The Sierra-Nevada morning was redolent of gorgeous optimism: the monochromatic sky ate away any doubtful clouds, the trees swayed to the cheerful cadence of the wind, the rind of the young sun asked to be ripped open. Today was day 11 of our 21 day backpacking trip. Day 11 was partner hike day: a chance to get to know someone better.
Our camp leaders read out the pairs for partner hike day. My eyelids flitted nervously. I was partnered with Stephen, a football player from New Jersey who attracted the attention from everyone in camp. Stephen had blonde hair, blue eyes, and an athletic build.
During our eight mile hike, I plastered a smile and opened my mouth to break the unwritten silence. I asked simple questions, like how are you? He did not answer and the silence grew ominous.
“I need to get this off my chest,” he said suddenly. “I don’t like you.”
“Why?” I asked, desperate to know the answer.
“Because, you talk like a white girl, but you’re not white. You’re Asian, and you can’t act like a white girl if you aren’t white. You just can’t be both.” We walked silently for the remainder of the hike as the blow of his words began to hit me. There were always subtle racist jabs at school, but none of them defined me in this way.
I watched him, joining the rest of the group, as I succumbed to his definition — I thought he was right. I should have known my place as the stereotypical reserved and submissive Asian to begin with, I scolded myself insecurely. I needed his approval to be comfortable with myself.
The other kids laughed, forming a circle so I couldn’t see their faces until a few of them stole a glance at me and quickly looked away. Their glimpses reeked of disdain and pity. I was their joke. Tears, wanting to be seen by the world, pushed at the threshold of my eyelids, and my ears ringed with the broken melody of, you just can’t be both.
I wanted nothing more than to go home, to run to the familiar comfort of my bed — the only place I was secure. I woke up early the next morning to get some space — to brainstorm some elaborate way to go home. Before I knew it, I found myself running into the pine forest depths of the backcountry dotted with spare rifts of sunbeams. I kept running until the sequoias revealed a new landscape: a never-ending series of hills. Only then did I realize that leaving isn’t possible. Finishing is.
Pleasing Stephen or even giving up would not make me more secure. I never needed his approval, I only needed my own.
These hills, the monsters we would conquer tomorrow, presented the gorgeous promise of challenge: the opportunity for me to take the power that I deserved back into my hands, and to pull myself out of that pit. If I gave up, if I refused to hike anymore, I would have let him win, I would have drowned further into the pit. Who said that he could tell me who I was supposed to be — the submissive, stereotypical Asian?
I am good enough as I am. I am brave and strong for signing up for this trip and have become braver and stronger having overcome the barrier of Stephen’s definition. His, or anyone else’s shortsighted point of view won’t limit me anymore.
Challenge transforms from burden to opportunity as I return the following summer to hike in the Patagonia wilderness with the same program. This trip is no less difficult than the last, but I am not afraid of what anyone might say.
And so I beat on, holding my head up high as if a chain is pulling my chin to the sun.
The writer is a member of the Class of 2020 at Trinity who was accepted Early Decision to Brown.