One woman's quest to live without products made in China

In a recent episode of The Office, Steve Carell's perennially clueless Michael Scott arrives at work suddenly concerned about China's imminent global economic takeover, picking various items up off the desks and reading the labels aloud in disgust: "Uh-huh: China. China. China." This isn't news to his staff: "Yeah, that's where they make stuff," Andy Bernard says snottily.

And it isn't news to the rest of the world, either. It's no secret that a huge chunk of this American life is manufactured in China. Making stuff for us is such big business over there that there are whole towns devoted to pumping out a single product, like zippers or umbrellas.

But does it have to be that way? In 21st-century America, is a life without Chinese-made products even possible? I decided to give it a shot for a one-week trial during which I wouldn't buy anything — or use anything I already owned — that came from the People's Republic.

(Note: This is not to pick on China per se, or generalize about the quality of its manufacturing or labor practices, or single out companies operating in China while exonerating those that exploit cheap labor in other parts of the world. We all know China isn't alone in this category.)

Transportation, food, clothing
I figured I'd start with the essentials. At first, it looked like I'd be in good shape. Both my car (a Honda Civic Hybrid) and bike (an '80s relic Centurion mixte) sport "Made in Japan" stickers. Food, too, should be easy: I'm a good little locavore with a CSA share who buys pastured chickens at the farmers' market. But I still make the occasional trip to Whole Foods, and a quick check of the fine print on the back of a bag of frozen spinach reveals that even that bastion of organic wholesomeness has Chinese connections. Even after the melamine-in-the-baby-formula scandal, the U.S. still imported nearly $5 billion of seafood and agricultural products from China in 2009.

Spinach crisis averted, and assured I'd be mobile and well-fed during my Chinaless week, I tackled the closet next, ripping everything with the Made in China label off its hanger and flinging it onto my bed. Out went my favorite navy-blue boyfriend blazer and everything else from my last Urban Outfitters haul. Out went much of my Banana Republic and Neiman Marcus cache; even my one designer dress — a body-hugging Elie Tahari number handed down from a much richer friend, the dress I was planning to wear to as many holiday parties as I could get away with — was out.

By now the bed was covered with a mountain of fabric, and the closet, what was left of it, wasn't exactly a model of fair-trade fashion: The remaining labels read Cambodia, Mauritius, Turkey, El Salvador, and India.

Since the prospect of spending the week wearing sweatshop clothes from Vietnam didn't sound particularly righteous, I tried whittling the rest down into a "Made in USA" section, which turned out to be a pitiful grouping of thrift-store finds, a couple of threadbare American Apparel tees, and a bright green hand-me-down sweatshirt that looked like something Debbie Gibson might've worn circa Electric Youth. (Whatever happened to all that "Buy American" sloganeering we heard in the '80s, anyway?)

Shoes, too, were a complete disaster. Out of 30-odd pairs, I was left with two: some worn-out made-in-Vietnam Adidas and a pair of rarely worn flat pleather boots from a long-ago trip to Spain. Everything else — including a bunch of name-brand boots, heels, flats, sneakers, and running shoes — was either labeled as from China or of indeterminate origin, which meant they were also out.

Everything else
I was midway through sorting out hats and scarves when I heard a chime coming from the other room. That was the moment I almost called the whole thing off.

My iPhone.

"Designed by Apple in California, assembled in China," the small print read on the back. It sounded almost apologetic. Though it was built in a factory 6,000 miles away, the thing was invented, cruelly, just a few minutes' drive from the house I grew up in.

A week without a phone? No way. I thought I'd won a small victory when a friend offered to lend me his old Mexican-made Nokia, but he'd lost the charger, and the replacements I found at Rite-Aid were all from guess where?

That's when the vastness of the task began to reveal itself. I looked around the apartment and saw West Elm, IKEA, Target, and Urban Outfitters, companies whose websites try to make their furniture sound exotic by describing it merely as "imported," without saying from where. But a few calls to customer service confirmed my suspicions: Almost everything, except my couch and a mid-20th-century Swedish armchair, would be off-limits during my week without China. And I could forget about the electronics: TV, modem, WiFi router? China, China, China.

Okay, no TV, no Internet — I wasn't ready to give up yet. I'd entertain myself the old-fashioned way: by reading. Except I couldn't do that, either, because the bedside lamp was made in China and so was the nightstand it sat on. Next to the lamp was a Chinese-made alarm clock that would also have to be avoided, meaning I might not get up in time to get to work, where there was no way around using my company-issued MacBook Pro anyway.

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