A casual car ride to a client meeting sparks a comment about Chinese characters — one sentence, interpreted through five different identities. From silence to sarcasm, discomfort to confidence, each version explores how background, bias, and belonging quietly shape the way we hear, feel, and respond.

[Spoiler alert: I've used ChatGPT as my writing companion on this one.]

Prompt

It’s rare these days to spend so much time casually chatting with a client. Most meetings happen online, focused strictly on business—maybe with a brief two-minute exchange about “weekend plans” while waiting for quorum.

But today was different. This client prefers in-person meetings, so here we are. On the ride from the hotel to the meeting venue, for some reason, the client grew curious about the difference between simplified and traditional Chinese. My Hong Kong colleague replied, “Simplified Chinese was invented by Mao so that peasants could understand.”

Expansion by ChatGPT

Version #1: I am a Hongkonger who feels a quiet sense of cultural distance, maybe even mild superiority, toward some mainland Chinese travelers

It’s rare these days to spend much time chatting with clients. Most meetings are online, quick and efficient. A bit of polite small talk while waiting for everyone to join, then straight to business.

But this client preferred an in-person meeting, so we ended up sharing a car from the hotel to the office. Somewhere along the way, the conversation turned to the difference between traditional and simplified Chinese. I wasn’t expecting it—most foreigners don’t care—but this one seemed genuinely curious.

I explained, with a bit of a smile, “Simplified Chinese was invented by Mao so that peasants could understand.”

It’s a line I’ve used before. It always lands well. The client laughed. It’s history, after all, and kind of funny if you think about it.

The colleague from mainland China sat there politely, not saying much. Typical. I’ve always found many of them a bit too quiet in group settings, unless it’s among themselves. And loud in the wrong ways elsewhere—shouting across hotel lobbies, skipping queues, talking on speakerphone in restaurants.

Their English usually isn’t great either, so maybe that’s why she didn’t respond. Or maybe she didn’t think it was worth responding to.

Either way, the moment passed. The meeting went well. And I suppose, in a way, it’s nice when culture becomes a conversation topic, even if we all walk away with different stories about what was really said.

Version #2: I am a girl from mainland China who is observant, sensitive, and not necessarily confrontational

It’s rare these days to spend so much time casually chatting with a client. Most meetings happen online, focused strictly on business—maybe with a brief two-minute exchange about “weekend plans” while waiting for quorum.

But today was different. This client prefers in-person meetings, so here we are. On the ride from the hotel to the meeting venue, the conversation drifted—unexpectedly—to the topic of Chinese characters. The client, for some reason, grew curious about the difference between simplified and traditional Chinese.

My Hong Kong colleague smiled and offered an explanation: “Simplified Chinese was invented by Mao so that peasants could understand.”

I gave a polite nod, said nothing. Just sat there with my hands folded neatly on my lap, the way I’ve learned to when unsure how to respond. My smile stayed on, but inwardly I froze a little—like something sharp had brushed against the soft part of me I usually keep tucked away.

Maybe they meant nothing by it. It was just an offhand remark. Maybe it wasn’t even meant for me. But still, I couldn’t help wondering: did anyone else feel the tiny shift in the air?

Version #3: I am a girl from mainland China who is sharp, self-aware, and unapologetically grounded in her identity

It’s rare these days to spend so much time casually chatting with a client. Most meetings happen online, focused strictly on business—maybe with a brief two-minute exchange about “weekend plans” while waiting for quorum.

But today was different. This client prefers in-person meetings, so here we are. On the ride from the hotel to the meeting venue, the conversation took a detour. Out of nowhere, the client asked about the difference between simplified and traditional Chinese.

My Hong Kong colleague didn’t miss a beat. “Simplified Chinese was invented by Mao so that peasants could understand,” he said, as if reciting from a museum plaque.

I raised an eyebrow—not dramatically, just enough to let the remark hang in the air a second longer than it should’ve. “Well,” I said, smiling, “guess it worked. Some of those peasants ended up getting PhDs.”

He gave a half-laugh. The client looked amused. I leaned back in my seat, crossing my legs and checking the time, like I wasn’t bothered—because I wasn’t, really. I’ve heard worse.

But I also wasn’t going to let it slide entirely. I don’t mind a little banter, but I believe in returning the serve.

Version #4: I am a Singaporean who uses simplified Chinese, is deeply interested in history, and understands the nuanced and politically charged background of script reform

These days, most client meetings are done online. Efficient, to the point, and typically void of anything beyond the standard two-minute warm-up about weekend plans.

But today was different. The client wanted an in-person meeting, so we were all in a car together, inching through city traffic, making small talk. Somewhere along the way, the conversation veered into the difference between traditional and simplified Chinese.

The client asked about it out of curiosity. My colleague from Hong Kong replied, half-jokingly, “Simplified Chinese was invented by Mao so that peasants could understand.”

I smiled, but didn’t say much at first. I’ve heard versions of that line before — usually tossed out with a certain tone. Dismissive, slightly smug, as if the entire history of language and literacy reform could be summarized by a punchline.

As someone from Singapore, we use simplified Chinese too — not because we were trying to mimic the mainland, but because it made sense in the broader goals of education, accessibility, and practicality. And yes, it was a politically loaded choice, but also a pragmatic one.

The real story is messier — involving post-war literacy drives, shifting ideologies, the role of mass printing, and competing visions of modernity in the Chinese-speaking world. But this didn’t seem like the moment for a lecture.

So I just said, lightly, “It’s a bit more complicated than that. But I suppose simplified characters did do their job — they got more people reading.”

The client nodded. The Hong Kong colleague didn’t push further. The car kept moving.

And I thought — funny how history gets packaged sometimes. Easy to digest, like instant noodles. But I guess that’s what happens when politics, pride, and punctuation all collide in a five-minute car ride.

Version #5: I am a white male from the United States – easygoing, culturally detached – just here for the meeting.

It’s rare these days to spend this much time chatting with a client. Most meetings are online now—efficient, clinical, and straight to the point. Maybe a quick “got any weekend plans?” while waiting for everyone to join, but that’s about it.

Today was different. This client insisted on an in-person meeting, so we found ourselves in a black car crawling through traffic from the hotel to the office. At some point—don’t ask me how—we landed on the topic of Chinese characters.

The client seemed curious about the difference between simplified and traditional Chinese. My colleague from Hong Kong offered a casual explanation: “Simplified Chinese was invented by Mao so that peasants could understand.”

I gave a polite nod, the kind you give when you have no idea what to say and no strong opinion either way. History isn’t exactly my thing, and I wasn’t about to jump into a debate over script reform in a language I don’t speak.

I just sat there, vaguely wondering how much longer till we got there, and whether the meeting room would have decent coffee.

Version #6: Black British woman who is culturally aware, attuned to microaggressions, and thoughtful about power, language, and identity

It’s rare these days to have this much small talk with a client. Most meetings are virtual now—efficient, impersonal, and strictly business, with maybe a minute or two of polite weekend chat while waiting for everyone to join.

Today was different. The client preferred meeting in person, so here we were—stuck in traffic, making conversation. Somewhere between the hotel and the office, the topic wandered into the difference between simplified and traditional Chinese.

The client seemed genuinely curious. My colleague from Hong Kong leaned in and said, “Simplified Chinese was invented by Mao so that peasants could understand.”

He said it lightly, like it was just a fact. But something in the tone made me pause. I’ve learned to pick up on the subtle notes—the casual way history gets flattened into a punchline, the ease with which certain groups get spoken for, or spoken down to.

I didn’t say anything. Just registered it. I’ve had enough conversations to know when a remark is off, even if no one else flinches. Especially then.

I turned my gaze back to the window. The city outside was humming along, unaware. Inside the car, the conversation had moved on. But that sentence lingered in the air, quietly, like something unfinished.