The latest household name in China is neither a government bigwig nor a ‘little fresh meat’ idol, but, surprisingly, an elderly Chinese citizen living in rural China.
Erjiu (meaning ‘second-oldest maternal uncle’ in Mandarin), a 60-something-year-old with a physical disability, is the subject of a short documentary that has taken the Chinese internet by storm. Titled I Went Back to the Village for Three Days and Erjiu Cured My Inner Turmoil (yep, quite a mouthful), the video was produced by a young relative and runs about 11 minutes long.
Since dropping on Bilibili, China’s answer to YouTube, on July 25, the video has gone viral in the Sinosphere and has been viewed almost 33.9 million times in just four days. On Weibo, the hashtag ‘Erjiu’ amassed more than 500 million views and topped the microblogging platform’s trending list at the time of writing.
Despite being an exceptionally bright student in his younger years, Erjiu never found favor with Lady Luck.
His greatest misfortune was crossing paths with an inept village doctor, whose solution to curing a fever was to give him four injections in one of his legs — all in a single day. This caused permanent damage to the unfortunate patient’s leg, and he has never walked normally again.
Although Erjiu initially struggled to accept his fate, he learned to fend for himself and picked up the profession of carpentry. In addition to learning woodworking, the disabled craftsman built his own tools and began eking out an existence.
While Erjiu never married, he adopted a daughter, whom he named Ning Ning, and was able to marry her off by building a premium set of furniture that served as a decent dowry — a remarkable feat for a man of his predicament and humble origins.
The filmmaker positions Erjiu’s life and struggles in the context of landmark socioeconomic changes in China, such as the country’s transition to a market economy and the dismantling of its socialist welfare system, and the documentary has been extensively covered by state media, such as People’s Daily and China Daily.
The viral video, which underscores Erjiu’s resilience and ability to survive under dire circumstances, invites self-reflection and self-betterment. For instance, the videographer explains how “Erjiu cured my mental turmoil” in a voiceover in the film: “I’m completely physically able, attended college, and live in an era full of opportunities. I’m supposed to live to my fullest life.”
This seemingly innocuous comment is, in fact, slightly loaded and rings of silent disapproval of the ‘lying flat’ generation, who are put off by China’s intense working culture.
In this sense, some netizens sympathize with Erjiu’s situation but don’t buy into the film’s motivational message. These people highlight that it’s okay to be touched by his resilience but that viewers must recognize that social inequality contributed to his struggles.
Some netizens have drawn parallels between the short film and author Yu Hua’s work of historical fiction To Live, which has been adapted into an internationally acclaimed film by director Zhang Yimou.
Contrary to the novel, however, Erjiu’s life is not narrated in the first person but is scripted — and possibly romanticized — by the videographer. Erjiu is merely the film’s main subject, one who walks, works, and watches over his ill mother but never speaks for himself.
The sexagenarian is not the only country dweller to have seized the spotlight in recent years.
Calling himself ‘Teacher Liu,’ a content creator took the Chinese social media platform Douyin by storm earlier this year after releasing English-language videos in his hometown of Yangshuo county in South China.
With a very thick accent, Liu proudly and confidently introduces his 2.6 million followers to his hometown’s stunning scenery in said videos. Following his rise to fame, many netizens began creating their own videos mimicking Liu (mocking accents included) — content that has performed equally well on Douyin.
Huang Xiaoxie, a scholar with 1.7 million followers on Weibo, has suggested the recent rise in popularity of rural content among internet users is a reaction to a “decade-long domination of online narratives by elites.” She pointed out that individuals like Erjiu and Liu provide “unique contrasts” to the middle-class majority.
Huang also warned others not to indulge in the voyeurism of the underprivileged or to otherize them: “I hope they aren’t just a spectacle-like commodity for the middle class.”
Mango TV’s seven-episode program Go for Happiness has become China’s highest-ratedreality TV show of all time. While only four episodes of the program, which began airing on July 5, have been released, the TV series has scored a whopping 9.5/10 and has been upvoted 56,393 times on the IMDb-like platform Douban.
Unlike TV programs that revolve around young pop idols, Go for Happiness features six ‘seasoned’ male singers: Chen Chusheng, Allen Su, Wang Yuexin, Zhang Yuan, Wang Zhengliang, and Lu Hu.
The musicians reached the peak of their popularity after competing in Hunan Satellite Television’s 2007 singing contest Super Boy (also known as Happy Boy to some). Calling themselves the 0713 Super Boys, the six individuals mentioned above each placed among the show’s top 13 contestants but maintained low profiles after the competition.
Partly inspired by the British talent show Pop Idol, Super Boy is a male-centric spin-off of the Chinese singing contest Super Girl(also referred to as Super Voice Girls). Mango TV recorded and released four seasons of Super Boy, one each in 2007, 2010, 2013, and 2017.
The first season was an absolute success. Albums sold like hot cakes, and fans began using songs from the top candidates as their ringback tones.
That being said, only a handful of stars from the early seasons of the variety TV show, such as Zhang Jie and Wei Chen, have managed to cling to stardom.
One of the highlights of Go for Happiness is when Allen Su and Wang Yuexin wore Peking opera facekinis. Screengrab via YouTube
Now in their 30s and 40s, most of the 0713 Super Boys have gone unnoticed for years. But they regained popularity in 2022, and it all started because of a reality program called Welcome to the Mushroom House.
Back in April, the forgotten stars made guest appearances on the show, a spin-off of Back to Field, a popular reality TV series revolving around countryside life.
Although Chen, Su, Lu, Zhang, and the two Wangs only starred in three of the six episodes, their down-to-earth personalities and self-deprecating sense of humor captured the hearts of Chinese youth. Having known each other for more than a decade, the friends were comfortable enough to openly make fun of one another and tell inside jokes.
Zhang Yuan humorously acknowledged on Mushroom House that some of his songs are not popular enough to be recognized. Screengrab via YouTube
For instance, in one episode, the stars were tasked to do musical charades with song lyrics. However, they failed even to recognize each other’s works. Instead of feeling ashamed or awkward, they laughed it out.
“It feels like a group of best mates at college giving one another shit,” commented an entertainment critic in reaction to the show.
The six musicians even wrote a song about their life experiences while filming Welcome to the Mushroom House, which eventually became the program’s theme song. (Check out the music video for the song below.)
After the gang went viral for their appearance on Mushroom House, netizens began pressuring Mango TV to produce a stand-alone TV show for them — cue Go for Happiness.
With only one sponsor (aninstant noodle brand) and limited time and resources, Go for Happiness has neither a big budget nor extensive promotional campaigns. The program primarily relies on the chemistry and can-do attitude of its six stars.
In the first episode, the celebs were tasked with collecting clues, solving a puzzle, and escaping from a rural island. By the time they had hunkered down in a budget hotel, they had run out of money and were in debt to the production team.
To fund themselves over the next few days, they starred as extras in Be With You, a web drama starring Xie Xingyang of idol contest Produce Camp 2021 fame.
Acting (and eating) is all in a day’s work for these stars. Screenshot via YouTube
The stars’ sudden popularity has led to a surge of searches for their past performances, and many netizens have voiced amazement over their talent.
“You can question their mental prowess, but not their professional skills,” reads the top-voted comment on Douban, alluding to how the lighthearted bunch always seems up to any task on Go for Happiness.
“[Featuring these guys] is better than investing lots of money to feature pop stars,” opined another viewer.
One reason the TV show is so well-liked is because of audiences’ propensity for nostalgia — a phenomenon that has also fed the success of WeChat’s farm function, Canto-pop show Infinity and Beyond, and Jay Chou’s new album. It seems that the ‘good old days’ can do no wrong.
Click here to watch the first episode of ‘Go for Happiness’ with English subtitles.
Into the Night is a monthly series exploring China’s vibrant nightlife scene and the roster of young people that make parties in the country so damn fun. This month, we introduce Beijing label dipdipmusic and its inventive rave events.
Pounding techno beats echo through the walls of a derelict building populated by stone pillars. A DJ at the center of the room kneads the ravers’ excitement with practiced proficiency. The grey edifice has been brought to life by the energy of those present, who lap up the opportunity that a precious afternoon of raving allows.
The Ruin Party was a one-off event created by dipdipmusic, a Beijing-based party label that also runs a vinyl shop. The brand was set up by like-minded friends Jiajun and Mad in 2018 as a vehicle to host innovative rave parties in unique locations. The Ruin Party is a prime example of what they’re about.
Location scouting for The Ruin Party
“The idea for The Ruin Party got stuck in my head after I was struck by a dilapidated building on my way home. I immediately wanted to organize a party amidst ruins. I thought it would be cool,” recalls Jiajun.
Parties, Police, Secret Venues
A long-time raver, Jiajun was first introduced to electronic music in 2014 and started using his laptop to play and remix his favorite songs.
Born in Dalian, in Northeast China’s Liaoning province, he settled in Beijing in 2017 and began scoping out the local underground scene at small parties hosted by his friends. He spent his first six months in China’s capital absorbing as much as possible before setting up his own label, dipdipmusic.
Since then, Jiajun has managed various music events, like the Ulan Hada Volcano Party in 2021, which saw 50 party lovers camping, picnicking, and dancing to electronic music at the foot of the Ulan Hada volcano in Inner Mongolia autonomous region.
More impressive, however, are the handful of parties that the label has put on all by itself, from the Terrace Party in a hutong (a type of narrow alleyway commonly found in North China) to the Dark Room Party in an abandoned basement in Sanlitun.
His success with these concepts is partly thanks to his background in branding and marketing. Armed with a knack for collecting interesting ideas and transforming them into functional party projects, Jiajun excels at running his label and organizing raves.
Preparation and setup for The Ruin Party
He generally teams up with his friends, who help him to realize his proposals. However, a drawback to this casual approach is that there are often long gaps between each event. Jiajun recognizes this himself.
“Our parties don’t happen as often as events at other clubs that are more commercial. But, we promise that every party is high quality and creative.”
“Every time I see a new view, I want to throw a party in it.”
Holding a rave in an abandoned building is not an easy thing to do. It took Jiajun almost seven months to organize The Ruin Party.
The first barrier was finding the ideal venue. Jiajun quickly discovered a building to his liking, but several issues forced him to put his plans on hold.
“The ruined building was full of deep pits and sharp pieces of metal. I had to put safety first,” he says. “It was also a three-hour drive from where I live, so I was completely exhausted every time I went there to look. It didn’t even look that dilapidated.”
dipdipmusic soon experienced another hurdle: the ‘secret’ venue’s location had leaked.
“If a place is revealed ahead of time, it could draw the attention of the police. The event might get shut down, and we could even get arrested. Hosting a private outdoor party during Covid-19 is like playing with fire,” remarks Jiajun.
To make matters worse, Jiajun discovered a police station just a stone’s throw from the initial venue. As some team members had their own businesses to worry about, they weren’t willing to risk it. As a result, the team ultimately disbanded.
More Than Money
Nevertheless, Jiajun persisted. He spent three whole days scouring maps on Google Street View to find an alternative site and eventually discovered an ideal spot.
Inside the party venue
“The remains were dope; the structure was brutal,” says Jiajun, who was flooded with excitement upon spotting the ruins.
The creative was quick to contact the owner of the property, who, alas, wasn’t wholly cooperative.
“He said we could use the site, but we could only let 50 people in,” recounts Jiajun, who considered applying for an official business license from the government before finally throwing in the towel.
Revelers arriving for the party
“We felt that the government wouldn’t agree. We could expose ourselves and be more likely to get into trouble with the police, which would disappoint my clients, which is my worst fear.”
“Why are underground parties so niche in China?” he sighs. “Is it because the government doesn’t want young people to gather in one place, drink, enjoy some music and dance, while square dancing grannies can? I hope that one day, young people can gather in People’s Park to party, even if they’re just drinking water.”
Despite all the setbacks, The Ruin Party was eventually held back in April. After the music faded and the crowd of attendees returned home, Jiajun and his team took a step back to reassess the big picture.
As a result of the event’s high expenditures, Jiajun only made a total profit of RMB 100 (USD 15). While this would dishearten many, Jiajun viewed the small amount as a sign that they could turn a profit. More importantly, the event’s success boosted his team members’ and customers’ confidence in his wild ideas.
The Ruin Party marked a significant step forwards in Jiajun’s journey.
“It takes a lot of bravery and determination to do this because you have to juggle many things. Money is the main thing.”
He adds, “You also have to ensure that your team members’ values align with yours. With our former team, some were just in it for fame or the money, so we had to split ways.”
After parting ways with the original team for The Ruin Party, Jiajun asked his second team a core question: Are you in this to make money or to promote rave culture?
“Many of them have formal careers, working as product managers at big tech firms. They joined our team to experience something new and to make new friends. I tried to pay them, but they refused, something that moved me and made me feel very grateful,” he shares.
Rave Culture Needs Silly People
On dipdipmusic’s official WeChat account, Jiajun once published the story of a young man by the name of Xiaobo, who colloquially goes by DJ Dreams. The DJ once held an event called ‘The Loser Club’ in a 24-square-meter space that could only accommodate five people.
While Xiaobo set up The Loser Club to inch closer to his goal of becoming a proper DJ, his dream eventually fizzled out.
The story was read by millions, many of whom expressed their sympathies.
“I was glad to hear that 99% of my readers thought that Xiaobo was brave, while the remaining few thought he was a complete loser — the same way Xiaobo described himself. I must admit he was silly, but don’t we need more silly people like him?” asks Jiajun rhetorically.
“We are now living in a world where happiness is directly associated with consumption. Only a minority are brave enough to do what they want and gain enjoyment and excitement in doing so. Xiaobo failed, but he also experienced the pleasure of his dream and has unforgettable memories of his tiny club,” says Jiajun with reverence.
“Who knows what will happen next? In my case, when I plan a party, I don’t know if it will make a profit. Holding events is largely passive, but feeling happiness from the positive feedback and the sight of satisfied faces is rewarding, isn’t it? It’s people like Xiaobo who add to the future of Beijing’s underground scene.”
Today, dipdipmusic is lending a hand to dreamers such as Xiaobo by providing pragmatic advice and financial assistance, if needed.
“I intend to set the ‘standard’ for the industry,” says Jiajun. “I want to see more and more large dance parties all over China. I want to be the guy that every raver in China mentions when talking about dance parties.”
For more information about dipdipmusic, watch the review video of the party collective on Bilibili.
Level Up! is a regular series exploring Chinese youth’s passion for video games and digital entertainment.
When the mobile gameHonor of Kings (HoK) was released in 2015, Jessica Wang had zero interest in playing it. Even when her five roommates gathered in her college dorm to play it every night, she kept her eyes fixed on her K-pop idols BTS and turned a deaf ear to the noise around her.
Seven years later, her roommates have all but forgotten about the game, while Wang has picked it up and now considers herself an avid esports fan.
Recognized by the Chinese government as the 99th sport in 2003, China is the biggest market for esports globally (surprise, surprise). In 2020, the country’s domestic esports market was worth approximately 147 billion RMB (23 billion USD), which amounted to about30% of global revenue. Chinese esports fans were estimated to number more than400 millionthat same year.
HoK and League of Legends(LoL) are leading games worldwide that have enjoyed unprecedented popularity in China. Developed by TiMi Studios Group and published by Tencent Games, HoK was the top-grossing free-to-play title worldwide, with more than 2.45 billion USD in revenue as of 2020.
While esports was traditionally dominated by male gamers and fans, female viewership is on the rise. Furthermore, the fairer sex generally has a higher rate of consumption — meaning they are willing to part with their hard-earned cash for events, merch, and in-game purchases.
Data shows that women made up 22%of esports fans worldwide in 2019. And while South Korea has the world’s biggest female fan base, with 32% of its esports followers identifying as women, China comes in a close second with 30%. The United States lags behind with only 17%.
Source: Statista, graph via RADII
In South Korea, top players such as Lee Sang-hyeok, aka Faker, can earn as much fame and fortuneas K-pop idols. And just as K-pop has had asignificant impacton China’s pop culture, esports fandom in China is also greatly affected by South Korea’s. When China’s top-level professional league for LoL, The League of Legends Pro League (LPL), introduced a few Korean players to the team in 2015, it also brought fan culture to China’s esports industry.
Gaming companies also play a part in promoting fandom culture. In 2018, Riot Games, the company behind LoL, introduced the virtual K-pop girl group K/DA, which consists of four themed versions of LoL characters.
So what exactly drives esports fandom in China? We picked the minds of three female fans and discussed their experiences and opinions on today’s esports world.
Devoted Esports Fans
Now a legal assistant based in Hangzhou, Wang watches esports livestreams almost every night. She even subscribes to notifications so she won’t miss out on anything. Wang started by following the King Pro League (KPL) and then switched to LPL this year for an improved viewing experience.
With excitement in her voice, Wang tells RADII:
“It’s just like watching any sports. It’s all about excitement, uncertainty, the comebacks, teamwork, strategies, operations, and the interaction and chemistry between people.”
Even if she finishes watching a game at 3 AM, Wang wakes up to head to work feeling cheerful and content. She says it’s rare to find a passion outside of work, and she’s grateful to have one. She’s so dedicated that even the music she listens to was discovered via esports livestreams or video cuts.
“I’m always a committed and devoted fan, no matter in which field,” Wang says. “My biggest gain is happiness. Pursuing my passions leaves me full of power and energy. It’s rare and precious to find things that make you relaxed and happy.”
Her current favorite team is Edward Gaming (EDG), which won the world championship last year. She even bought a down jacket (shown below) with EDG’s winning score emblazoned on its back. It means nothing to most but serves as an insider reference that other fans will understand.
Wang bought a down jacket that represents her favorite esports team, EDG. Image via ecommerce site Dewu
Aside from watching livestreams, Wang also checks her social media daily for the latest game results and live ranks. She fondly describes her actions as “checking my kids’ grades.”
Whenever the Covid situation allows, Wang prefers watching offline matches in venues to experience the exciting atmosphere and stronger fan reactions.
Wang says that from her experience, the majority of offline spectators are females. Image courtesy of Jessica Wang
Jia Yubi has a similar relationship with esports. A fan since 2014, she still watches livestreams and attends offline events regularly. Though Jia also plays video games herself, she says she’s a totally different person when she watches esports.
“I don’t like to talk when I play games, but when I watch a game, I become exuberant and emotionally invested, and I really relate to my team.”
She adds, “I think most esports fans enjoy the exhilaration and thrill of the game, and the emotions you feel from watching it on a screen are completely incomparable to being in the scene.”
After being a fan for eight years, two unforgettable — and sad — memories come to Jia’s mind. Once, she and other fans waited in a parking lot to bestow gifts upon their favorite players. Her favorite gamer Xiye and his team had not performed well, and it broke her heart to see them frustrated and sit sluggishly on their bus.
A sad, sad gamer. Image courtesy of Jia Yubi
The second time, a semi-final event was held in Guangzhou, not far from Jia’s college. She had already bought tickets and thought to herself it was “an opportunity that I must not miss in my life.” However, she couldn’t go at the last minute because her final exam had suddenly been rescheduled.
“Missing the event is still my biggest regret,” she says.
Esports Fandom vs. Pop Fandom
“Esports and pop fandom have a lot in common,” said an esports analyst in a 2020 post. “Both groups consist of Gen Zers who are true digital natives. They’re open-minded individualists.”
Wang has retained some of her pop music fangirl habits while pursuing esports. After years of following K-pop, she has learned Korean well enough to conduct Korean-Chinese translations.
And still, like with K-pop, her favorite element in esports fandom is also ‘coupling.’ Coupling or ‘shipping’ are terms commonly used among fan communities to describe the desire to see two individuals in a romantic relationship.
“I can’t stop pairing them up — I love coupling. It’s my biggest source of happiness,” Wang says delightedly.
Wang’s wall still boasts images of her former favorite esports ship. Image courtesy of Jessica Wang
She likes to watch her current favorite ship, male gamers Meiko and Viper, play games together. Wang often views video cuts or text documentations of every little interaction between the two on social media, even mundane activities like chatting, ordering takeout, or eating dinner together.
“I like observing human chemistry,” Wang explains excitedly. “Meiko and Viper cooperate so well. It’s like they’re playing with the same brain. It’s like there’s a bubble around them, and nobody else can break in.”
However, Wang has also learned to stay calm and not to get too emotional over esports. She knows that esports players frequently switch teams, and her ship may part ways at any time:
“I’ve learned to accept separation and just enjoy the moment. It’s like I’m a fan of a boy band that’s destined to break up.”
Wang also recognizes that fandom in esports differs from that found in other entertainment fan cultures.
“Fan economy is everything for pop stars,” she says. “But fans are useless to esports players. We can’t do anything to affect their competition results, although that’s the only thing that matters.”
Fangirl Jia agrees that she is also in two different modes when following esports and pop culture.
“Esports players are more real and vibrant,” she explains. “Stars are beautifully packaged whereas esports players aren’t celebrities or commodities but athletes.”
Jia’s favorite gamer, Xiye. Image courtesy of Jia Yubi
Qingdao-based college student An Wanwan doesn’t worship idols and thinks most esports fans understand that players are different from K-pop idols and other celebrities. She sharply notes:
“They’re just some men who play games really well. But outside of the arena, they’re literally a group of internet addicts who didn’t finish their compulsory education.”
Like most fandoms these days, some esports fans are also ill-mannered and cyberbully each other, An says. She once experienced an online attack by extremists after she commented on a few players.
Toxic elements aside, there are good apples among the bunch, and An has formed meaningful friendships with other fans. She even travels and watches games with another fan she met online.
“Many esports fans have cliques with whom they watch games and discuss esports. Making close friends this way has been an unexpected gain,” says An, who grew up watching the NBA with her dad, a core memory that has fed her current love of esports.
“At the end of the day, I just love competitive sports,” she says. “I love the story of young people fighting side by side, going through failures and setbacks, and then reaching the top together. The process is fascinating. We are all witnesses to this story.”
If Indiana Jones and Tomb Raider count among your favorite film franchises, give the new Chinese adventure series Lost in the Kunlun Mountains a go when it premieres on July 27. The program will air simultaneously on iQiyi and Tencent Video, two of China’s biggest streaming platforms, and stars Chinese actor and model Xu Kai.
Based on Tianxia Bachang’s namesake novel from 2008, Lost in the Kunlun Mountains is set during the Republic of China (1912-1949), an increasingly popular backdrop for C-dramas.
The TV series follows protagonist Ding Yunqi (played by Xu Kai), who has just returned to Shanghai after studying abroad. Events unfold in such a way that only Ding knows the actual location of a hidden treasure in the Kunlun Mountains.
Naturally, he attracts the attention of several evil forces, from government officials to powerful warlords, as soon as he steps on Chinese soil.
A hashtag for the TV series on the Chinese microblogging platform Weibo had gained more than 47.2 million views at the time of writing. The social media site is full of comments, mostly from fans of Xu, who have liked the 27-year-old’s Weibo post about the series over 211,000 times.
A fan-made GIF of Xu Kai in the trailer for Lost in the Kunlun Mountains. Graphic via Weibo
History has repeatedly proven that having a ‘little fresh meat’ lead is usually enough for topical C-dramas to secure moderate success and a spot on Weibo’s trending topics chart.
However, whether Lost in the Kunlun Mountains will impress audiences remains to be seen. After all, the first half of 2022 was already saturated with well-performing TV shows, such as Liu Yifei’s costume drama A Dream of Splendor, Yang Yang’s wuxia series Who Rules the World, and everyone’s favorite time-loop drama Reset.
In recent years, many American states have received ordinances to incorporate AAPI and ethnic studies in public school curriculums, underlines a report published by the Committee of 100, a New York-based organization spearheaded by Chinese Americans in business, government, academia and the arts industry.
To be specific, seven American states are required by law to include AAPI studies in their curriculums.
In 2021, Illinois made history by decreeing that Asian American history be taught in public schools. New Jersey, California, Colorado, Nebraska, Nevada and Oregon swiftly followed suit.
It is also heartening to note that 10 other states plus the District of Columbia require their schools to equip students with a general understanding of AAPI studies or to teach “at least three major events of AAPI history.”
As far as AAPI-related historical events go, the Chinese Exclusion Act, the internment of Japanese Americans during WWII, and Asian immigration are oft-included in these states’ curricula.
The same report also highlights and categorizes other American states by their openness towards AAPI studies. For instance, category 3 states have recently introduced bills that require the education of ethnic studies, while category 7 states have bills or statues that recommend AAPI electives, model curriculums or advisory groups.
“Public schools are critical in shaping citizens. In most states, schools do not require students to learn about the contributions of Americans of Asian descent, but Asian American historyis American history,” said Zhengyu Huang, president of the Committee of 100.
Recent years have witnessed a soaring number of hate crimes against the Asian community. Nevertheless, such targeted discrimination isn’t novel. Centuries-worth of hostility, which have cemented racially-charged fears such as ‘yellow peril,’ have contributed to some of the challenges currently faced by America.
“If they don’t learn this [AAPI studies] as children, how can students become citizens who will understand the challenges and struggles of all Americans?” continued Huang.
Committee of 100, a non-partisan leadership organization, aims to promote a better understanding of Chinese and other Asian communities in the U.S., and has previously published materials such as the anti-Asian hate glossary to convey the Asian American’s community’s challenges.
On July 27, the organization will hold a virtual event to provide an analysis of and discussion on the report, which can be downloaded here.
Cover image via Unsplash. All other visuals courtesy of the Committee of 100
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