THE NOUGHTY NINETIES

How the “post-90s generation” has grown up in the new millennium

“90后”是“幸運的一代”，

也是“被坑的一代”;

他们在无数争议中成长，

在种种标签下寻找自我。

如今，他们终于作别青春，

步入成熟……

How many years of avocado toast abstinence does it take to buy an apartment in Shanghai？ In a 60 Minutes interview last May， Australian property tycoon Tim Gurner opined that middle-class indulgences like artisanal snacks and lattes were all that stood between todays young adults and their first home purchase.

As the multimillionaires tirade birthed a million memes， a Twitter user quickly figured out that daily avo-toast avoidance would earn him a “bad house” in Los Angeles in 642 years. But while avocado-based dishes are only beginning to enter Chinese consumers orbits—imports of the fruit grew 16，000 percent between 2012-2016—millennials have long been feeling the squeeze of stagnating incomes and rising living expenses. In 20 of Chinas major cities， the housing price-to-income ratio has risen well above 10：1. Beijing （26.08）， Shanghai （25.48）， Shenzhen （32.44）， Hangzhou （13.43）， and Nanjing （12.36） are among the least affordable cities in the world.

Dai Weijie， a Shanghai college graduate born in 1993， estimates that at his current salary， he needs to work 500 months to buy an apartment in his home city—thats 41 years， half a lifetime. Like many of his peers， Dai worked tirelessly in school， landed a promising white-collar job after graduation—finance in his case—and has parents who saved up his whole life to help him afford a home. But even he isnt optimistic. “After those 500 months，” he says， “housing prices are a lot higher again.”

To their elders who lived through war and famine， and sacrificed individual ambitions to collective dreams， Dais is known as the “lucky generation.” Other than this， there is no real Chinese word for “millennials，” the term that American pop historians coined in the early 1980s for individuals born between the 80s and the turn of the millennium. Though the direct translation is qianxi yidai （千禧一代）， in China， its more common to hear this demographic further broken down： the “post-80s” （balinghou 八零后）， “post-90s” （jiulinghou 九零后）， and “post-00s” （linglinghou 零零后）.

Although separated by only a few years， these generational divides matter. This has everything to do with Chinas extraordinary speed of development since the reform and opening up era. Children of Chinas economically re-stabilizing 90s， and adolescents in the politically confident millennium， the jiulinghou have parents with just dim memories of the Cultural Revolution and who reached adulthood right after the 1978 market reforms. Compared to their “post-80s” predecessors， the jiulinghou grew up with unprecedented access to education， consumer goods， pop culture imports， and of course， technology and social media platforms to link them to the rest of the world （Great Firewall notwithstanding）.

But the drastic and uneven changes to the state， market， and society have also given the jiulinghou whiplash. Unlike the balinghou who came of age before the 2008 financial crisis， and compared to the still-youthful linglinghou， those of the post-90s generation now find themselves in a bind： Surrounded by “new world” goodies， but unable to afford them; straddling the uncomfortable line between new ideals and old values， jiulinghou are coming of age， in a nation both trying to “re-emerge” as a global power and assert certain ideologies it feels are key to its stability and harmony at home.

O

n New Years Eve， 2017， the hashtag， shiba sui zhao （十八歲照）， essentially “me at 18，” began trending on Chinese social media platforms. Sharing photos of themselves at 18， Weibo and WeChat users welcomed the 18th year of the millennium with a nostalgic look back. It was also， noted China Daily， a bittersweet acknowledgement that as of the new year， even the youngest jiulinghou will have become legal adults： The post-90s are putting aside their adolescence， and the post-00s taking it up.

For Chinas post-90s generation， one term used to describe their journey into adulthood is “awkward”—or the Chinese 不三不四， literally “neither three nor four.” A short article on China.com summed up the headaches of the post-90s generation as：

Too early to get married， yet too late to start dating. Play around？ No time. Make some money instead？ Too difficult. Spend money？ None to spend. Too young to socialize with the post-80s， yet too old to hang with the 00s.

“Neither three nor four，” though， is also an apt description for the China into which these newly minted adults graduate， product of an accelerated modernization that took other countries centuries to achieve. “[Our] pressure often comes from the increasingly wider choices of ways to live， as traditional， modern， Eastern， and Western lifestyles are presented to us，” says Song Yu， a jiulinghou journalist residing in Beijing， comparing the travails of his generation to those that came before. “Its hard to foresee the results of our individual choices， which is stressful， compared to the older generations whose lives were partly determined by society and Chinese traditions.”

These traditions often intertwine with economics to create unique challenges—such as the property bubble. “Theres a tradition in China of being ‘settled，” says Song， who finally became owner of his own Beijing property this year. “Even if they have to empty their life savings， even if prices in first-tier cities never fall， any family that is able will choose to buy an apartment.” Renting， in his opinion， “can lead to disputes and trouble，” and his parents， who live in a small city in Shandong province， “literally spent all their savings to cover my down payment， hoping this will reduce the burden of my monthly payments.”

Settling， of course， implies marriage. With home-ownership considered a prerequisite before a couple gets hitched， and marriage before ones 30s a “familial duty，” property becomes the wisest investment in an economically and romantically unstable era characterized by low credit， low trust， “scam marriages，” and a rising divorce rate. In the first half of 2017 alone， 1.85 million couples cut their legal bond， a 10.6 percent increase from the same period the year before.

“Of course， Im happy to own a home，” says Song， “but its more so that my parents can stop worrying.”

Other post-90s， though， have chosen to push back against the traditional， heteronormative expectations of marriage （see “The Gay Activist，” Page 42）， to the extent that the state has begun to fear for its future stability. From the All-China Womens Federations adoption of term “leftover woman” in 2007， describing women still unwed by 27， to the relaxing of the one-child policy in 2016， politics are also conspiring with economic and cultural pressures to push millennials up the property latter.

In 2016， following amendments to the family planning policy， provinces began to remove incentives for “late” marriage—defined， under Chinese law， as men marrying later than age 25 or women later than 23—such as extra days off and bonus pay， out of concern that on average， Chinese were waiting until 25 to get married， according to a National Health and Family Planning Commission spokesperson in 2016.

The states own inertia， though， that has created one hurdle unique to the Chinese millennial： The countrys internal household registration or hukou system， a relic of the planned economy. As of 2016， balinghou and jiulinghou comprised 64 percent of Chinas 254-million strong “floating population，” who do not hold a hukou and therefore cannot access health， education， and other social services in their city of residence—even if they were born there （see “The Worker，” Page 41）.

Song says the Beijing hukou offered by his employer was a “major consideration” when weighing job offers after graduation， the “first step” in his journey to home-ownership. For the rest of the countrys 44 million floating jiulinghou， though， even “reading” their way out of modest hometowns into top colleges and jobs in first-tier cities is no guarantee they can stay.

And for post-90s like Dai， for whom the chips have fallen just right—Shanghai hukou， well-off parents， prestigious job—theres the ennui of simply being at the short end of Chinas neoliberal boom. “For the post-80s，” Dai reckons， “the housing prices [were] not [as] high at the time when they wanted to get married.” Meanwhile， the post-00s seem to have more of a safety net， with parents—many of whom are balinghou—who already started climbing the property ladder.

Indeed， one counterpart to the “lucky generation” label is the “cheated generation.” As one joke goes：

When [balinghou and jiulinghou] were in primary school， university was free; when we entered university， primary school became free. Before we had to buy houses， the state gave them out. They raised the retirement age when we started working; the stock market crashed just as we started buying. And when we thought we could enjoy being adults for a while， the state wants us to get married and have a second child.

In 2015， online variety show Baozou Big Affair added its own punchline to the above： “And were still accused of being ‘the morally degenerate generation by those elders [who] square dance to disruptive music…created pollution， and make tainted foods.”

S

o how much avocado toast does it take to buy an apartment in Shanghai？ Some of Dais peers are no longer interested in finding out. “[Since] the housing prices are too high， some just want to rent，” he relates.

The post-90s have been called out， almost pityingly， for internalizing a culture of deliberate despondency， known as sang （“depressed”）. In the past two years， the subculture had become a trendy IP， spawning “negative energy” milk tea and yogurt brands， icons like the “Ge You Slouch” and Gudetama “Lazy Egg，” and even an anthem—the Rainbow Chamber Singers 2016 viral hit “Feels like My Body is Hollowed Out.” All have found an audience among jiulinghou who respond to seemingly impossible expectations by choosing apathy.

For other millennials， known as “Buddha-like youths” （佛系青年）， conspicuous consumption， social mobility， and even ideals seem like worldly ephemera， when their only objective is living a uneventful and stress-free life. According to a 2017 survey of young Beijingers， the jiulinghou frequent urban “points of interest”—shopping malls， scenic sites， and the like—10 percent less than balinghou. A separate survey of netizens found 宅 （“housebound， reclusive”） as jiulinghous top adjective for themselves， while “surfing the web at home” was the favorite leisure activity， chosen by 62 percent of respondents.

According to Dai， the lack of money is why some of his college friends “dont socialize anymore.” “If you go out for a drink， thats at least 50 yuan; two drinks， 100，” he figures. “If your salary is 6，000 yuan [about average in Shanghai]， if half goes to housing， you only have 3，000 to eat， buy clothes…hang out with friends and go to karaoke or an amusement park. You just stay at home， play computer games， watch online videos， or live streaming.”

Chinese youths may be foregoing public spaces， but arent necessarily abandoning socializing. According to Wu Changchang， a communications professor at East China Normal University， penny-pinching millennial culture has given rise to what he calls an “economy of boredom.” Live streaming， a leisure option born from a lack of time and money to socialize， has become a sophisticated online forum in itself. “About 60 to 70 percent of those who watch live streaming are youths with a monthly income of less than 3，000 RMB，” Wu says. “For most， its simply to kill time， [but] the other major reason is to seek acceptance.”

“A unique feature of live streaming is that the viewer is enabled to engage directly with the performer，” explains Wu. Viewers can buy virtual gifts and vie for a thank you from the performer during the broadcast. “Everyone wants to be accepted in some way—a person from the middle class might turn to buying luxury purses. If you have no money， [you can] live stream.” Millennials， young migrant laborers particularly， use live streaming to redefine what it means to be social when commercial entertainment is out of reach and mainstream media is unsympathetic to their plight.

These passive rebellions against normative achievements and values havent gone without official pushback. As early as 2016， party newspaper Guangming Daily ruled that continuous exposure to sang language “could influence peoples attitudes…and pose a great threat to personal growth and social harmony.” In January 2018， sang content， along with hip hop and tattoos， was banned from broadcast by censors; the following month， another regulation removed dozens of popular live streamers and streaming genres， such as hanmai （“microphone shouting”）， from streaming platforms.

To the post-90s， though， breaking convention can lead to boundless creativity. Fed up with the pressure to land a nine-to-five jobs （not counting overtime）， 74.3 percent of university students report having peers who already created their own start-ups and small and medium enterprises， according to a 2015 study by the China Association of Science and Technology. In a Renren.com survey the same year， 71 percent of university entrepreneurs claimed they started their own businesses to express individuality.

The jiulinghou were behind several apps that have attracted high-profile investments in recent years， from the founders of Baohu Doudou and Zhan.com， devoted （respectively） to sex education and study abroad， to Chen Anni， the artist who turned her comics on Weibo into KuaikanManhua， Chinas top comic-reading platform.

Still others may find alternative pursuits in valuing the importance of the “now，” even if that means foregoing the dream—or duty—of stability， saving， and sacrifice， and instead focusing on personal development， leisure， or traveling abroad （see “The Parent，” page 38）

Ultimately， being jiulinghou means being different; every bit of criticism， praise， and pity for this embattled generation is founded upon some reality of the complex world they are trying to navigate. While its impossible to generalize across Chinas complex and diverse landscape， this much is true： In an era “neither three nor four，” theres opportunity to be both. One can chase property or prospects， as well as order a slice of avocado toast—or even some entirely new item of their own concoction.

THE PARENT

Shenzhen pediatric surgeon Pei Honggang has an alter ego： “Dr. Pei，” an internet celebrity with 900，000 Weibo subscribers whose WeChat essays regularly clock more than a million reads. Under the slogan “Let parents spend less， let children suffer less，” Dr. Pei dispenses simple medical advice and parenting wisdom via essays， live broadcasts， and online consultations in order to take what he calls “scientific child-rearing” into the age of the cloud.

Beijing mother Liu Yan （pseudonym）， 27， describes “smart” parenting via the likes of Dr. Pei as being all the rage for the post-90s. Neither their elders conventional wisdom nor Chinas overburdened hospital system quite cut it for todays young parents. “If our children have a runny nose， the first thing we would do is taking out our phone，” Liu tells TWOC about her generation. “We have our own chat groups， and apps and doctors WeChat accounts that help you really understand， instead of just solve a problem.”

Dr. Pei ruffles conservative feathers with his reservations about Traditional Chinese Medicine or involving grandparents or “maternity matrons” in raising children. However， this increases his popularity with his base， who havent shed their reputation for individualism—or less flatteringly， hedonism—even as they begin to deal with expectations of marriage and family. A 2015 Peking University survey found that the greatest wish of post-90s was “traveling，” selected by over 50 percent of working-age millennials， far ahead of options like career， relationships， and wealth.

In a 2016 survey of 6，000 post-90s mothers by research firm MGCC， around 56 percent selected “loss of personal time” as biggest challenge of parenthood， over “lack of experience，” “lack of money，” or “lack of time due to work.” In terms of where millennials obtain parenting advice， “experts and doctors” and “personal experience” were chosen over family and peers. These unorthodox views havent passed without judgment from the media， which starts regular moral panics about post-90s parents—usually mothers—who take their children along to KTV or live-streaming gigs. In December， 2016， post-90s Weibo users took offense at a series of web comics on parenthood， which had thinly veiled potshots like， “You are an unfit mother if you…like to sleep in…are addicted to your phone…are picky about your appearance.”

Liu has had to defend her own parenting style. “My colleagues were surprised I was old enough to have a child，” she said. Living with her in-laws， however， relieves her of childcare duties during the day. Ji Kangli， a 27-year-old single mother from Hubei province， relies on both sets of grandparents to babysit her son in her hometown while she works full-time in Shenzhen. She says its not an ideal arrangement， but a necessary one given the cost of living and stress of her career： “I must make myself strong before Im able to take care of my child.”

Other young parents find ways to passively rebel. In December， a WeChat essay popularized the term “Buddha-like” to describe post-90s adults who adopt a stoic attitude toward pressure and setbacks， rejecting both the materialism and idealism of earlier generations. The essay quotes one 20-something “Buddha-like parent” saying， “Half my daughters clothes are given by family and friends; some are ugly， but she cant tell anyway”; and “Not every child is born to succeed， so why dont we just give them a happy childhood？”

Liu agrees with these principles， citing her own overscheduled youth. “I want my child to grow up happier， with more freedom of self-expression，” she says， though admits， “The older parents I know say they told themselves that， too， but once their children started school， they felt pressure， and signed their children up for many activities.” Ji is already taking concrete steps， opposing her ex-husbands plan to send their son abroad for kindergarten. They also purchased “education insurance.” “This will pay for his future school fees，” Ji says， “so I can still pursue my own dreams.”

Ji thinks that society is becoming more pluralistic toward parenting： “Everyone makes choices based on their circumstances. Even if Im not with my son， his grandparents love him—isnt that a good environment for a child？” she asks. “I think the post-90s， even in less affluent families， have been a relatively pampered…[and] strong-willed…I can have my own dreams and consider my child at the same time.”

As for what those dreams are？ “Traveling，” Ji replies. “I never left Hubei much while growing up， so one of my goals is to take my child to see the world; we can be together as I achieve my dream.”

- HATTY LIU

THE

BUREAUCRAT

The Propaganda Office of Jiande， Zhejiang province， a mountain town with a population of 500，000， operates an unofficial graveyard shift from 10 p.m.， as netizens around China settled in for a night of browsing.

The shift has a staff of one： Cai Haoyang， aged 26. A government employee in Jiande for the last three years， Cai is seemingly on a quest to make his remote town go viral. A steady trickle of tourists has been coming up the mountains ever since a video of the areas wild cherry blossoms was picked up by Zhejiang TV in early 2017. Since then， Cai has kept the momentum going by offering homes for free to urban investors on Weibo， and being the writer， director， and groom in a mock “water wedding” staged at a nearby fishing village last spring.

Older colleagues praise Jiandes jiulinghou propaganda officer as a true patriot. Cai gave up a prosperous middle-class city life to serve the people， according to a short profile published in his local newspaper. Cai actually had mixed feelings： “In college， I wanted work in a corporation—at Huawei， like many of my classmates，” he tells TWOC. “But my parents wanted me to take the civil service exam.”

According to official data， the competition in Chinas annual qualifying exams for civil servants is at an all-time high： Almost 1.66 million examinees signed up for last Decembers sitting. However， the proportion of withdrawals is also increasing， suggesting that real interest in this career path may be waning. Around 526，000 examinees dropped out in 2017， almost a third of the total registered. A 2016 survey by Shanghai Open University and Fudan University indicated that only eight percent of that years graduating students wanted to become civil servants—a distant fifth choice behind multinationals （23 percent）， entrepreneurship （21 percent）， and private and state-owned enterprises （SOEs; 20 percent each）.

Cai notes that， until last fall， his departments had no other employees of his age： “Its no longer considered a ‘golden rice bowl，” he says， embellishing on the “iron rice bowl” metaphor once applied to stable—if monotonous—state-sector jobs up until the 1990s. Cais generation， however， was born in the decade when many SOEs and government agencies were being dismantled or downsized. In 1992 alone， about 12，000 civil servants left to join or start private companies， while another 10 million took unpaid leave; Guangzhou real estate tycoon Pan Weiming and Liu Chuanzhi， founder of Lenovo， are two who public employees flourished after quitting.

A few young colleagues Cai had at the start of his job have also since quit. “They wanted to realize their dreams，” he says. “Here， work is the same every day. Our generation likes a bit more freedom.” In the 2016 survey， students picked “room for advancement，” “honing ones skills，” and “personal interest” as the top three criteria for choosing a job.

With a scarcity of new blood， government departments try to highlight the idealism of individual “post-90s” hires—Cai aside， theres Wang Xue， an Anhui vice-mayor who takes vintage self-portraits in her towns scenic spots for tourism promotion. Zheng Ruizhen， deputy chief of a Shaanxi county， is nicknamed Chinas “internet celebrity cadre” for her photogenic looks and Peking University pedigree， but cynical commenters point out Zheng got her position through a co-op with her PhD program， and “just stands next to the real official while he makes his rounds.” One post-90s individual， quoted in The Paper， characterized government jobs as not only “boring” but “depressing”： “They create nothing， and face so many restraints and complex relationships.”

In April 2017， while anti-graft drama In the Name of the People was still on air， a purported post-90s civil servant of a rural county made minor waves by blogging that her supervisor had fobbed off a blind man pleading for his benefits， then chastised her for volunteering to help. “Seeing the words ‘To Serve the People on the entrance [of the office]，” she wrote， “I felt extremely bitter.”

Cai is adamant that no such “incidents” have occurred where he works， but admits that part of learning the ropes at his job is finding out what problems he isnt able to solve. “As a young employee， you always wants to achieve things， but the more you do， the more risk there is of mistakes， so you need guidance from more experienced colleagues and leaders. You are their apprentice—for several years you learn how they do things and what to say.”

Although the civil service is no longer a place for idealists—and wasnt even his first choice—Cai still finds it as viable career for his generation. “I do things that are meaningful to society， but also meaningful to me personally，” he says. “Ive been responsible for new media ever since I started working here; Im good at it. Ive had many essays that got tens of thousands of clicks.”

These interests， however， have to take place on his own time—after a long day of driving to meetings and training sessions around the district， drafting official press releases， or being roused at 5 a.m. to perform routine seasonal labor like flood or forest fire-prevention. Cai says hes happy to do it all， at least for now：

“Im young， so I can still handle it.” - H.L.

THE WORKER

It was five days before Spring Festival， but at one Beijing chain restaurant， a whole section of the staff was nowhere to be found. “The ‘post-90s workers have all gone home—only post-70s and post-80s ‘aunties will work during the holidays，” the cashier， a woman in her 30s， explained self-deprecatingly.

Not every demographic hankers after an apartment in a first-tier city or international travel. But for Chinas jiulinghou workers， the “generation gap” is not just a first-world problem. “My parents are farmers...all they want for me is to learn a trade， get a 9-to-5 job in the local prefectural city， and visit home a few times a week，” scoffs Wang Qunhong， a 28-year-old Ningbo saleswoman originally from Jiangxi province. “I preferred to do something with more money and more freedom.”

The stereotypes can cut both ways. Song Yi， documentary filmmaker on Beijings post-90s migrant workers， says the group faces the same condemnations as middle class millennials： “Old workers say young workers cant ‘eat bitterness.”

“[The older generations] views dont match reality，” Wang retorts. Like everything in China， the economic prospects for Chinas internal migrants have changed dramatically since the 1980s， when the first rural workers began to arrive in factories and construction sites after Deng Xiaopings market reforms. According to the National Bureau of Statistics， individuals born after the 1980s are becoming Chinas primary blue-collar workforce， comprising 49.7 percent of the countrys total 2.8 million rural migrant workers as of 2016. Unofficial studies have put the figure as high as 80 percent in cities， like Ningbo.

A joint study by the citys migrant labor office and Academy of Social Sciences estimates that around 18 percent of Ningbos migrant workers are jiulinghou. They congregate disproportionately in the low end of the “tertiary sector”—82.2 are involved in the retail， hospitality， and assorted service jobs—as opportunities shrink in manufacturing and construction， go-to occupations of the previous generation. Compared to these traditional blue-collar sectors， though， wages in the service industry have stagnated.

Chinas jiulinghou migrants remain unfazed. In the Ningbo study， workers chose “expanding ones horizons” （22.5 percent） and “liking city life” （21.2 percent） as their top reasons for migrating， with few putting money first. Employers who were surveyed characterize their jiulinghou workers as higher educated on average—that is， have attended high school—and more demanding of advancement， fair wages， and better working conditions. “Jiulinghou Job-Seekers Require WiFi in the Dorms，” declared a headline of Guangzhou Daily after reporters visited a local job fair.

Wang says it was a combination of boredom and financial need that took her to Beijing and later Ningbo at age 19， after finishing trade school to please her parents. “I felt like I should go ‘out there and challenge myself，” she says. She cycled through various jobs， from nursing attendant to supermarket owner， before discovering one that met all her requirements. “Im in sales now， and the pay is good， I get insurance， and my time is very flexible—theres almost too much free time.”

Other jiulinghou see city life as strategic preparation for the future. At a Hangzhou job fair， Peoples Daily interviewed a jiulinghou who was still jobless on his third visit， having turned down many offers including courier， computer repairs， and warehouse management. “I want to find something that will teach me a skill，” he told the reporter. Twenty-six-year-old Sun Wei， another trade school graduate from Shandong， chose a job in the cafeteria of a major Beijing university， telling TWOC， “I plan to learn English， and then take the IELTS.”

Song says that young workers are more aware than ever of their position in society. “Many are the second， even the third generation of workers in their family. They grown up in the city， have never farmed， yet theyre still treated as outsiders，” he explains. “We call them ‘second-generation migrants.” This became the title of one of his films， in which jiulinghou workers dramatized real-life incidents for the screen. In one scene， the protagonist hosts a large gathering of workers interested in starting an internet business， but as food is eaten and beer is drunk， they fall depressed one by one. “We dont know how to do these things，” one character finally says.

This persistent， generational disappointment is why， in 2014， a series of reports by the Communist Youth League and Peking University identified second-generation migrants as a potential threat to social stability. “Being better educated than the previous generation， growing up in the city， they are more conscious of social inequality，” Peking University professor Lu Huiling， co-author of the reports， explained to China Youth Daily. More resourceful and sophisticated than their elders， jiulinghou nevertheless share with them the burden of their rural hukou.

In the last scenes of Second Generation Migrant， the protagonist scales down his business dreams to open a courier office. “We chose to end with this service profession because its becoming what factory jobs were in the past， a symptom of our present economic development and its contradictions，” Song explained. “A lot of workers ‘class consciousness is going to start from there.” But as the credits roll， the heavy doors of the warehouse slams shut on the workers inside—the success or failure of our protagonists is literally impossible to tell. - H.L.

THE GAY ACTIVIST

Wow！ You look so much like Li Yuchun！ “I get that a lot. All the time，” sighs Xue Ting （pseudonym）， gesturing toward her short， cropped hair. “And Im definitely not the only one. In fact， if youre a ‘T， I guarantee youve been compared to Li Yuchun at some point or another.”

Xue is a 26-year-old aspiring academic and lesbian activist from Shenzhen. Like many other “Ts”—“tomboy” or “toms”—Xues boyish haircut and sleek street style clothing are constantly likened to the Super Girl contest winner， Li Yuchun. “I dont know if its meant to be a compliment，” Xue says with a dry chuckle. But whether or not she welcomes the comparison， Li is among the most important icons for Chinas post-90s lesbians， or lalas.

It was over a decade ago that Li captured the hearts of the 400 million viewers of the televised contest， whose popularity surpassed even CCTVs annual Spring Festival Gala. Though to this day， viewers disagree over her singing and dancing talent， Lis style， consisting of little to no makeup and casual streetwear， produced an unprecedented craze. Her young fans found her unapologetically shuai （帥， “handsome”） and different—and even middle-aged mothers swooned over her “clean” image which， according to Xue， “represented the perfect single child.”

More importantly Li was a key figure for many young girls figuring out their identity in the early 2000s. “Li Yuchun helped lesbians，” Xue says， explaining how her peers used Li as a sort of leverage or conversation primer to come out to their parents. “They would say something like， ‘Mom， since you are a Li Yuchun fan， would you still love her if she did this or did that？ Would you still be a fan if she were a lesbian？” And finally， “‘What if I told you that Im a lesbian？”

Contrary to what some might assume， “it was actually quite easy being a lesbian at school，” says Xue， who began dressing in the T style at an early age， first out of comfort， and later as part of her identity as a queer youth. “I felt no pressure at all; girls would confess [romantic feelings] to me all the time， and I was buddies with all the boys too.” When she attempted “transitioning” to being a “P”—or queer community term for “pretty，” “lipstick lesbian” in Western terms—“some of the boys would say ‘add oil！ to encourage me，” she recalls.

But though Xue experienced acceptance of the T aesthetic， and even same-sex attraction， while growing up， for the adult self， being queer is still an intense negotiation for the personal， public， and political in China. Characterized as “innocent” and “non-polluting” like Li， androgyny is celebrated without discussion of sexuality. Its rare for any public figure to discuss their alternative sexuality; by contrast， in the West， celebrities openly push to change public perceptions of queerness.

There is even a concerted effort to “de-sexualize” queerness， exemplified by FFC-Acrush， an up-and-coming “boy” band thats actually made up of six androgynously styled women. From Li to FCC-Acrush， public figures walk a complicated line between being celebrated for their gender fluidity–or at least， nonconformity—yet treated as almost asexual as a result.

This is a major reason why xinghun， short for “marriages of formality

（形式婚姻），” has become prevalent， especially in areas outside Chinas cosmopolitan cores of Shanghai， Shenzhen， and Beijing. ChinaGayLes， one of the mainlands oldest xinghun matchmaking sites， claimed to have 390，000 registered users as of 2015. Based on matchmaking experiences in Xinjiang， Chinas remote west， the site claims that over 80 percent of queer individuals between 30 and 60 were choosing xinghun.

Among post-90s， though， interest in xinghun is reported to be waning. “A lot of jiulinghou just come out of the closet instead; their ‘post-70s parents…are accepting，” Xiao Jing， a matchmaker， told Xinhua. On Baidus xinghun forum， post-90s users critiqued xinghun as “irresponsible，” potentially harming other queer people， though the OP conceded， “Perhaps I am still young， and my notions are immature and idealistic.” Indeed， in a 2017 survey by the Rainbow Lawyers， an LGBTQ advisory group， 45.9 percent of participants said they chose xinghun out of “family pressure to get married”—pressure that tends to increase as a person ages.

For Xue， these constant and intense negotiations between self and the collective， tradition and individual desires， define her experience of being a young， queer woman in China. Blogging about the emotional turmoil of coming out to her mother， she wrote， “While theres no child who can meet every one of their parents expectations， to hurt your family because of who you are is perhaps the biggest cause of guilt.

“This is why I encourage us to change this societys idea of what love is， so that life for the next generation can be easier， more free.” - LINDA QIAN

YOUTH REFORM

WHEN A GENERATION IS CONVINCED THEY MIGHT BE THE LAST OF THEIR CIVILIZATION， THEY TAKE ACTION—AND SOMETIMES WIND UP BITTERLY DISAPPOINTED

I

n the year 1895， the taverns， inns， and brothels of Beijing were full of angry young men. They were bearded， angst-ridden millennial males a whole century before mass-market craft beers， WeChat， and Reddit.

Theyd come to the capital to fulfill the duty of all young scholars of that time： taking part in the triennial imperial exams. A pass meant access to the highest echelons of office in the emperors service. Only a very lucky few would succeed， their less fortunate peers forced to return to toil in academies hoping for another chance， or else doomed to a career in the penumbra of society： as teachers， secretaries， or managers of family estates.

But 1895 was no ordinary exam year. News of war and defeat had spread throughout the capital： Hostilities over who would dominate the Korean Peninsula had pitted the Qing， then in seeming inexorable decline， against the Japanese Empire， which， since the “restoration” of the Meiji Emperor in 1868， had undergone an ambitious reform and modernization program that threatened to destabilize the balance of power in East Asia.

These young men saw the Sino-Japanese War of 1894-1895， and the humiliating Treaty of Shimonoseki， as an existential crisis which threatened not only their country but its whole civilization. Fifty years of foreign wars， unequal treaties， and devastating internal rebellions had reduced the once-mighty Qing dynasty to a fragile shell， desperately clinging to power in far-flung regions of Asia.

And now， at the turn of the 20th century， new， and even more aggressive nations—Italy， Germany， the US， Russia， Japan—were jockeying for position and territory with the older imperialist powers， England and France. The world was being carved up—would China be next？

Would these “centennials，” in fact， be the last generation of Chinese scholars？

From the jaws of potential cataclysm， these young men were willing to break bad， stretching the boundaries of conventional wisdom and looking beyond their narrow studies of Confucian classics—into the worlds of religion， metaphysics， and world systems—to save Chinese civilization.

Kang Youwei （康有為） was a Cantonese scholar， in the capital for his exams. At 37， a little older than many of his cohorts， Kang was a mentor to some of his fellow provincials and a savagely creative thinker with a not-altogether healthy Messianic complex. He was willing to contort the framework of philosophy as far as necessary to fit his unorthodox worldview.

“Confucius was a reformer of institutions，” Kang wrote， dangerous thinking at a time when a sclerotic Qing court seemed less and less tolerant to those who suggested bold changes. Prior to Kang， a generation of reformers called themselves the “Self-Strengthening Movement”

（洋务运动）， their beliefs articulated by leading statesman Zhang Zhidong

（张之洞）： “Chinese learning for what is essential and Western learning for when it is useful.” Having fought off Christian zealots of the Taiping Rebellion of the 1850s and 1860s， they had then spent the ensuing decades building factories， arsenals， and shipyards with help from foreign experts， and the tacit support of the Qing government.

The self-strengtheners believed in Confucian values but also the importance of new technology. They wanted to update the hardware， but keep the operation system.

Their crowning achievement had been the Beiyang Fleet， an impressive modern navy and the largest in Asia， its twin flagships the German-built Dingyuan and Zhenyuan. And yet this imposing armada was destroyed in just a few months. The Imperial Japanese Navy sank the Zhenyuan and four other ships at the Battle of the Yalu River in September， 1894. A few months later， a Japanese assault at Weihaiwei on the Shandong Peninsula destroyed what was left of the fleet， the Dingyuan， and whatever remained of Qing ambitions to compete with the superpowers.

It was a crippling and humiliating blow to Chinas civilizational prestige. Now younger men would propose more radical solutions.

One of Kangs followers was Tan Sitong （譚嗣同）， an excitable Hunanese man with a fascination for martial arts and religious mysticism. “When Confucius first set forth his teachings， he discarded the ancient learning， reformed existing institutions， rejected monarchism， advocated republicanism， and transformed inequality into equality，” he wrote.

Strong words in opposition to the status quo from a future martyr.

Along with another of Kangs disciples， Cantonese scholar Liang Qichao （梁启超）， Kang， Tan， and other learned young men began drafting a petition for radical reform they hoped would be read by the Guangxu Emperor （光绪帝）.

The young monarch was one of their cohort， they felt. He had been emperor for over 20 of his 24 years， but only recently had his aunt， the Empress Dowager Cixi， allowed him to govern independently of her close supervision. In this changing of the guard behind palace walls， Kang sensed an opportunity.

“Your majesty knows under the present circumstances reforms are imperative and old institutions must be abolished，” Kang wrote in his 1895 petition. “I beg Your Majesty to adopt the purpose of Peter the Great of Russia as our purpose and to take the Meiji Reform of Japan as the model for our reform.”

It would take over three years before Kangs petition would make its way to the hands of the emperor， but in the summer of 1898， these young men—with the idealism and hubris characteristic of every generation—joined forces to change the very nature of the Empire.

For 100 days that summer， between June and September， the Guangxu Emperor and his new advisors Kang， Liang， and Tan issued a dizzying flurry of reform edicts： Modernize the educational system！ Cut dead weights from the bureaucracy！ Reform the military！ Develop national industries！ A national university！ Move the capital！ A constitutional monarchy！

Some of these ideas， such as a national university， were more feasible than others （moving the capital） but almost all the proposed changes upset established interests. A change was needed， but the centennials and the Guangxu Emperor made the rookie mistake of trying too much， too fast.

Opposition coalesced around the Emperors aunt， the Empress Dowager， and in September she returned from semi-retirement amidst the forests and lakes of the Summer Palace to retake control of the government from her wayward nephew. Kang and Liang fled into exile. Tan and five others， including Kangs younger brother， were executed in Beijing.

Kang Youwei would never regain his former influence. His ideas progressed into utopian realms of a Grand Commonality of the human species while his conduct deteriorated. He squandered the donations solicited in support of “saving the emperor.” His former pupil Liang became one of 20th-century Chinas first journalists， although he too matured from a young man seeking to turn the world upside down in 1898 to a sober voice calling for restraint and reform （not revolution） as the Qing dynasty gave way to a new republic.

Perhaps 1898 was a missed opportunity. Antiquated authoritarian governments often face the same challenge： reform and become irrelevant; resist only to be overthrown.

The centennial scholars and their emperor were part of a generation in crisis—one which were loath to stand idle while their whole civilization was taken away by aggressive foreign powers and corrupt politicians. Ultimately， they changed very little， but by first introducing the idea the fundamental problems required bold new thinking， they pointed the way forward for the next generation of revolutionaries and reformers.

- JEREMIAH JENNE