Consider the Rangoon
The Era of Philanthrocapitalism
Over the past few weeks, I’ve heard the following sentiment expressed so many times I am convinced it has become a campus catechism—to go into finance or consulting is to “sell out,” to smother the soul of the budding scientist or diplomat we believe dwells in each of our deepest heart of hearts. To be noble at Harvard is to go to med school, join the Peace Corps, or sign up for a two-year stint at Teach For America. My aim in this editorial is to convince you that this narrow conception of a “good” career and the dichotomies we construct between noble and ignoble paths are not only unfounded but opposed to the trajectory of social progress.
Let’s first take a look at where the dominant attitude on campus comes from. The answer is obvious: 2008. The financial crisis took place during what was for most of us at Harvard College now our “formative years.” Consequently, we are disposed to think of bankers and hedge fund managers as the primary villains in the cosmic struggle of Wall Street versus Main Street.
Farewell My Chop Suey
The wave of gentrification that has swept Harvard Square over the past year has been nothing short of remarkable. Since last spring we have seen at least four versions of arguably the same restaurant—Tatte, Flour, Sweetgreen, and Clover—crop up in the busiest parts of the Square. One newcomer that you might have missed is called Tom’s Bao Bao—a Chinese bao shop located next to Shake Shack that opened quietly over the summer.
At first, Tom’s Bao Bao looks like just another one of the new wave of Made-for-Instagram eating establishments that have taken over the Square, complete with a cool SquareSpace website and stratospheric markups. Until you think back to all of the Chinese restaurants you’ve encountered in your life and realize that you’ve never, ever seen anything like it before—upmarket and trendy, after all, are not words typically associated with places serving Chinese food. Tom’s Bao Bao is as far as it gets from trapezoidal take-out boxes and lunch specials. So how did we get here? When I look out into Harvard Square, I see three Chinese restaurants that, together, tell the story of Chinese immigration into America in three parts.
Exploring Huang’s World
At this point, the Asian-American family sitcom Fresh Off the Boat is pretty old news. The show came out three years ago, garnered a lot of critical acclaim, and generally did better than you might expect a show with an all-Asian American cast to do. More interesting than the show itself, however, was the emergence of the man behind the show—or, rather, the man behind the critically acclaimed memoir behind the show. His name is Eddie Huang, and he is a loud, somewhat vulgar ex-lawyer-turned-celebrity-chef who loves hip-hop, sneakers, and authentic Chinese food. When Eddie Huang became famous, people called him the representative of a new wave of Asian Americans. Meanwhile, Eddie once said in a Slate interview that he prefers to refer to himself simply as a “big dick Asian.”
At first, it was a little difficult for me to relate. When Eddie Huang crashed the party, I was just a senior in high school, working diligently to become the best model minority I could be. At the time, I didn’t really have the bandwidth to worry about the things that Eddie wrote about: higher-order needs, like belonging and Asian self-actualization. And one evening, while I was with my family, one of his interviews came on the television and my parents clucked their tongues with disapproval. None of us knew what to make of him—this egg-shaped, verbally aggressive man who laughed way too loudly and wore clothes we’d never seen another Chinese person wear. Certainly no one in my entire extended family resembled this guy in any way. I considered the possibility that Eddie Huang was just too ahead of the curve for us to “get it,” kind of like when the first iPhone came out and it only had one button.
Strange Tales from Sanlitun:
Here in the civilized world
Stranger events by far occur,
Than in the Country of Cropped Hair;
Before our very eyes
Weirder tales unfold
Than in the Nation of Flying Heads
-Pu Songling, Preface to “Stealing a Peach”
Letter from the Motherland
A friend of mine once pointed out that when white people move to other countries, they’re considered expats, but when anyone else does it, they’re just immigrants. I remembered his words years later as my plane touched down in Beijing Capital International Airport. I would be there for the next two months, working at a nonprofit and practicing the language. My friend’s observation left me pondering a difficult question: As a Chinese American “coming home” to my motherland, what was I?
The first weekend made this question complicated. On Saturday night, all of the American college students flocked to the foreigner-dominated Sanlitun bar district. One favorite evening haunt, Elements Club, advertised the following deal: 100 RMB cover charge, but free if you were a “laowai” (foreigner).