Dear Reader,
The other night, I landed in Boston from Milan, flying head first into two midterms I had not studied for, a completely booked Google Calendar of postponed meetings and a literal blizzard.
But I had just witnessed my friend, Alysa Liu, compete and win the Olympic gold medal in figure skating, and my issues here at Tufts suddenly seemed less significant.
As I sit here in my dorm, despite the clouds of gray covering the sky amid an impending storm, I can’t help but smile. Not merely because she won the gold medal, but because of the statement she made in doing so: A quiet demonstration of what becomes possible when people choose to lift one another up in a time so thoroughly shaped by hatred.
Figure skating is a sport known for the immense pressure and brutal competition between young athletes. It demands grace and athleticism, ‘perfect’ bodies and relentless drive, all from children who barely have agency over their own lives. No wonder it has led to headlines about smashing rivals’ knee caps and doping scandals. It cultivated a culture where competitors were conditioned to hope for another’s mistakes — even Kaori Sakamoto said she was “waiting for Russian skaters to fall or make a mistake” at the last Olympics in Beijing.
But last week in Milan, I witnessed something entirely different.
The night before her free skate, Alysa organized a small dinner with siblings and friends. She wasn’t in bed early or trying to calm her nerves — she simply wanted to have dumplings. She had planned the dinner incredibly last-minute (classic Alysa), ditching her bodyguards and finding a small Chinese restaurant, despite us being in Italy. We laughed as the owner tried to set her up with their young chef. We spilled some Olympic Village tea over dinner. We walked to get gelato, and even though it took us twice as long to get there while getting stopped every few paces from fans, she genuinely said she doesn’t believe she’s famous. We took digital pictures by the Grand Canal, and it was as if she didn’t remember she was competing the next day. There was no pressure.
I jokingly asked if she had beef with any competitors, secretly expecting some sort of hidden rivalry behind the scenes. She said no — she’s friends with them. She told me she feels closest to the Japanese skaters who technically should be her greatest rivals. But there’s no resentment there, just mutual respect.
The next day, she stepped onto Olympic ice glowing — literally, in a shimmering gold dress — and skated with pure joy. While most competitors chose slow, emotional ballads, Alysa was dancing to Donna Summer’s “MacArthur Park.” It was a completely different vibe: upbeat, playful, fun. The energy in the stadium was electric. After she landed her final jump, our whole row stood up and started dancing as she vibed through her step sequence.
When she found out she won gold, she wasn’t overwhelmed, shaking or crying like you’d expect from someone under the pressure of the Olympics. Instead, she happily hugged her competitors, Kaori Sakamoto and Ami Nakai, and congratulated them on their performances. She was calm and content, like someone who already knew she was okay, medal or not. In a sport that’s so historically bent on winning at all costs, she’s redefined what it means to succeed — choosing to connect with others and lift them up instead of using their failure to reinforce her success.
Standing there in the crowd, I was overwhelmed by this feeling of pride for my friend — and by a deep, profound sense of patriotism. Not for the presidential regime as it exists now, so intent on enforcing a homogenous vision of America through the exclusion and extraction of immigrants, but rather for the people who constitute it, and for the ideals of opportunity and freedom it was founded on. I was reminded that the true value of this country is not sustained by policy alone, but by the commitment of ordinary people (well, as ordinary as an Olympic athlete can be) to insist again and again on dignity, generosity and unity, even when institutions fail.
She is the daughter of an immigrant single father who came to the United States as a political refugee after serving as a lead organizer in the Tiananmen Square protests, where he risked everything to advocate for democracy and freedom. He is one of the hardest-working people I know. Alysa’s very existence is proof of the resilience and power of immigrants.
And on the podium, she embodies something more: the strength of minorities and opposing nations choosing unity in a world that expects them to tear one another apart. At a time when this country is bent on division — pitting communities against each other, alienating and extracting immigrants and rewarding ruthless competition — she makes a different statement.
She chooses a hug.
