Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Notes
Suggested Readings
Index
Preface and Acknowledgments
In July 1960, I sailed across the Pacific Ocean from San Francisco to
Taiwan with my parents and sister. After a calm and pleasant
voyage, with a stop along the way in Japan, we disembarked at the
port of Keelung on a hot, steamy day and drove for an hour to the
capital city of Taipei where we would live for the next two years. I
was nearly fourteen and it was my first encounter with anything
Chinese.
The United States had diplomatic relations and a defense treaty
with the Republic of China (ROC) on Taiwan, and my father, an
Ordnance Corps Army officer, was assigned to the US Military
Assistance Advisory Group (MAAG). Chiang Kai-shek, who had lost
the civil war to the Communists a decade earlier, made speeches
about recovering the mainland, but no one seemed to take his words
seriously. While still under martial law, the island nation, some ninety
miles off the Chinese mainland, was a poor, sleepy, peaceful
backwater in those days.
That experience in Taiwan, where I attended Taipei American
School, made me wonder about the People’s Republic of China
(PRC), a land shrouded in mystery that we could only see from a
hillside on the Hong Kong side of its border. It made me curious
enough to pursue Chinese studies as an undergraduate at Harvard,
one of the few US schools offering that option in those days. “That’s
very interesting,” my mother said when I announced my major, “but
what are you going to do with it?” She was asking a serious question
because there were so few China-related jobs. I simply trusted that
something would work out.
Yet it was only after college, after serving in Vietnam with the US
Army, that my curiosity became more purposeful. The people of
South Vietnam feared communism—many of them had escaped from
the North—but their government’s alliance with the United States
undermined their claims to independence and nationalism. Reading
Bernard Fall’s books about Ho Chi Minh’s defeat of the French in
1954 made it painfully clear that the United States, perceived as
another colonial power, was repeating the same fatal mistakes. The
tragic result of our leaders’ ignorance of Vietnam, a war fought as a
proxy against China, was a wake-up call for me. Understanding our
fraught history in Asia had become more than an abstract intellectual
exercise.
My timing was fortunate. During my graduate school days at
Stanford, US-China relations began to improve with the advent of
ping-pong diplomacy and President Nixon’s historic trip to the
People’s Republic. I returned to Taiwan—the mainland was still off-
limits—for Chinese language study and research on a Fulbright-Hays
Scholarship. After receiving a PhD in history, I landed a job in New
York with the Asia Society’s China Council, a national public
education program, led by Robert Oxnam, that connected with
American scholars, journalists, businesspeople, and community
leaders to provide balanced information on the PRC. Public interest
was strong, but there was still a dearth of knowledge; we had yet,
for instance, to realize the extent of devastation during the Cultural
Revolution.
My first trip to mainland China, in December 1978, coincided with
a major shift in the geopolitical landscape. I was escorting a small
group of Americans, members of the National Committee on US-
China Relations, on a three-week tour of several cities, starting in
the north and ending in the south. On our final day, during a visit to
the Huadong Commune on the outskirts of Guangzhou, I tuned in to
Voice of America on my shortwave radio and listened to President
Carter announcing that the PRC and the United States would
establish full diplomatic relations. Our Chinese hosts were thrilled by
the news and considerable toasting and drinking followed.
Normalization, as it was called, ushered in a hopeful new era in Sino-
American relations.
Now that the People’s Republic was opening up to Americans, I
accepted an offer from the Yale-China Association, directed by John
Starr, to represent its programs in Hong Kong and China. My wife
Ellen and I arrived with our two young sons, Bryan and Colin, at
New Asia College at the Chinese University of Hong Kong (CUHK) in
the summer of 1981, our home base for the next three years.
Everyone was concerned about Hong Kong’s transition from British
control to Chinese sovereignty, scheduled for 1997, but with the
Sino-British Joint Declaration signed in December 1984, Beijing
reassured the world that it would be a smooth process. The city,
while not a full-fledged democracy, had a strong legal and judicial
system, freedom of speech, and freedom of the press—rights that
were absent on the other side of the border. Under a policy of “one
country, two systems,” Beijing would assume responsibility for
foreign affairs and defense, but Hong Kong could maintain its own
way of life as a special autonomous region for at least fifty years
after the handover in 1997.
In addition to teaching and managing various projects at CUHK, I
was responsible for overseeing Yale-China’s programs with Xiangya
Medical School in Changsha and with Huazhong University and
Wuhan University in Wuhan, relationships that had been restored
after a thirty-year absence. On one occasion, some of the young
Americans teaching English in Wuhan were accused of being spies. I
quickly went there to meet with our Chinese colleagues, who soon
put an end to the harassment. It was a distressing experience for
the Yale-China teaching fellows and was a potent reminder that
suspicion of the United States still ran deep. It also drove home the
fact that the success of any American venture depended on having
supportive Chinese partners.
In 1984, my family and I moved from Hong Kong to New York,
where I joined the staff of the Henry Luce Foundation. Founded by
Henry R. Luce, publisher of Time and Life magazines, who was born
to missionary parents in China, it was chaired by his son Henry Luce
III and led by Robert Armstrong. The foundation’s Asia program
supported the creation of resources—language teaching, library
materials, fellowships, faculty positions, policy studies, cooperative
research, and cultural and scholarly exchange—to increase America’s
capacity for understanding East and Southeast Asia. Much of my
work centered on building cultural and scholarly ties between the
United States and China. In addition to trips to the PRC, my travels
also took me to Cambodia, Laos, Indonesia, the Philippines, Taiwan,
Thailand, Singapore, Vietnam, Japan, South Korea, and North Korea.
Of these journeys, the most unforgettable was a trip in the spring
of 1989 to review some of the Luce Foundation’s grants. I flew from
Hong Kong to Beijing on May 29 and after checking in to my hotel
took a taxi to Tiananmen Square where thousands of students had
been protesting against the Chinese government for weeks. Red
banners with university names were stretched above their tents and,
after finishing evening meals, they were lounging about playing
cards, writing in their diaries, talking with passers-by. A few of them
asked me, “What do the people of America think about what we are
doing?” “Are you allowed to have protests in America?” “Do you
think we can succeed?”
Loudspeakers broadcast a steady stream of statements from the
protest leaders, interspersed with music, including a new democracy
song from Hong Kong. Food, drink, and popsicle vendors were doing
a brisk business. I wrote in my journal, “Here and there are piles of
discarded jackets and clothing for cooler weather, donated by the
citizens of Beijing. There is a good deal of litter and occasional piles
of garbage, but for the most part it looks like organized disorder.
Visitors are taking photos of themselves in front of the tents and
banners. The students seem terribly idealistic, committed,
determined, and cheerful.”
Late that night, a thirty-foot “Goddess of Democracy” built by
students at the Central Academy of Arts was brought to the square
on four flat carts and plastered together on top of a wooden
platform. After it was unveiled early the next morning, directly facing
Mao’s giant portrait on the entrance to the Forbidden City, thousands
of people flocked to Tiananmen to have a look. “You have your
Statue of Liberty in America,” a man said to me, “and now we have
ours here in China.” The government labeled it “an insult to
socialism” and demanded that it be taken down. With a sense of
foreboding, I left Beijing for a flight to Tokyo and Los Angeles on the
morning of Saturday, June 3. That night, the non-violent protest
movement was suppressed with brutal military force and the statue
was toppled and destroyed.
I was disturbed, perplexed, and concerned about the future. Had
young Chinese been misled into believing that American-style
democracy could be accepted by a communist regime? What
principles would guide US-China relations after the Tiananmen
debacle, which China’s leaders blamed on the “black hand” of the
United States? Were we destined to live through never-ending cycles
of suspicion and distrust, or would it someday prove possible for
Chinese and American interests and values to converge? The
relationship between the United States and China has waxed and
waned in the years since, but questions like these persist, questions
that have led me to write this book.
Misunderstanding China
Neither in 1957 nor in 1971 did the Americans who visited China
have any idea of what to expect. Most knew little beyond popular
stereotypes of the day: the diabolical Dr. Fu Manchu, the clever
detective Charlie Chan, the peasants of Pearl Buck’s The Good Earth,
and the adventures of comic strip characters in Milton Caniff’s Terry
and the Pirates. Chinese Americans, few in number and concentrated
mainly in San Francisco and New York Chinatowns, were the subject
of curiosity, suspicion, and disdain. China was mysterious and
captivating, fearful and foreboding. A jumble of contradictory images
oscillated between admiration and contempt, brilliantly documented
in Harold Isaacs’ book Scratches on Our Minds and Irv Drasnin’s film
Misunderstanding China.11
Beyond such clichés, there was a more serious, equally persistent,
liberal dream for China, rooted in the Christian missionary
movement, which had given birth to the belief that the United States
had an obligation to share its version of prosperity with the rest of
the world. During the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries,
China was by far the most exciting and compelling destination for
American missionaries, including a sizable number of single women
who had few opportunities for professional employment beyond
teaching and nursing. They went not only to share the Gospel but
also to build schools and hospitals and to provide social services and
relief work as expressions of their faith. During sabbaticals back
home, they visited churches and college campuses where they
showed lantern slides and talked about China’s great need for help.
They embodied the idea that the United States had a moral
responsibility to aid China in becoming a progressive society in its
own image. This well-meaning, paternalistic vision, which assumed
the superiority of Western values, gave rise to a relationship that
was unusually emotional and sentimental.
The lure of China as a potentially vast market for business was
another aspect of America’s ambition to remake the Middle Kingdom.
The application of Western-style management and advertising was
the key to success for companies like British American Tobacco, the
Singer Sewing Machine Company, and John D. Rockefeller’s Standard
Oil Company, under the slogan “Oil for the Lamps of China.” Other
firms pioneered modern business practices for newspapers, banking,
and insurance. Like the missionaries—who never converted more
than a very small percentage of the Chinese population—total US
trade and investment in China was modest. Nevertheless, the free
enterprise model left its mark and added to the idea of China’s
becoming “just like us.”
With the advent of Communist rule in 1949, the American dream
for China was extinguished—at least for the time being. Prior to the
Communist revolution, missionaries and businessmen tried to
persuade the Chinese that Christianity and capitalism offered the
path to a strong, prosperous, just society. Rejecting these interlopers
as agents of “cultural imperialism,” the Communists preached a
radical faith that cast the West in general and the United States in
particular as the enemy. The Chinese Communist Party blamed
outsiders for a “century of humiliation.”
As historian Jonathan Spence has written, China had “regained
the right, precious to all great nations, of defining her own values
and dreaming her own dreams without alien interference. China’s
leaders could now formulate their own definition of man, restructure
their own society, pursue their own foreign policy goals.”12 Except for
a handful of Western sympathizers and thousands of Russian
advisers, anyone who did not hold a Chinese passport either chose
to leave the PRC or was forced to do so.13 A number of foreigners,
notably Catholic nuns and priests, were imprisoned. China was no
longer a feeble victim that looked to other countries for deliverance,
but a unified nation with a singular purpose.
The American public responded to the so-called “loss of China”
with a mixture of anger, confusion, and regret when the long-
standing ambition to save a poor, benighted China disappeared with
the sudden collapse of the Nationalist (Kuomintang) government,
followed by the Communist victory. Yet, had it not been for the
Korean War, the United States most likely would have recognized
Beijing as representing the mainland’s legitimate government.
Instead, three years of bloody combat between American and
Chinese troops on the Korean peninsula confirmed the two countries
as mortal enemies. The US government refused to accept the PRC’s
existence, clinging to the myth that the Republic of China on the
island of Taiwan—with a population of eight million as compared
with the mainland’s 550 million in 1950—represented the entire
country. For two decades, Americans and Chinese had nothing more
than stereotypes and official propaganda to shape their opinions,
and attitudes on both sides were reduced to one-dimensional
stereotypes.
Fascicularia, 348
Fasciole, of Echinocardium, 550, 555;
of Spatangoidea, 553;
of Spatangus, 553;
of Eupatagus, 553;
of Spatangidae, 555
Fats, fatty acids, 15;
in Flagellates, 110, 115;
formation of, 36
Fauré-Fremiet, on attachment of Peritrichaceae, 141 n.
Faurot, 368
Favia, 373, 401
Favosites, 344
Favositidae, 344
Feather-star, 581
Feeding, of Noctiluca, 133, 144;
of Peritrichaceae, 145
—see also Food
Feeler, of Holothuria nigra, 561 f., 566;
of Holothuroidea, 568;
of Dendrochirota, 568, 572;
of Synaptida, 568, 575;
of Molpadiida, 568, 575
Female gamete, 33;
of Pandorina, 128 f.;
of Acystosporidae, 104 f.;
of Peritrichaceae, 151, 157
—see also Megagamete, Oosphere
Ferment, required for germination, brood-formation, etc., 32 f.
—see also Zymase
Fermentation, organisms of, 43 f.
Fertilisation, 33 f.;
"chemical," 32 n.
Fertilised egg, 31
—see also Oosperm, Zygote
Fertilising tube of Chlamydomonas, 125
Fever, intermittent, malarial, 103 f.;
relapsing, 121;
remittent, 105;
Texas-, Tick, 120;
Trypanosomic, 119 f.
Fewkes, 268 n.
Fibularidae, 549
Fibularites, 559
Fickert, Eimer and, on classification of Foraminifera, 58 n.
Ficulina, 219, 224, 230;
F. ficus, 219
Filoplasmodieae, 90 f.
Filopodia, 47 n.
Filosa, 29, 50, 52 f.;
resemblance to Allogromidiaceae, 59
Finger, 580;
of Cystoidea, 597;
of Blastoidea, 599, 600
Firestone of Delitzet contains fossil Peridinium, 132
Fischer, on fixing reagents, 11;
on structure of flagellum, 114
Fish, rheotaxy of, 21;
epidemics of, due to Myxosporidiaceae, 107;
to Costia necatrix, 119;
to Ichthyophtheirius, 152
Fission, 10, 23 f.;
equal, 10;
Spencerian, 23;
multiple, 30 f. (see also Brood-division);
of Heliozoa, 72 f.;
of Radiolaria, 84 f.;
radial, in Volvocaceae, 110;
transverse, in Craspedomonadidae, 115 n.;
longitudinal and transverse, of Bodo saltans, 117;
of Opalina, 123;
of Euglenaceae, 124;
of Eutreptia viridis, 124;
of Noctiluca, 133;
of Ciliata, 147 f.;
of Stentor polymorphus, 156;
of Vorticellidae, 157 f.
—see also Bud-fission
Fissiparantes, 387, 400
Fixing protoplasm, 15
Flabellum, 375, 386, 398;
protandry of, 370
Flagella, flagellum, 17 f., 47;
of Protozoa, 47;
formed by altered pseudopodia in Microgromia, 60;
of Heliozoa, 73;
of sperms of Coccidiidae, 102;
of Acystosporidae, 105;
of Flagellata, 109, 114 f.;
of Trichonymphidae, 114;
Delage on mechanism of, 114 n.;
of Bodo saltans, 117;
of Trypanosoma, 121;
of Euglenaceae, 124 f.;
of Maupasia, 124;
of Eutreptia viridis, 124;
of Sphaerella, 126;
of Dinoflagellata, 130, 131;
of Peridinium, 131;
of Polykrikos, 132;
of Noctiluca, 132, 133 f.
—see also Sarcoflagellum
Flagellar pit, in Flagellates, 110, 124 f.
Flagellata, 17 f., 40, 48 f., 50, 109 f.;
barotaxy of, 20;
galvanotaxy of, 22;
chemiotaxy of, 23;
nutrition of, 40, 113;
of putrefying liquids, 44, 116 f.;
studied by botanists, 45;
as internal parasites, 48, 119 f.;
relations with Acystosporidae, 106;
shell of, 113;
stalk of, 113;
life-history of, 116 f.;
literature of, 119;
saprophytic, 119 f.
Flagellate stage, of Sarcodina, 56 f., 60, 109;
of Heliozoa, 74;
of Radiolaria, 85 f.
—see also Flagellula
Flagellated chamber, 170
Flagellula, 31;
of Proteomyxa, 88, 89;
of Myxomycetes, 91, 92;
of Didymium, 92
—see also Zoospores
Flagellum—see Flagella
Fleming, 168 n.
Flexible Corals, 326
Flint, 219, 241
Floricome, 203
Floscelle, of Echinocardium cordatum, 551;
of Cassidulidae, 554
Flowering plants, male cells of, 38
Flowers of tan (= Fuligo varians), 92 f.;