In 1999, NATO bombed the Chinese embassy in Yugoslavia. Thirteen years later, the vast majority of Chinese still assume the act was not only intentional but also a murky plot by the United States, the leading power in NATO, to contain China. The nation erupted with rage, but it was the fury of betrayal, disorientation, and stunned rejection. No one chanted, "America is evil." Instead, there were tears of disillusionment. The United States, then widely perceived as a land of endless opportunity and noble ideals, was exposed as just another country where the powerful protect their interests at any cost.

I had been in China for a year then and was always greeted with openness, curiosity, and warmth. When the news of my country's misdeed swept the airwaves, the lights went out. No one's eyes met mine. They wondered whether I too was a fraud, a commercial hack intent on profiting from China at the expense of China. After a week, tempers cooled, but a scar of regretful suspicion has since marred the cultural landscape.

Evidence of deep affection for the American way of life is everywhere. Illegal DVDs of U.S. movies and television shows sell like hotcakes, especially ones such as Friends, Sex and the City, Desperate Housewives, and The Big Bang Theory, which celebrate a quintessentially American fusion of community and individual idiosyncrasy.

The election of President Barack Obama, a black man with no dynastic credentials, is regarded with awe, a tribute to genuine egalitarianism. Every conglomerate wants to become the GE of China, while Bill Gates and Warren Buffett are role models of the highest order, respected for personal vision and achieving master-of-the-universe status. Among denizens of rural China, who are less worldly than their coastal counterparts, America is not only esteemed for its freedom; it is also described transcendentally as "a land of dreams."

The American dream -- wealth that culminates in freedom -- is intoxicating for Chinese, young and old alike. But whereas Americans dream of independence, Chinese crave control of one's destiny and command of the headaches and vagaries of daily life. Americans fantasize about being "horizontally" apart -- living a sequestered life on a tropical island, away from the rat race's hustle and bustle. Chinese dreams are "vertical," to be on top of a mountain, looking down, able to manipulate the complexities of human existence.

But Chinese do not want to be sequestered from their world. In contemporary author Su Tong's book My Life as an Emperor, a fictional ruler, banished from his throne, fantasizes about being a high-wire artist, mastering every step, rising above the pettiness of quotidian concerns by dint of a broad worldview. The winner of a popular televised talent show had angel wings placed on his shoulders. Hoisted 30 feet above the studio audience, he became master and commander of the sky. The Chinese, unlike us, never want to escape but to float above. Their standard definition of having it all -- the wuzidengke, or five benchmarks of money, sedan, house, wife, and child -- is as compelling in the 21st century as it was during earlier eras. Without these manifestations of societally mandated achievement, mainlanders feel cast off.