奧運如何影響了我的亞裔身份認同感
小時候，關穎珊幫助我夢想自己的未來
今年在巴黎2024夏季奧運會上觀看亞裔體操選手Suni Lee和Asher Hong（湯健華）的比賽時，我不禁回想起自己小時候，奧運會總是給我一種特別的感覺。這一活動的平等主義和超越國界的精神對於我這個試圖了解自己在美國和世界中的身份的小小亞裔美國孩子帶來了無限的希望。
對於移民父母來說，他們在自己國家作為多數群體成長，很難理解像我們這種不曾對任何國家有完全歸屬感的 ABC 所經歷的身份認同困惑。我希望我這段關於奧運會如何塑造了我的認同的故事能幫助家長們更好地了解這種經歷。
在我的記憶中，有兩屆奧運會特別深刻：2002 年的鹽湖城冬季奧運會和 2008 年的北京夏季奧運會。前者加強了我作為亞裔美國人的認同，後者則加強了我作為全球公民的認同。我們將在這篇文章中討論鹽湖城冬奧。
少數族裔的美國夢悖論
我喜歡南非喜劇演員 Trevor Noah 的一句話，這句話描述了“夢想”的運作方式。他這樣說：“我們告訴人們去追隨自己的夢想，但你只能夢想你所能想象到的東西，這取決於你來自哪裡，你的想象力可能非常有限。”
作為一個在 1990 年代和 2000 年代長大的小女孩，當時互聯網尚未普及，YouTube、Netflix 和 Spotify 也還沒有被發明。我唯一可以接觸到的媒體渠道是電視、電影、廣播、雜誌和報紙。這些媒體渠道會報導的就只是白人或黑人。戴安娜王妃、Hilary Duff、Destiny’s Child。我從未見過一個亞裔的名字或面孔。
當時，我並不覺得自己缺少了什麼。但回想起來，我現在明白了，正如 Noah 所描述的那樣，缺少長得像我的榜樣限制了我的想象力。用一個孩子毫無批判的邏輯，我從電視中吸收了很多關於我能做什麼和不能做什麼的隱含信息。從亞裔幾乎完全缺席的新聞和娛樂中，我學到：
“你可能出生在這裡，但是你不屬於這裡。”（只有白人才應該在美國）。
“你可能出生在這裡，但是你是一個局外人。你在美國的故事中不存在。”（只有白人的故事值得在新聞、電視、電影等中記錄）。
“你可能出生在這裡，但是你不會在這裡成功。你能走的路很有限。”（只有白人在商業、政治、體育、娛樂等領域被突出）。
潛意識裡，我內化了這樣的觀念：歸屬感、重要性和成功這些夢想不是為像我這樣的亞裔人準備的。我既是美國人，但是又比其他美國人應該得到的為少。
2002年鹽湖城冬季奧運會：“我屬於這裡，我在美國的故事中存在，我可以成功”
當Michelle Kwan（關穎珊）在2002年鹽湖城奧運會上表演她的“Fields of Gold”節目並獲得獎牌時，我還不到七歲。我記得在我們的老電視上看著她完成每一個跳躍和旋轉，像在踏實地面上的舞者一樣優雅。但除了不受重力物理法則本身的束縛，她似乎還違反了”族裔物理法則“。對我來說，她是一個大姐姐，是未來的我可能成為的一個版本，她以某種方式扭轉了我從美國媒體中學到的不成文規則。這件事對我有意義，因爲她不僅是一個亞裔，而且還是跟我一樣的亞裔美國人。即使作為一個小孩子，我直覺地理解到，她不僅取得了巨大的成就，而且是在我所面臨的相同生活環境下實現了這一點。
在她五分鐘的表演和隨後的媒體狂歡中，我學會了相信，我從美國媒體內化的論述並不完全真實。我可以夢想。在我六歲的潛意識裡，關穎珊慢慢地將充滿懷疑的“但是”轉變為充滿希望的“並且”。
“你出生在這裡，並且你可以屬於這裡。”（美國在國際舞台上把一個亞裔當作他們的一分子）。
“你出生在這裡，並且你可以存在於美國的故事中。”（亞裔的故事被媒體所報導）。
“你出生在這裡，並且你可以在這裡成功。”（亞裔可以在體育方面取得成功）。
也許美國確實有我的位置，一個我可以想象自己在裏面的未來。當美國為她感到驕傲，我也第一次認為也許美國也可以為我感到驕傲。
關穎珊的遺緒和“representation”的重要性
接下來的幾個月裡，我懇求父母讓我在當地的滑冰場上學滑冰。我斷斷續續地滑了很多年，直到13歲才停止。雖然我從未成為一名競技花式滑冰運動員，但花式滑冰是我喜歡的運動，因為它是讓我學會夢想的運動。
關穎珊並沒有完全打破所有關於我是否屬於和能否在美國成功的論述。媒體在塑造我們對什麽是可預期的和可被接受的看法方面仍然發揮著巨大作用。它自從我長大以來已經發生了很大變化，但同時也沒有改變那麼多：我們有楊紫瓊、BTS和黃仁勳，但總的來說，在主流新聞、娛樂或商業中出現的亞裔美國人並不多。因此，儘管我對歸屬感和成功的懷疑隨著年齡的增長而減弱，但它們持續到今天，並且可能持續一生。它們出現在我的每一個社交互動中（“如果我的室友知道我聽K-pop而不是Taylor Swift，他們還會接納我嗎？”）和職業決定中（“如果我不選擇理科，我真的能夠成功嗎？”）。
儘管如此，我將永遠感激2002年冬季奧運會給我提供了一個不一樣的未來的短暫一瞥，並鼓勵我去夢想一個不同於以往的夢想。和我一樣，整整一個世代的亞裔美國人—Nathan Chen（陳巍）、Karen Chen（陳楷雯）、Vincent Zhou（周知方）、Alysa Liu（劉美賢）—都跟隨關穎珊的腳步。有那麽多亞裔現在主宰冬季奧運會，這並非巧合。
當亞裔美國人談論“representation”的重要性時，我們的意思是：我們希望能在媒體上看到更多我們的榜樣，幫助孩子（和成人）感受到亞裔美國人屬於美國這裡，而且他們被允許擁有更加無限的想象力的夢想。
這個奧運，家長也可以經由讓孩子接觸看起來和說話類似他們自己的榜樣，可以幫助他們在身份認同上感到安全，找到歸屬感，並有更遠大的夢想。體操選手Suni Lee、Asher Hong（湯健華），霹靂舞選手Sunny Choi，游泳選手Torri Huske（ 簡愛），乒乓球選手Lily Zhang（張安），羽毛球選手Annie Xu、Kerry Xu、Vinson Chiu（邱愷翔）、Joshua Yuan和Jennie Gai（大多都來自灣區）。好消息是，與我成長時相比，我們現在在奧運會上有更多的榜樣：只需知道要看哪些項目！
How the Olympics shaped my ABC identity
As a little girl, Michelle Kwan helped me dream of a future for myself
Watching Suni Lee and Asher Hong at the Paris 2024 Summer Olympics this year, I was reminded of how growing up as a little girl, the Olympics always felt special to me. The egalitarian and transnational spirit of the event gave me so much hope as a little Asian American kid trying to understand who I was in the US and in the world.
It can be difficult for immigrant parents, who grow up as majorities in their home countries, to understand what identity crises feel like for ABCs like us, who grow up feeling as if we do not fully belong in any country. I hope my story of how the Olympics shaped my identity can help parents better understand that experience.
There are two Olympics that stand out in my memory: the 2002 Salt Lake City Winter Olympics and the 2008 Beijing Summer Olympics. The first strengthened my identity as an Asian American, and the second my identity as a global citizen. We will talk about the first in this article.
The paradox of the American dream for minorities
There is quote I love by South African comedian Trevor Noah that captures how “dreams” work. He says this: “we tell people to follow their dreams, but you can only dream of what you can imagine, and, depending on where you come from, your imagination can be quite limited.”
As a little girl growing up in the 1990s and 2000s, the internet had not yet taken off and YouTube, Netflix, and Spotify hadn’t been invented yet. The only media channels available to me were TV, movies, radio, magazines, and newspapers. The only people these media channels covered were white or black. Princess Diana, Hilary Duff, Destiny’s Child. I never once saw an Asian name or face.
At the time, I didn’t feel that I was missing anything at all. But looking back, I understand now that the absence of representation limited my imagination, the same way Noah described. From TV, I absorbed many implicit messages about what I was and was not allowed to dream, with the uncritical logic only children have. From the near-total absence of Asians in the news and entertainment, I learned the following:
“You might have been born here, but you don’t belong here.” (Only white people are supposed to be here).
“You might have been born here, but you are an outsider. You don’t exist in American stories.” (Only white people’s stories are worth capturing in news, TV, movies, and more).
“You might have been born here, but you won’t succeed here. There is only so far you can go.” (Only white people were highlighted in business, politics, sports, entertainment, and more).
Subconsciously, I internalized that belonging, importance, and success were dreams that were not meant for Asian people like me. I was both American and deserving of less than what other Americans were allowed to have. This has always been the paradox of American minorities.
2002 Salt Lake City Winter Olympics: “I belong here, I exist in American stories, I can succeed”
When Michelle Kwan performed her routine ‘Fields of Gold’ and medaled in the 2002 Salt Lake City Olympics, I was not yet seven. I remember watching in amazement on our console TV as she completed every jump and spin with the grace of a dancer on solid ground. But beyond defying gravity itself, she seemed to also be defying the laws of racial physics. To me, she was a big sister, a version of who I might become in the future, who had somehow bent the unspoken rules I had learned from American media. It mattered to me that she wasn’t just Asian, but Asian American. Even as a young child, I intuitively understood that she had not just achieved something big, but that she had done so under the same kinds of circumstances I had and would face in my life.
In the span of her five-minute routine, and the media fanfare that followed, I learned to believe that the narratives I had internalized from American media were not completely true. I was allowed to dream. Within my subconscious six-year-old mind, Michelle Kwan slowly shifted the paradoxical “but‘s” that filled me with doubt into “and’s” that gave me hope.
“You were born here, and you could belong here.” (America claimed an Asian as their own on an international stage).
“You were born here, and you could exist in an American story.” (An Asian’s story was told in the media).
“You were born here, and you could succeed here.” (Asians can succeed at sports).
Maybe there was a place for me here after all, a future I could imagine myself in. America was proud of her, and for the first time, I thought that maybe America could be proud of me, too.
The legacy of Michelle Kwan and the importance of representation
The following months, I begged my parents to let me take ice skating lessons at my local rink. I would skate off and on for many years, until I finally stopped when I was 13. While I never became a competitive figure skater, figure skating was the sport I loved, because it was a sport in which I learned to dream.
Michelle Kwan did not fully shatter every narrative about whether I belong and can succeed in America. The media still plays a huge role in shaping our perceptions of what is expected and accepted. It has changed a lot since I grew up, but it hasn’t changed that much: we have Michelle Yeoh, BTS, and Jensen Huang, but overall, we still don’t have many Asian Americans who appear in mainstream news, entertainment, or business. As a result, though my doubts about belonging and success have quieted as I have gotten older, they persist to this day, and likely will for a lifetime. They appear in every single one of my social interactions (”will I still be accepted by my roommates if they know I listen to K-pop instead of Taylor Swift?“) and career decisions (”am I really going to be able to survive if I don’t pick STEM?”).
Despite this, I will forever appreciate how the 2002 Winter Olympics offered me a brief glimpse of an alternate future and encouraged me to dream differently than before. Like me, an entire generation of Asian Americans—Nathan Chen, Karen Chen, Vincent Zhou, Alysa Liu—followed Michelle Kwan’s suit. It is no coincidence that they are the ones who dominate the Winter Olympics now.
When Asian Americans talk about how ‘representation’ is important, what we mean is this: we hope to see media that helps kids (and adults) feel that Asian Americans belong in America, and that they are allowed to dream with a more unlimited imagination.
Parents, this Olympics, you can help your your child feel secure in their identity, find belonging, and dream bigger by exposing them to role models who look and speak like them. Gymnasts Suni Lee, Asher Hong, breakdancer Sunny Choi, swimmer Torri Huske, table tennis player Lily Zhang, badminton players Annie Xu, Kerry Xu, Vinson Chiu, Joshua Yuan, and Jennie Gai (mostly from the Bay Area). The good news is that we have many more role models in the Olympics than when I was growing up: it’s just a matter of knowing which events to watch!
