How my Chinese name shapes how I listen, decide, and deal
At the end of March 2026, President Donald Trump is expected in Beijing for a high‑stakes meeting with Chairman Xi Jinping. Preparations have been underway, with reports pointing to March 31–April 2 as the working window and negotiators meeting in mid‑March to shape possible outcomes on tariffs, market access, and technology controls. Chinese officials have hinted they want 2026 to be a “landmark year” for steadier ties, while calling for careful planning to avoid missteps.
What comes out of this moment could ripple far beyond tariff schedules. It may influence student exchanges, research partnerships, business travel, and the overall temperature of global commerce. In other words, the details matter—but so does the understanding between people who must carry any agreement forward after the handshakes and photos.
That understanding often begins with something as simple—and profound—as a name.
When I introduce myself in Chinese, I don’t start with “me.” My name is 马事瑞 (Mǎ Shìruì). The first character, 马 (Mǎ), is my family name—“Horse,” a common and respected surname. Next comes 事 (Shì), which evokes affairs and work to be done. The last is 瑞 (Ruì), meaning auspicious or fortunate—the kind of blessing you hope travels with you into important rooms. Together, the feeling is this: may the work ahead be successful and fortunate. Chinese names aren’t read like sentences, but they carry intent.
The order of the name is the quiet lesson. In Chinese, the family name comes first, then (often) a generational character shared across siblings or cousins, then the personal name. Family → generation → self. Each introduction is a reminder of where you come from and who you stand with before you state who you are. In the United States, we tend to do the reverse: we lead with our individual identity and place the family name last. Self → family.
Neither approach is right or wrong, but they set different defaults for how people think and act. In the U.S., we often start with the individual—an executive vision, a product, a number we’re trying to hit. In China, the starting point is more often the relationship—how a decision supports the team, the organization, the partners around it, and the longer arc those groups are trying to follow. I’ve learned that if you don’t recognize this shift in starting point, you can think you’re talking about the same “deal,” when you’re actually telling two different stories.
I carry this with me into meetings. When I say 马事瑞, I am, in that order, acknowledging family, generation, and self. It nudges me to ask broader questions before I get into the weeds: Who else must this be right for? What will it mean for partners who are not in the room today? How will this be explained inside your organization tomorrow? Once those answers are on the table, the technical parts tend to move more smoothly—timelines, quality plans, IP boundaries—because the deal has a place to live.
I’ve seen this play out in small moments that matter. A counterpart once paused a promising discussion because the proposal would have made a respected manager appear sidelined. The numbers were fine; the story was wrong. We adjusted the rollout—added a joint announcement, a shared pilot, a clearer path to credit—and the agreement not only survived, it moved faster because everyone could stand behind it. In another case, a firm insisted on a rapid signature with minimal internal consultation. They got the signature, but not the support they needed to implement. A month later, we were back at the starting line, this time with more people in the room and a better outcome.
This is why the upcoming summit matters to businesspeople even if we never set foot in a government building. If leaders can stabilize the relationship—lower the temperature, create a path for practical cooperation—our daily work still depends on how well we read each other. Cultural literacy won’t replace good economics; it enables it. The more we understand the other side’s logic, the more likely we are to build agreements that last beyond a quarter.
There’s one more lesson in my Chinese name that I try to carry into closing moments. 瑞 (Ruì)—good fortune, the hopeful token you carry forward. I’ve learned to end important conversations by saying out loud the good we intend to create together—safer products, more reliable deliveries, steadier jobs, shared prosperity. It’s simple language, but it travels inside organizations. It helps people explain why this agreement matters, not just what it says.
So as we watch the headlines about Washington and Beijing, I’m thinking about introductions. Family, generation, self. Relationship, then detail. If the summit delivers even a modest calm, the businesses that move fastest will be the ones that pair clear strategy with genuine cultural understanding. That’s how we turn a signed page into real performance. And that’s why, for me, 马事瑞 is more than a name. It is a reminder to honor where we come from, think about who we stand with, and only then speak for ourselves.
That order doesn’t slow us down. It makes our agreements sturdier—and our progress, faster.
The Road Ahead
U.S.–China ties will likely advance in careful steps—not sudden breakthroughs. In the next few years, both sides will try to protect core interests while keeping space for practical cooperation in education, travel, and business. Progress will depend less on big speeches and more on steady follow‑through: clear rules, predictable timelines, and everyday respect in how we work together. The most resilient deals will be those that pair sound economics with cultural understanding—agreements that people on both sides can explain at home and execute at work. If we keep that balance, we won’t just manage risk; we’ll create new room for shared prosperity, one well‑designed agreement at a time.
