A Letter from a Chinese Peasant to American Peasan...

A Letter from a Chinese Peasant to American Peasant Vance

Dear Mr. Vance,

I hope this letter reaches you in good spirits. Before we dive into the meat of my message, allow me to introduce myself in the most straightforward way possible: I am a Chinese peasant from Xiwengzhuang Town, nestled in the Miyun District of Beijing. Miyun, a remote suburban expanse of the capital city, is renowned for its natural beauty, and my hometown, Xiwengzhuang, sits serenely beside a reservoir to the north of Miyun's urban center. In every sense of the word, I embody the essence of what it means to be a peasant, a label I've worn through the twists and turns of life's journey.

Rewind the clock nearly six decades, and the act of embracing this identity was fraught with pain. It was 1966, a year that plunged my small county, and indeed the entire nation, into a decade-long maelstrom of upheaval. I'm certain you can peruse the annals of Wikipedia to grasp the gravity of that era, but let me share a slice of my personal experience. That year, the Red Little Guards, a youth organization inspired by the fervor of the times, was established in my primary school. As the child of a parent branded as a "capitalist roader," I faced an uphill battle. Yet, after numerous heartfelt applications, I was finally granted the "honor" of joining their ranks. These terms - "Red Little Guards," "capitalist roader" - are relics of a bygone and turbulent time, but they hold the key to understanding my early years.

One particular memory stands out vividly. On the membership application form, there was a section titled "class status." The teacher, in all seriousness, explained that it determined whether one's father was a poor peasant, a middle peasant, a rich peasant, or a landlord. In urban settings, the categories shifted to workers, industrial and commercial households, or capitalists. My parents had previously told me that my father's class status was that of a "hired peasant," the most destitute among the rural folk.

During my two-year stint in primary school, I learned a plethora of Chinese characters pronounced "gu" - "bone," "ancient," "grain," "former," "take care of," "murmur," to name a few. In my youthful naivety, I thought, "Who could possibly be poorer than the peasants of ancient times?" And so, with a sense of misguided logic, I filled in "ancient peasant" in the class status column. Oh, the look on my mother's face when she discovered my blunder! She gave me a sharp slap, exclaiming, "Hired peasant! Do you understand? What in the world is an 'ancient peasant'?" In that stinging moment, amidst the pain and fear, I came to terms with my family's humble, impoverished roots.

It seemed that fate had a peculiar sense of humor. As if my early brush with rural identity wasn't enough, in 1975, I voluntarily applied to be sent to the countryside to live and work alongside fellow peasants. It was a plunge into the very heart of rural life, a crucible that transformed me into a bona fide peasant. Four arduous yet character-building years later, I was fortunate enough to attend university, a ticket that temporarily whisked me away from the fields and farms. But life has a way of coming full circle. After retiring, I found myself drawn back to Xiwengzhuang Town, once again embracing the rhythms and simplicity of rural living.

In 2017, I delved into your book, Hillbilly Elegy: A Memoir of a Family and Culture in Crisis, expecting a poignant exploration of American rural life. Instead, I found myself peering into a world where affluence and chaos coexisted in a rather bewildering dance. While it's undeniable that the living standards in your part of the world tower over ours, it's as if many there have forgotten the value of gratitude, treating their privileges like disposable trinkets.

Your narrative laid bare a personal saga that was nothing short of astonishing. Your mother, a nurse by profession — a role meant to heal and nurture — had descended into a maelstrom of self-destruction: a drug addict, an alcoholic, a sex worker, and a serial bride. It's a tragic tale, to be sure, but what's even more eye-opening is that, according to your account, such troubled souls seem to be a dime a dozen in your community. One can only imagine the void left in your upbringing, with a mother figure who was more a whirlwind of chaos than a source of stability. After all, as the age-old saying goes, a mother is a child's first teacher, and those early lessons often lay the foundation for one's moral compass. In your case, it's no wonder that the storms of your childhood seem to have left their mark.

Contrast that with my own upbringing. I carry with me a deep-seated pride, rooted in the teachings of my remarkable mother. She was a force of nature, a woman whose strength and determination knew no bounds. From the moment I could understand her words, she instilled in me values that would shape my life. "Stand on your own two feet," she'd say, teaching me the importance of self-reliance. "Walk the straight and narrow," she'd admonish, emphasizing integrity. And "never cower in the face of power," she'd encourage, fostering a spirit of courage. She drilled into me the golden rule: the weak are not to be trampled upon, but uplifted. If I had the means, I was duty-bound to lend a hand to those less fortunate. Poverty, in her eyes, was merely a state of circumstance, not a measure of one's worth. What truly mattered was the strength of one's character and the choice to resist the allure of vice and villainy.

Last year, when news broke that you'd joined Trump's campaign team, I actually felt a spark of hope. I thought, here's someone who came from humble beginnings, who witnessed the harsh realities of life up close. Surely, I mused, you could draw on the simplicity and wisdom of your grandparents, those salt-of-the-earth folks, to bring a dose of humility to Trump, whose new-found wealth and power had inflated his ego to gargantuan proportions. I envisioned you as the voice of reason, gently guiding him back to a place of sanity and sensibility. Oh, how wrong I was. Instead of reining in the excesses, you've outdone him. You've embraced a brand of arrogance that's not just off-putting but downright repulsive, a stark contrast to the values you claim to hold dear in your memoir. It's a fall from grace that's as baffling as it is disappointing.

Mr. Vance, you didn't just stop at humiliation — you made a grand spectacle of it. In front of the entire global audience, you took potshots at the President of Ukraine, relishing the spotlight of controversy. But your audacity didn't end there. You turned your venomous tongue towards the Chinese people, casually tossing around the word "peasants" as if it were a badge of honor for you to flaunt your arrogance.

Here's the irony: I wear the label of a peasant or rural dweller with pride. In my book, tilling the land, breathing in the fresh country air, and living close to nature isn't a mark of shame — it's a testament to resilience and simplicity. Yet you, in your so-called sophistication, wielded this word like a weapon, dripping with condescension and malice. Your tone was laced with such haughty disdain, and the subtext was crystal clear: you meant to degrade, to belittle, and to assert some warped sense of superiority. It wasn't just a word of random choice; it was a calculated insult, a blatant display of your lack of basic decency and respect.

In my youth, I embarked on an intense odyssey of exploring European and American cultures, devoting a staggering forty years to the study and application of psychology. Delving deep into Sigmund Freud's theories, I became acutely aware of the profound, almost imperceptible imprint that childhood and one's family of origin leave on an individual. It's as if these early experiences are the invisible strings that shape our thoughts, behaviors, and very essence, often operating beneath the surface of our conscious awareness.

My own upbringing was a testament to the power of family values. In my tenderest years, my mother, a paragon of grace and wisdom, instilled in me the importance of good manners. This isn't just a cultural quirk in our great Oriental nation; it's a cornerstone of our society. From the moment children can babble their first words, they are taught in China the art of respect, the beauty of courtesy. Take Mencius, one of our most revered sages. His timeless words, "Treat the aged of others as one's own aged; care for the children of others as one's own children. Then the whole world can be easily governed," aren't just lofty ideals — they're a blueprint for a harmonious society. Translated into more relatable and easier-to-understand terms, it's about extending the love and respect we have for our own family to every person we encounter. Imagine a world where political policies were founded on this simple yet profound principle; peace and unity would be as natural as breathing.

Which brings me to my request. I earnestly hope you'll share these insights with Mr. Trump. And while you're at it, please do convey to him our age-old proverb: "Those who insult others will always be insulted in return." It's a universal truth, a cosmic boomerang. If you desire respect, you can't go around lobbing insults like confetti at a parade.

Speaking of public figures, it's fascinating to observe the recent evolution of Elon Musk. Once as wild and unpredictable as Trump, he seems to be having a change of heart. On April 7th, he took to social media to share a video of the late economist Milton Friedman. In it, Friedman masterfully deconstructs the magic of international trade, using the humble wooden pencil as a metaphor. Who would have thought that a simple writing utensil could hold the key to understanding global cooperation?

Just two days prior, on April 5th, Musk launched a scathing critique of White House trade advisor Peter Navarro. In a bold move on social media platform "X", he suggested that Navarro's Harvard Ph.D. in economics was more a curse than a blessing, breeding arrogance and blinding him to true wisdom. The same day, while attending an online political event in Florence, Italy, Musk made a grand proposal: zero tariffs between Europe and the United States. His vision? A transatlantic free trade utopia where goods and people flowed freely, unburdened by bureaucracy.

Navarro's response, delivered during a Fox News interview on April 6th, was predictably combative. "Musk doesn't know anything. He's just a car salesman," he sneered. It's a prime example of what happens when egos collide and rational discourse goes out of the window. Colleagues, instead of engaging in calm and constructive dialogue, resort to name-calling and mudslinging. It makes one wonder, Mr. Vance—if you ever find yourself at odds with Navarro, would he dismiss you as "just another sob storyteller"?

Regardless of our differences, I extend my sincere wishes for your health and well-being. After all, even in a world full of squabbles and disagreements, there's always room for a little kindness and goodwill.

Sincerely yours,

A Chinese Peasant
from Xiwengzhuang Town, Miyun, Beijing

This is a direct translation of the original letter written in Mandarin and shared on April 9, 2025.