the island from east to west:

Our Kia Rio in Pinones. 

1. Yellow lights mean speed up. Traffic lights rigged with cameras don't seem to have made their debut in Puerto Rico.

2. Drag racing is permitted (perhaps encouraged) in parking decks.

3. The crowded, brick-paved streets of Old San Juan could hold the world parallel parking championships. Extra points are awarded for moving trash cans to open up spots that obviously aren't big enough for your car.

4. Dents in the island's ubiquitous Toyota sedans are more like scars on a warrior than blemishes on a maiden. These show that the car has taken on Puerto Rican traffic and lived to tell about it.

5. Exceeding the speed limit while going backwards on a dead-end street is OK, as long as the other cars frantically move out of the way.   

6. If you are an outsider, you must rent a Kia Rio, a Jeep, or a Toyota FJ Cruiser sport utility vehicle. 

Perhaps the biggest driving rule could be borrowed from a mob boss's manual: If you want something, you just have to take it, whether a U-turn that would make your driver's ed teacher cringe or a better spot in line at the red light. A little bit of offensive driving helps earn your street cred, showing other cars that you will nose yourself into that lane, no matter how loudly their horns protest.

A tunnel of trees driving east from San Juan.

The surge of confidence this brings is amazing. I quickly learned to honk while rounding narrow, blind curves in the rainforest. I slowed to miss iguanas in the road and accelerated through yellow lights. I even began converting kilometers to miles, a skill that evaporated again as soon as I arrived back in Georgia. (In Puerto Rico, distances are measured in kilometers, though speed limits are in miles per hour.)

In some ways, I would've liked to have better public transport options, even those that are less than official, like Panama's red-devil buses or the makeshift cabs I hailed in Mongolia. But this was my first time driving abroad, and it felt freeing. Our exploration wasn't limited by train or bus schedules, and a $3 map from Walgreens was the only ticket we needed to access this scenic and photogenic 90- by 30-mile world.  As the concierge at our first hotel said, you can never get lost. On this island, you'll always know where you are. You're in Puerto Rico.