Peter Hessler’s twenty-five years of encountering China were bookended by two college teaching experiences. As he unplugged from Chengdu in 2021, leaving behind the river of his China time, he couldn’t help but resonate with what the Chinese often say, “everything has changed; nothing has changed.” On the banks of the Yangtze River, he walked side by side with the generation that was tossed into the currents of China’s Reform and Open up, directed by the Sichuan-born Deng Xiaoping and his successors, flowing with high hopes and high risks in the booming economy. A quarter of a century later, the economy stagnates and the future no longer has as much prosperity in store as before, while politics becomes more alienating under the watch of He (Xi)-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named. Bureaucrats are as nervous and panicked as ever in front of the slightest sign of unsanctioned contact with foreign speech and behavior, frozen in the great fear of falling out of the slim path of orthodox thinking into the vast ocean of the incomprehensible, the unknown, and the unauthorized.
In 1996, Hessler joined the Peace Corps to teach in a college in Fuling, a small place in the southwestern province of Sichuan looking over the roaring Yangtze River. River Town surfaced from the torrents of the early Reform era in which uncertainties of individual fates were thrown up in the air as fast as rural lifestyle retreated into oblivion. In 2019, Hessler returned with a year-long contract to teach in the Sichuan University-Pittsburgh Institute (SCUPI), headed by a Taiwanese American, Minking Chyu. This time, he wasn’t a volunteer with no family obligations. His wife, Leslie Chang, and twins, Natasha and Ariel, moved into an apartment in a high-rise building with him.
Hessler watched three generations of Chinese education unfurl in front of him, and also pulled him into the changing tides of its political economy. As a teacher, he couldn’t help comparing his students’ college life twenty-five years apart, conducting annual surveys and curiously observing their aspirations and dilemmas. Meanwhile, his twins’ enrollment in Chengdu Experimental added a third sample of Chinese education. The social and economic classes of the three cohorts of students climbed a sharp slope. The Fuling students were the first rural generation to hunt a way out of poverty; the Sichuan University students mostly came from middle-class families but to their parents, neither the Maoist political struggle nor poverty and hunger was yet a distant memory; Chengdu Experimental posed as an elite grade school founded in the early twentieth century in the blossoming influence of the American educational philosopher John Dewey. Different mixtures of hope, skepticism, and deprivation run through these generations not unlike the Yangtze River rushing through southwestern China, powering the Three Gorges Dam, flooding the riverside towns, displacing the villagers, submerging histories, and leaving uprooted memories wander aimlessly on the banks.
Unlike most China observers from the outside, Peter Hessler is patient and unassuming. He patiently endured the contradictions and navigated the inconsistencies of academic and bureaucratic policies regarding foreign faculty, the middle-level administrators’ fears of both their Party superiors and their students, and the perpetual anticipation of the unexpected, on the street, in the classroom, in assignments, and online. He stood short of understanding everything just like the locals everywhere do, not pretending that he could interpret better than anyone else simply because he was an outsider. Yet, he also almost never misread the larger picture not because he was an outsider, but because he lived there, walked the street, talked to real people, paid attention to the details of how things worked, and connected the dots.
Commenting on the rapid building of a teacher foundation nationwide in the 1990s, Hessler noted: “Back then, nobody spoke of algorithms, but clearly there had been some kind of large-scale calculation. By identifying bright rural kids and providing them with training that was both narrowed and accelerated, the government produced primary-school teachers who were fully licensed by the age of eighteen.” It is neither mystification nor grand claim.
At times, Hessler would meticulously contextualize the most common terminologies that could only be done by someone who not only spent time in, but carefully thought through, two worlds and two temporalities conditioned in different historical landmarks. One would easily fall for the universality of the concept of “generation,” but Hessler sensed its different manifestations in differing national narratives and the momentum of temporal progression. The defeat of George W.H. Bush as a member of the Greatest Generation by Bill Clinton, a Boomer, cannot be mapped onto the Chinese leadership’s age cohort. “The country’s direction can be shaped by individual leaders—those godlike figures—but they aren’t representatives of a specific era or age cohort. The gods are of the Party, and the Party is outside of time.” Like an experienced traditional Chinese physician, Hessler measured the pulse of both countries, sensing the whole cosmo-body across scales and not stumbling over a regional pathology.
From 1996 to 2021, China baffled the world with the combination of liberated economic growth and unbudging political grip post-Tiananmen. This seeming contradiction quite ironically revealed the compatibility—rather than the incompatibility that is commonly believed—between economic liberalism built on sufficiently educated masses and authoritarian control, if one is willing to look into the history of colonialism and neoliberalism. It also revealed some internal logic of surviving in fantastical dystopias, exercised compellingly by the youth population that Hessler had two chances to read closely with a literary incisiveness. “The system’s schizophrenic qualities—increased educational and economic opportunities on one hand, narrowing political space on the other—produced young people who were themselves a study in contradictions: the George Orwell fan who dreams of Chinese tech, the Gabriel García Márquez magical realist who hopes to work in automotive engineering.”
Hessler’s own status as a faculty member, not a journalist, also stepped on the thin ice of relative political tolerance. Unsurprisingly, he was an easy target of nationalist trolls. What would simply be an activity of genuine curiosity, such as observing the covid campus where a little robot rolled to student dorms with food delivery, could easily trigger the alarm of espionage. Yet, blanketing as surveillance and censorship could be, as well as a growing number of student informants of class contents, bureaucracy was too rigid to properly respond to situations of nuanced tensions, such as curiosity and learning beyond the written and unwritten guidebooks. Hessler realized that “within the bureaucracy, I was somewhere between different silos, and there was always a chance that nobody would do anything.” “If there is no guide, there is no road” is the motto of institutional conduct that has persisted, until amnesia saves everybody from the trouble of remembering.
Since the guidebooks for censorship and punishment are vague and tacit, rather than formal, it’s never clear what an institution remembers and what it chooses to turn a blind eye to, forget, and forgive, when it comes to student disobedience. College students’ disobedience exists but hardly mounts to political resistance, a trouble too costly to be practical. In their assignments for Hessler’s nonfiction class, Sichuan University students skirted the borderline of the university’s bureaucratic prohibitions to visit the “outlaws”, the invisible populations, and the shadows of the city and countryside where journalism becomes a sensitive activity: gay bars and bathrooms, “a cosmetic surgeon who was doing facelifts at a large clinic,” a warehouse for Taobao subsidiary, or the American Airlines Gym that had nothing to do with American Airlines. On the locked down campus where students could only swipe in and not out, the ones hungry for off-campus food and strolling found the the spots that the university’s security camera couldn’t reach and gave a physical rendering of “climbing over the wall,” an originally digital activity to get over the Great Firewall with Virtual Private Network (VPN) to access foreign server and websites. Neither wet paint nor a human guard could stop the reversed evolution of the digital age. The university eventually gave in, but the students’ battle with the wall remained loyal to the “private” terrain, and never an organized collective event. Yet, as has been proved time and again, a bit of disorganization yields the best chance to survive the harsh attention of the authorities.
Hessler saw first-hand the creativity of Chinese citizens surviving the pandemic, from the “idle chatter, intergenerational passive-aggression, and low-grade rumor-mongering and conspiracy-theorizing” of the four-generations-under-one-roof quarantine life streamed live in the virtual classroom populated with faceless names with a “Sino-Dickensian flair,” to the flourishing sports businesses on Amazon in the US with brand names sounding like etymological puzzles and under-market-rate prices. Watching domestic Chinese businesses cautiously coming back to life from intolerably strict isolation in fall 2020, Hessler read the street, the city, the country, and the people with more empathy than most foreign observers: “Even some of the Kafkaesque moments were part of what made China human.”
Hamlet may have spoken in Hessler’s voice: time felt out of joint. “That spring, there were two types of time: the slow, predictable progression of the academic term, and the rapid explosion of the virus into the world.” Hessler’s twins avoided a prolonged period of remote schooling as their American peers did. Their Chinese peers, born in the late 2000s, are no longer the single-child generations. The Chinese nation needs more people as the population plummets. But their parents’ situations in life, career, assets, and prospects can’t be more different, Of the great dispersion of the Reform that passes down from one generation to the next, from those who went to college in the 1990s to those in the 2020s, Hessler took a good glimpse in the reproduction stories: “All one-child families are alike, but every two-child family has the second child in its own way.” The warmth of a writer, a human being, trails after this observation. That’s Peter Hessler.
What Hessler related in Other Rivers would have been our own alternative reality, had my partner accepted the offer from Minking Chyu to teach at SCUPI in the spring of 2020, where we were stuck in Los Angeles. Hessler sat on the search committee. This near realization—or maybe narrow escape, depending on your perspective—would only attest to Hessler’s wisdom that “When people traveled across the Pacific in hopes of combining the two traditions, they almost never came away with what they had expected.” A few months after the SCUPI interview, we moved across the country, the opposite direction from China, and landed in Burlington, Vermont. Our new job brought us to John Dewey’s birthplace. His old house is one block away from our campus. For two scholars of educational philosophy, this felt like a call. The international education part of our job brings students from Vermont to Asia to practice the Deweyan experiential learning. While the China program sunsetted at the beginning of the pandemic, there is still hope that it will rise above the horizon again, though the wait can be a little long now. We never know what is in the next chapter of the US-China relation, but there are still things to do, and relationships to make, sometimes in a strategically disorganized way.
“During my sunnier moments,” Hessler wrote, “I thought of this as the last bulwark of U.S.–China friendship. The Peace Corps was gone; the Fulbright program had ended; the consulate was closed; most American journalists had been expelled; there were essentially no more functioning exchange programs in China. But at least some Chinese artists were painting dead Americans and their dead dogs”—referring to the emerging business of acrylic portraits. Don’t people always find a way to connect, for entrepreneurial or personal reasons, when the systems grind to a halt? The disobedience of the national narrative and temporality is not so much a politically performative one as an economic one, including the economy of family, the need to live on. Coming to terms with contradictions and paradoxes is the way to live on. Peter Hessler’s family’s departure from China was precisely that, no matter how much political drama journalists the west tried to attach to it. The twins climbed the store roofs on the Uncompahgre Plateau in Colorado without dropping the battle with Chinese math problems.