Breaking the Ice - Alyssa Xu
Alyssa Xu is a junior and member of the Women’s Hockey Team at Amherst College originally from New Brunswick, Canada. In high school, she also played varsity lacrosse and field hockey.
The clock ticked down to 5 minutes. The sound of metal blades carving into the ice and muffled yells filled my ears as I stood at the top of the circle with the puck on my stick, watching the play unfold in front of me. My teammates battled for position near the net, tying up with the other team's defensemen. The opposing player lunged at me. I faked to the outside and took two strides into the center of the ice. Shifting my weight, I turned towards the net and let a shot go, the puck sailing up, through the sea of legs, and under the arm of the goalie struggling to see past the cluster of players.
The clanging of cowbells and cheers erupted from the stands as we celebrated. With a 3-1 lead, the win was so close I could feel the ribbon of the medal around my neck and the weight of the trophy as I hoisted it over my head. I felt bubbly, the pressure lifted from our shoulders. Most of all, I felt included, like I had proved I belonged on the team.
As our celebration broke up, I felt the jab of a stick on my back. Turning around, I saw my opponent, her golden hair streaked over her shoulder. She stared at me with piercing blue eyes.
"I'm surprised you can see the net with those eyes," she said.
The lightness left my body as I glided, speechless. I felt my cheeks get warm. My chest felt heavy, like I'd forgotten how to breathe. I stared back at her, watching the corner of her mouth curl up into a smirk. A thunderous swarm of emotions and memories rushed through my mind. Before I could grasp the thoughts boiling through my consciousness, I clenched my stick in both hands and slammed the shaft into her neck, sending her tumbling to the ice.
The ref pushed me back as the girl struggled to get on her knees. I turned around and skated to the penalty box, slamming the door shut. As I looked across the ice at the players on my bench, most of them frowning and whispering amongst themselves, I realized none of my teammates looked like me. I wished I could explain what she had said, but I realized they wouldn't understand how it felt for someone to say those words.
When the final buzzer rang, I didn't feel like a winner. The rush left me numb, the magical feeling of wearing a gold medal around my neck gone. After the ceremony, I skated off the ice and got undressed alone while my teammates continued to celebrate on the ice.
Lugging my bag on my shoulder, I left quietly through the side exit. My dad was parked on the curb, the trunk already open. I tossed my gear and slid into the backseat, watching the rink disappear behind us. My dad, famous for his post-game talks, was silent on the drive home.
When he finally spoke, he told me I shouldn't have checked her. I glared at him through the rearview mirror and told him what the girl had said. He avoided my eyes, staring blankly at the road in front of him. His voice was just above a whisper when he told me I should have made a joke about it or ignored it. He said I lost that fight because I let her win. I argued that if I didn't do something, she would keep saying racist things, thinking that Asian people were too weak to ever fight back.
I stared out the window for the rest of the drive. I couldn't understand why my dad was so adamant about brushing it off. That's when I realized we came from two different generations of Asian Americans.
My dad grew up in a generation where he was expected to put his head down and ignore resistance. Being a Chinese immigrant, he believed he had to work through the racial and cultural pushbacks to succeed. Like many other immigrants, he held onto the idea that we were lucky to be in this country and that showing respect would eventually lead to our acceptance into society. I believed that remaining silent promoted the stereotype of being submissive, a pushover, and easily manipulated. We weren't being accepted; we were being walked over.
I grew up with a foot in both worlds, telling classmates that I was born here and that we were the same, except my parents were Chinese. I remember forcing my parents to pack Chef Boyardee for lunch instead of dumplings to show them I ate the same food as them. Whereas my dad stuck his foot in the door, I angrily threw myself into the gap, determined to get into the light.
On each team I played on, I constantly saw myself through my teammates' eyes, judging myself for anything that might seem "off." Whether I was sitting at the dining hall eating dinner or getting dressed in the locker room, the feeling of being the odd one out nagged persistently at the back of my mind.
When I traveled to China for a training camp, my perspective began to change. I got dressed in a locker room where everyone around me looked like me. They spoke Chinese, reminding me of the way my parents would talk over dinner after long days at school and practice. On the ice, I wasn't scared to call for the puck. After so many years of being too self-conscious to use my voice to ask for a pass, skating with Chinese teammates was liberating. For the first time, I saw myself through my own lens. I wasn't filtering every word I said or action I made. I wasn't chasing after a false, unattainable white narrative. I was taking up space, existing in the world, and not ashamed about my identity.
After I returned to the US, I realized that this is what we should be striving for. We should be fighting for a world where we can feel free, unrestrained by judgment and the heavy burden of trying to become as close to white as we can. I also realized that the change would not happen on its own. I had to fully commit and do my part to make an impact on the future generation of Asian Americans.
As I reflect on the experiences that have shaped my understanding of being an Asian American athlete playing a predominantly white sport, I realize that both my dad and I were right; we shouldn't let those who reject or mock our differences take away from our happiness and achievements. At the same time, responding with anger and lack of control doesn't help anyone reach a common ground. Remembering past experiences also made me realize the importance of solidarity. It can be isolating, feeling like the only person who isn't like the others and the only person fighting for your acknowledgment.
So, for any Asian American or Pacific Islander, student-athlete or aspiring, I hope you'll join me in this movement.
We are not "aliens unable to assimilate," and we are not "perpetual foreigners." We shouldn't mold ourselves to the roles that allow us to be taken advantage of. We need to use our collective voice to stand up for ourselves and advocate for those around us. We are different. We deserve respect for our unique cultures and histories.
So let's continue being the hardest workers and the kindest teammates. Let's continue to listen to those around us, but be brave, speak up, and demand to be heard. Let's step out of the boxes we are given and break down the walls that make us feel alone.
Let's create the space we deserve.
