Folk Singer Turned First Lady: What It Means for China’s First Lady to Be on The Glamorous “Best-Dressed” List

When Xi Jinping assumed the role of President of China in March of 2013, it was amidst a cloud of uncertainty. The Chinese Communist Party was only just recovering from a public scandal involving a high-ranking member of the party, and there were a great deal of questions regarding how Xi planned to implement his goal of curbing corruption within the Party. On Xi’s first trip abroad however, accompanied by his wife, Peng Liyuan, foreign journalists were suddenly struck with another question: What is China’s First Lady wearing?

Peng travels long-haul in style

Dressed in a long, dark, double-breasted trench coat, light blue scarf, black heels, and black leather handbag, her hair perfectly coiffed and in a bun, Peng stepped off the plane and into the limelight. The American press called her the next Michelle Obama, and her sartorial choices whipped fashionistas into a frenzy as they tried to guess the clothing label. The discovery that she’d chosen a domestic Chinese brand, Exception de Mixmind, as opposed to one of the major European fashion houses was hailed as a turning point for Chinese fashion. Vanity Fair included her in their Best-Dressed List of 2013, and domestic sales for Mixmind soared.

First Ladies Angélica Rivera de Peña (Mexico) and Peng Liyuan (China) navigate the stairs in high-heel pumps at a state dinner in Mexico City

From a Western perspective, the concept of a fashionable First Lady is nothing new, with notable examples being Jackie O., Carla Bruni, and, of course, Michelle Obama. But in China, where the First Lady has tended to stay out of the limelight, Peng’s position as a media darling has enormous potential for a government that was somewhat lacking in terms of charismatic international public figures. While no stranger to the role of the public figure – Peng previously garnered popularity within China as a folk singer – her position as the President’s wife has subjected her to a completely different level of exposure.

Peng, performing in Beijing in 2012

(Photo: Imaginechina, via Agence France-Presse — Getty Images via NYT)

Peng’s coming out as China’s first publicly glamorous first lady comes at an interesting juncture in Chinese politics, especially given her husband’s position. Xi has been vocal in denouncing perceived excesses within the Party, and has vowed to crack down on these as a way of reducing corruption and streamlining the bureaucracy by launching a frugality campaign.

In this context, her choice of a homegrown label serves very much to bolster her husband’s position, and sets her apart from the wives of other politicians. In a time fraught with tension brought about by the rapidly increasing gap between rich and poor, as well as a flurry of political scandals involving bribery and corruption, brands like Louis Vuitton and Christian Dior are as much symbols of luxury and status as they are of corruption and excess.

Rivaling Kate Middleton and Michelle Obama

By imbuing the image that has become popularized in the West of what constitutes a “First Lady”, Peng makes herself more amenable to a global audience, which is especially crucial given her current status as a media darling, and her role as the President’s wife and as a face in contemporary Chinese politics. In redefining the roles of fashion within the Communist Party, and particularly in Peng’s choice to wear local Chinese brands, the question of style goes beyond the realm of individualized taste, and takes on a political dimension.

In adapting Western styles to Chinese brands within the current context, it may be possible for figures like Peng to redefine China’s image much like its fashion: as an accepted and legitimate part of the international community that still exists as its own distinctive entity.

Why My Asian Parents Love “The Godfather”

I remember summer from thirteen years ago, days where I spent endless hours playing in the green grass outside my apartment: getting dirt on the bottom of the sundresses my Chinese grandmother had painstakingly made, scuffing my shoes, stepping in mud, and hiding behind bushes. My best friend was the girl who lived directly above me, who wore her long hair in pigtails and chased me around the building; we’d climb over fences, hide from our parents, and sneak food from the kitchen to eat on our adventures. We were best friends, close enough to be family. While we were discovering this lesson hiding behind thorny bushes and smashing red berries, my parents were learning the same from one of the greatest movies of American cinema: The Godfather.

For nearly every year after their first viewing, they tried to get me to watch the movie with them. When Harry Potter became popular, they watched the films with me and swore that The Godfather was a thousand times better, deeper, and more exciting than a boy wizard could ever be. When I became interested in the silly teen romance novels that silly young teenagers often read, they told me to watch The Godfather and report back to them about love, and how the bonds between families, nations, and ethnicities were infinitely stronger than the temporary lust of adolescents who barely knew how to drive.

I didn’t listen to them, because I was convinced that their fascination was old-fashioned and boring, and that my generation’s storytellers have perfected filmmaking and novel-writing, which was still rough and being polished thirty, forty years ago. I procrastinated in watching the movie, pushing it off for years upon years until the winter break of my sophomore year in college, when I was suddenly struck by a sudden desire to watch the movies that I’d shirked from for a long decade.

(Photo: expatlingo)

They were worth the wait. For three hours I sat before the television, my eyes glued to the screen, afraid to blink for fear of missing some subtlety in the actors’ motions that would have ruined the rest of the plot. My mom sat by my side, pointing out the motivations behind the Godfather’s actions that I didn’t understand. For example, when Sonny Corleone publicly disagreed with his father before others, he was warned to “never tell anyone outside the family what you’re thinking”.

It’s a common theme for Asian parents that their children, the newer generation, don’t understand the bonds of families and the strength of nationalism. For the most part, this is true. As I watched the members of the Corleone family willingly sacrifice themselves and put their lives on the line to defend their family’s honor, I respected them for making the sacrifice that I know I personally could never choose.

I now understood. The movie was perfect for them: a Chinese couple who had recently immigrated to the United States in search of the American dream, but faced the challenge of overcoming a language barrier, discrimination, and struggling to synthesize the closed and conservative Chinese culture with the open and liberal American mindset. They found their answer contained in the plastic tapes of Francis Coppola’s The Godfather, where the opening scene beckoned them in, and the charm of Michael Corleone kept them watching.

They understood why the Families depended on Don Corleone. He had made the sacrifices necessary and dirtied his hands so his children could live happy lives, just like how my parents gave up a comfortable life in China – their social circle, their homeland – to raise two Chinese-American children in the nation of dreams. This was the ultimate love, beyond any pretty words from fluffy novels. And this was the first time I understood this.

My parents watched the interactions between the characters evolve from loyalty, love, and care to cold, merciless business transactions, and felt themselves moved in ways they’d never expected – especially by an American film. And I, through an Italian family, came to understand my own Chinese roots.