Breaking the Barrier

Style: Narrative

Statement: In this piece, I wanted to capture the emotional journey of feeling like an outsider and slowly breaking through the barriers of language and culture. Through vivid imagery and personal reflection, I aimed to highlight the challenges of isolation and the power of connection that transcends cultural differences. My goal was to illustrate how shared experiences, like the small act of singing "Happy Birthday," can create a sense of belonging in unexpected ways. Ultimately, this narrative explores how stepping beyond initial perceptions can lead to deeper understanding and unity.

Wai Guo Ren. They were pointing fingers and laughing at me. Clenching my mom's hand,

we walked through a dark hallway with doors lining every side. The stench of chlorine was

sickening. Our footsteps echoed against the cold, tiled floor. The echoes followed us, growing

louder and more insistent with each step, reverberating through the corridor until we reached

the door to the pool deck. It was an Olympic-sized pool, with bleachers stretching on forever. At least, that’s how it felt to my 7-year-old self.

The air was bitter, still reeking of chlorine. It was dark, almost like each light of the

zigzag pattern on the ceiling was broken and flickering. Across the pool, coaches aggressively corrected some girls who were a little bigger than me. My grip on my mom’s hand grew clammy as we approached the coaches, feeling the weight of countless eyes on us. Heads from the bleachers above turned in unison, their gazes fixed on us like synchronized dolls.

The conversation between my mom and the coach was a distant murmur. Preoccupied, I

stared blankly at my reflection in the clear glass pool. Through the muffled voices, the phrase

“Wai Guo Ren” kept piercing through, repeated over and over.

Later, I asked her what it meant. She answered solemnly, “I don’t know, sweetie. But what I do

know is that they are not laughing at you; they are laughing with you.” With? 

Later, we learned that the word was Mandarin for “Foreigner.”

As months passed, the foggy air of Shanghai, China, started to clear up. Three times a

week, I walked through the same hallway of echoing footsteps to reach the same pool, the same coaches, and the same girls. Would I call them teammates? To me, they were “Wai Guo Ren”. They thought I was different but I saw them as different.

My whole life before the age of 7 revolved around two languages: Russian, my mother

tongue, and English, which I learned in school. Chinese was never in the picture. These girls, my “teammates,” felt like strangers. And what do parents teach kids about strangers? Isolate

yourself from them. So that’s what I did.

For the first few months, living in a city of skyscrapers compared to a small town in the Bay Area was a drastic change for me. I had no friends at school, and synchro practice felt even lonelier. The language barrier was a brick wall with no peeping holes.

Until one foggy day at the pool deck, when a girl named Yoyo timidly approached me. She was just a little taller than I was, with long, black, silky hair. She wore a black and pink swimsuit, which was the same brand most of the other girls wore.

“Hi. Sophia, right? My name is Yoyo.”

Was she speaking to me? And was it in English?

“Hi, Yoyo. You can speak English?” I asked hesitantly.

“Yeah, I am learning it in school right now.” Her accent was barely noticeable.

Instantly, I sighed with relief. Why hadn’t she approached me before? However, I’m

thankful she did or otherwise the four years living in China would have gone by painfully slow.

Yoyo taught me everything I had to know: the Chinese terms the coaches would use when

they screamed at us in the pool or what the other girls whispered about behind our backs.

Months went by, and I considered her my teammate and, eventually, a friend. She was my translator, my guide, and, over time, my confidante.

The light spring bloom had started to settle into the city streets. Towards the end of practice, my tiny body was shivering from the frigid ice-cold pool; my lips were purple, and the goosebumps on my skin sprang up like raindrops hitting the surface of a still pond, sudden and countless in the pool's icy surface.

To my surprise, the coaches announced we could get out early. I hadn’t caught the memo

as to why everyone was getting out of the pool. Thankfully, Yoyo leaned in and whispered, “We

are celebrating one of the girls’ birthdays right now, so we can get out of the pool right now.” I wrapped myself in my towel, feeling the warmth slowly seep back into my chilled skin.

Lips still blue, I made my way to the table where all the girls were gathering. At the center of the table was a circular chocolate cake decorated in fondant blues. They proceeded to light the candles, then chorused, “Zhu Ni Sheng Ri Kuai Le...” their voices rang out in unison. Happy Birthday to You...

I joined in. It was the first time I had ever sung Happy Birthday in Chinese. In the

present moment, it was just me, the quiet glass pool, and a table full of girls. The cheerful tune, though foreign, vibrated through my head, stretching a smile onto my face. I felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the towel wrapped around me. It was a warmth that came from the inside, from the realization that at that moment, I was part of something.

I was no longer just the foreigner at the edge of the pool. I was an extra voice that added

to the muttering melody. I felt like I belonged.

As I stood by the table with my teammates who had once seemed so distant, I realized that no matter where we were from or who the "foreigner" was, things connected us all which went beyond words or nationality. We could come together, not as strangers but as people who shared the same experiences, joys, and celebrations. In that realization, I found peace. I found belonging.

When I returned to America four years later, I brought with me not just a love for synchronized swimming but a deeper understanding of the world and the people in it. The

bonds I formed in Shanghai taught me that people are not just what they appear to be. That

beneath the surface, we all had layers waiting to be understood, and we all connected in some way. I continued to pursue synchronized swimming, always remembering the connections I made as Wai Guo Ren, a foreigner who found her place.