Synergy by Sonia

Synergy by Sonia - February 2017 Scholarship Essay

Pre-game.
Turner Field, 2010. Going to an Atlanta Braves baseball game is a family summer tradition. Born and raised in the South, I have been indoctrinated in the religion of sports and the spirit of Southern hospitality from a young age. My taste buds tinge with joy at the thought of sugary sweet tea, fried chicken, and everything gravy. I am, after all, a child of the South.

Or am I? The yellow tint of my skin speaks seems to suggest otherwise. I am a minority. I wish to belong in the South, so I suppress my Chinese heritage. Speaking English and embracing American customs, I cloak my ancestry of cheongsams and hong bao. Despite my parents’ tireless efforts to instill their customs in me, I distance myself from tradition, for the sake of acceptance.

First base.
The satisfying crack against fresh wood sends the ball flying into the outfield, and Chipper Jones, already on base, takes off. He is trained to run regardless of the result. Anxious fans spring to their feet in anticipation. Chipper eyes his destination: a crisp square guarded by a vigilant defender. In a frenzy, the first basemen leaps to the streaking baseball. It narrowly evades his grasp and powers on.

An abrupt shout freezes me in my tracks. A ticket scalper swaggers up with a crooked grin and stained teeth, sure of his intentions. My brother politely declines. A look of confusion crosses the scalper's face, and I watch as his bewilderment dissipates into rage.

Second base.
Chipper rounds the plate, kicking crimson dust onto the second basemen who stands helpless with an empty mitt. Each step taken prompts a growing realization in the crowd. Those on their phones lift their eyes and opt for the real view. Turner Field is now engaged.

The ticket scalper neglects standards of humanity. His voice drops, his eyes narrow. The tickets flutter uselessly to the concrete as he turns his attention to our skin. “Forget y’all. I’m surprised you speak English. Stupid ching-chong,” he says as he motions toward my brother.

Third base.
The third-base coach frantically waves Chipper home. The right fielder rushes to capture the ball, which has zoomed into the corner of the field. A hushed silence falls over the crowd. No phones in sight. All eyes on the ball.

Having long suppressed my Chinese heritage, I now long to release my anger at his ignorance. I wish to strike him for insulting my roots. But my normally fiery siblings, to my surprise, simply sigh and depart in resignation. My sister tugs me away as I sputter in indignant anger. My proud family surrenders their dignity under the invective of a small man.

Home.
Peanut shells, popcorn bags, and sunflower seeds litter the aisles. Everyone is on their feet. The deafening claps echo around Turner Field as the players burst out of the dugout. The crowd turns to one another, screaming and crying, embracing neighbors and strangers—all for the love of the game.

That day, I swallowed my pride, following my siblings into the stadium silently. The Braves won and we celebrated with 20,000 other fans. But what I will always remember from that day is the hot shame and anger I felt—not only at the ticket scalper, but also at myself. For the first time, I realized how integral my ethnicity and culture are to me. This experience ended any resentment I had harbored towards my roots. I am Southern, but I am also Chinese-American. I am synergized by backyard BBQs, where we grill burger patties and ge zi. I am a product of the hard-working ideals of my Chinese parents and the boundless optimism of the America that I know and love. I am in the stands, chanting with my fellow Braves fans. I am home.