Yanwen’s blog

Last weekend, while visiting my son, I picked up The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky, first published in 1880. Although I’ve read it before, each time I discover new insights to ponder, thanks to its philosophical depth and profound exploration of human existence.

The Brothers Karamazov revolves around the brutal crime of patricide, set within what Dostoevsky calls an “accidental family” — a group of individuals bound by blood but lacking the emotional connections, shared values, or beliefs that typically define a family as we understand it today. The Karamazovs—four sons and their father—are connected by chance rather than affection. Despite their shared blood, they possess none of the qualities that foster familial love. It’s no surprise, then, that patricide occurs within this fractured household.

As the title suggests, the story centers on the Karamazov brothers. Their father, Fyodor Karamazov, is a man of extreme debauchery and neglect, competing with his eldest son for both money and a lover, stirring resentment and animosity within the family. Maxim Gorky once described Fyodor’s character as embodying cowardice and audacity, but above all, a twisted and malicious soul. He is such a terrible father that it’s hard to believe someone like him could truly exist.

Dostoevsky uses these broken family dynamics as a metaphor for the broader “father and son” relationships in Russian society at the time. After Fyodor’s murder, the novel’s tension pivots on the question of who committed the crime—whether one of his sons is responsible for the patricide, a mystery that forms the novel’s central narrative.

Set against the backdrop of 19th-century Russia, each time I revisit the novel, I am struck by the tragic disintegration of a family. In contrast, I like to believe that with the progress of civilization, families today have evolved into something closer to what they should be: warm, nurturing environments where children grow up supported by love and care. While no family is perfect, many have become the sanctuaries they are meant to be—places where love, not conflict, binds people together.

Reading Dostoevsky's dark portrayal of familial collapse reminds me of what my mother often says: 家和万事兴 (Jiā hé wàn shì xīng), meaning "Harmony in the family brings prosperity in everything." A loving and harmonious family fosters success and happiness. And in this, we see the power of family as it should be: not accidental, but intentional, filled with the warmth and love that build strong foundations for life.

There are two things I’d like to share today.

First, today marks the anniversary of the passing of a great leader in China, Mao Zedong. 

In 1949, Soviet leaders suggested that China be divided between the Kuomintang (KMT) and the Communist Party, with the Yangtze River as the dividing line. According to their proposal, the Communist Party would control the north, while the KMT would govern the south. However, Mao Zedong and the Communist leadership firmly rejected this idea, determined to unify China. This is not the first time that foreign powers attempted to fragment China.

Forty-eight years have passed since Mao’s death, and without his leadership, China might not be the independent sovereign state as it is today. Instead, it could have been a divided fragmented place, much like today's Arab world, the Middle East or North and South Korea, a dependent of foreign powers..

Second, yesterday my youngest sister shared an encounter during her evening walk. She saw a man pushing his elderly mother in a wheelchair and remarked, "I hope my son will care for me like that when I grow old and frail."

Her words lingered with me. It saddens me to think her only son lives in the U.S., far from her. More importantly, the generational ties aren’t as strong as they once were. The old belief of 养儿防老 (*yǎng ér fáng lǎo*)—"raise children to care for you in old age"—may no longer hold true for the next generation.

My sister is currently caring for our mother, which reflects the old tradition of raising children to care for you in your old age. While it’s natural for her to expect the same from her son, we must accept that this expectation is no longer realistic. I hope she embraces more independence. Unless her son willingly takes on the role, relying on him seems impractical. Perhaps the best preparation lies in financial security, allowing her to turn to modern solutions—like purchasing a robot caregiver—to meet her future needs.

As I reflect on both Mao Zedong’s unwavering pursuit of a unified independent China and my sister’s hopes for her son’s future care, I’m reminded of how much times have changed. Traditions that once held families together are now being redefined by modern realities.

Be independent, whether as a nation or as an individual. Just as China has found its path through history, perhaps we too, in our personal lives, must forge new ways forward—embracing self-reliance while navigating the inevitable shifts of time.

Of two related things, most Chinese have likely heard of the first, while some Americans might be familiar with the second.

The first is the idiom 破釜沉舟 (pò fǔ chén zhōu)—"Smashing the Cauldrons and Sinking the Boats." It originates from the story of Xiang Yu, the King of Western Chu, during the Battle of Julu. After crossing the Zhang River, Xiang Yu ordered his soldiers to sink their boats and destroy their cooking tools, leaving only three days of provisions. With no retreat, his troops fought with all they had, ultimately winning a decisive victory. This idiom has since evolved to symbolize unwavering determination and the resolve to move forward without looking back.

The second one is the book Burn the Boats: Toss Plan B Overboard and Unleash Your Full Potential by Matt Higgins (2023). The title is inspired by the very same story. Higgins, an American entrepreneur, resonated with the tale, believing it captured the essence of his own success: forging ahead with no backup plan. In this way, he named his book after the philosophy that had guided his life.

Higgins’ story offers valuable lessons to those seeking lifelong growth, particularly those feeling stuck, anxious, or unsure of their next steps.

The Two Layers of “Burning the Boats”

The first meaning is to abandon your backup plan. Higgins emphasizes that having too many options can hinder success. To achieve greatness, you can’t prepare for yourself an easy exit. People often say "don’t put all your eggs in one basket," but Higgins believes while this might work in fund management, life requires the courage to commit fully. This approach stems from his personal experience.

At 16, Higgins dropped out of high school—not because he was struggling academically, but because he was determined to rise beyond the limitations of his grades. He could only attend a mediocre college, so he opted to drop out, attend night school, and earn a professional diploma earlier. Many advised him to play it safe by completing high school, but Higgins believed cutting off his safety net would push him to succeed. Ultimately, his gamble paid off as he earned his diploma and, starting as a contract worker, forged his own successful path.

The second meaning of "burning your boats" is to let go of things that seem safe but won’t help you reach your goals. Sometimes, the so-called safe path can be the riskiest. Higgins argues that what seems secure could be like a frog slowly boiling in water. When we realistically evaluate how far we are from our goals, we might realize that the slow route is the most dangerous one.

For instance, after dropping out, Higgins worked hard to enter law school at night, eventually landing an internship at a law firm. To many, it seemed like he had taken a significant step in his career. But after working in the field, he realized that climbing the ranks in a law firm required not just seizing every promotion opportunity but also several years of patient effort. This slow, secure route was difficult and not guaranteed, so Higgins decided to switch careers, abandoning the years he had invested in law.

Reassessing the Path to Success

Most people assume climbing the career ladder is a gradual process, progressing from supervisor to manager to CEO, that only after gaining CEO experience can we start our own ventures. But Higgins argues that success happens in leaps. You need to jump into a space with greater room for growth before making steady progress. This leap is essential. If you have higher aspirations in life, consider whether the current path is moving too slowly. If so, a bold, decisive move may be what’s needed.

In Higgins’ view, burning the boats is a strategy that applies to everyone aiming for success. Conquerors don’t have a Plan B because the mere existence of one weakens resolve and dampens our efforts. Many fail because they hold on to backup plans, never fully committing to their dreams. 

Ultimately, "burning the boats" is about making the bold, fearless choices necessary to create real breakthroughs in life and drive ourselves to victory with no option but success.

During a recent conversation with one of my Korean students, we discussed the challenges of returning to school after summer break, particularly the anxiety of meeting new teachers. This led to a deeper conversation about the different teacher assignment systems in Korea, China, and America. Each system has its strengths and drawbacks, offering a unique perspective on the educational experience.

Having worked as a primary school teacher in Korea for ten years before moving to the U.S., my student was well-versed in the Korean system. In Korea, there is a rotating grade system where the school's principal assigns teachers to different grades each year. One year you may teach third grade, and the next, you might be assigned to first grade.

The advantage of this rotating system is that it fosters versatility among teachers, allowing them to develop expertise across various grades and better adapt to changing circumstances. This system also makes it easier for teachers to cover for each other in emergencies. However, the constant need to prepare for new subjects and age groups can be overwhelming, as it demands significant time and energy.

In contrast, the American system is much more specialized. From my own experience with my children, I’ve observed that teachers in the U.S. often stay with the same grade level for their entire careers. A first-grade teacher will teach first grade year after year, becoming an expert in that specific stage of childhood development. 

This specialization offers greater efficiency, as teachers become so familiar with the material that they can focus on refining their teaching methods rather than constantly learning new content. However, the downside is that the system can feel somewhat impersonal. Both teachers and students must start fresh each year, with teachers needing to build relationships from scratch and students adjusting to new teaching styles. By the time the teacher truly knows her students, it’s already time to say goodbye. This assembly-line approach, while efficient, can sometimes lead to a more transactional, mechanical experience for both parties. A teacher holds one position on the assembly line, a fixed part of the system churning out graduates year after year, but often missing deeper, lasting connections with students.

China's system offers a different approach, one that emphasizes continuity. From my own experience growing up in China, one teacher is assigned to a class from first grade through sixth grade, accompanying the same group of students throughout their elementary years. This creates a deep bond between the teacher and students, allowing for a thorough understanding of each child’s strengths and weaknesses. The teacher can guide students through their formative years with a strong sense of stability. However, this system also has its drawbacks. If a teacher forms a biased view of a student early on, it can be hard for that student to shake the perception, even if they change or grow. The lack of a fresh start each year can hinder personal growth, especially for students who need the opportunity to redefine themselves.

The Chinese saying “亲其师，信其道” (qīn qí shī, xìn qí dào), meaning "If you are close to your teacher, you trust their teachings," captures the essence of the Chinese system. It highlights the value of deep, personal connections between students and teachers, leading to trust and understanding over time.

These three systems reveal the balancing act between efficiency and human connection in education. Korea's rotating system fosters adaptability, America’s fixed system maximizes specialization and efficiency, and China’s long-term teacher-student relationships offer stability and continuity. Each system reflects the values and priorities of its society, offering lessons for educators worldwide. The challenge is to strike a balance between these factors to create an educational environment that is both efficient and nurturing. After all, students are not just the products on an assembly line; education is first and foremost the education of the soul.

After moving to the New York area, we’ve had two successive neighbors, both Hispanic. As I’ve mentioned before, they excel at preserving their language and culture, even among their second generation.

For many other ethnic minorities, especially second-generation Chinese immigrants, whom I’m most familiar with, the process is quite different. They tend to become Americanized in both language and culture. This, however, doesn’t seem to apply to second-generation Mexican immigrants.

Recently, I’ve come to realize that perhaps Mexicans don’t quite fit the traditional concept of immigrants, given their homeland’s proximity to the U.S. and the ease with which they move between the two countries.

Traditional immigrants—those from Asia, Europe, or Africa—leave behind distant homelands, often separated by vast oceans for life. Due to the distance and financial challenges of travel, many rarely return to their homeland or see their families. For instance, I didn’t go back to Beijing for three years after arriving in the U.S. A friend of mine told me her last trip home was in 2019. My sister’s only son, a first-generation immigrant, visits his parents in China only during business trips, at most once a year. As for my daughter, a second-generation immigrant, her last trip to China was in 2013. I can see how family ties loosen with each generation.

In contrast, for many Mexicans, moving to the U.S. is akin to relocating from one city to another. Visiting their homeland is more like a day trip, and they often return home even during short holidays like Labor Day weekend. These frequent visits maintain strong family ties, cultural roots, and language skills. Their proximity to Mexico helps explain why their culture and language persist so strongly in the U.S., particularly in regions close to the border. This continuous movement reinforces their ethnic identity, allowing them to resist the assimilation pressures that others face.

The Chinese saying, 近水楼台先得月 (jìn shuǐ lóu tái xiān dé yuè), meaning “The pavilion closest to the water enjoys the moonlight first,” perfectly captures this dynamic. Mexicans benefit from their homeland’s closeness, which enables them to maintain frequent contact with their families and culture—something much harder for immigrants separated by oceans.

It’s fascinating to see how geography shapes the immigrant experience, influencing cultural and language retention, racial identity, and integration in ways that challenge the traditional model of assimilation. For Mexican immigrants, the border isn’t just a dividing line; it’s a bridge that keeps them anchored and connected to both sides, allowing them to preserve the family ties and the essence of their cultural heritage—something other immigrant groups could only dream of.