Dealing with judgment
When I meet a new friend or converse with a new adult the question I often get asked is congruous to, “What sport(s) do you participate in.” I always reply, “I am a competitive figure skater.” The term “competitive figure skater” is delineated in people’s mind as an individual who skates to graceful music, while simultaneously executing effortless jumps, rapid spins, and balletic movements on a white sheet of ice. The portrayal is undoubtedly correct, but when I step onto a sheet of ice for a competition, I am immersed with an incongruous experience—that of constant scrutiny and judgment from literally everyone surrounding me.
Upper Great Lakes Regional Figure Skating Championships (UGL) is held every October in either Illinois, Wisconsin, Iowa, or Minnesota where judges, coaches, and skaters from across the Upper Great Lakes region would gather for the largest qualifying competition of the season. The biggest qualifying competition of the year that would dictate whether or not I would be advancing to the Midwestern Sectionals Competition never fails to jolt me with a wide-ranging mix of feelings—everything from me being petrified of falling on an element to me being ecstatic to unveil my newly conquered spin or jump.
On an October Sunday at six o’ clock at night, I could be studying for my exam on Monday or watching the latest “Netflix” series. But, I enter through the doors of the 2016 UGL venue held in Pleasant Prairie, Wisconsin as a ninth-grader with my earbuds plugged in, my outfit underneath my fleece jacket, and my suitcase with the necessities to make it through a competition—the most important being my black size 280 Edea figure skates.
Before I would step onto the ice to compete, I acclimate myself to the atmosphere of the rink. I made my way up the stairs and into the warm-up area just as the intermediate ladies competition was coming to an end. I had the perfect view of the sheet of ice I would be competing on. I had the perfect view of the judges I would be performing in front of. I had the perfect feel for the type of audience I would be skating for. I seized the moment by turning my head to soak in the competitive atmosphere—a thrill rushed into my bones, and athleticism pumped through each vein in my body. I told uttered to myself, “you can do it.”
I make my way downstairs and into the boys' locker-room—still listening to music—to lace my skates; I am electrified with a sensation of adrenaline. All of the prayers I would conduct at 11:11 and all of the perfect programs I would visualize before I went to bed and when I would wake up were dedicated to skating a flawless routine at UGL. I would sacrifice everything that is mine to becoming the model figure skater that everyone thinks I am. Every program I practiced, every jump I landed, and every spin I spun had to seamlessly just come together at the perfect moment: on competition ice.
I was the last skater of the juvenile boy’s event which entailed a near thirty-minute wait after my warm up on the ice. As the skater before me was finished with his performance, I took a glide onto the ice, I eased the tension spread throughout my shoulders, and I attempted to wipe away any remaining pre-competition jitters left in my body by telling myself, once again, you can do this. After the previous skater heard his score and placement, the announcer in charge of the Juvenile boy's event announced, “please join me in giving a warm welcome to Victor Shi representing the Skokie Valley Skating Club in Winnetka, Illinois.” My coach gives me one last look of assurance and comfort before I skated away.
With that, I pushed off my quarter-inch metal blade and began to skate towards the center of the ice to hit my initial pose. As I present myself with a smile to the audience and the panel of nine-judges facing me, I am flooded with a sudden furor of nervousness. In addition to every spectator in the arena and my coaches standing beside the boarding watching every move I made, I was confronted by nine male and female judges looking me attentively and directly in the eye. The high-level panel of judges with a headset on and small screens in front of them to input the scores were prepared to gauge every jump, spin, and push I made in my performance.
Competing against a tough group of skaters from all across the Upper Great Lakes region, I knew I needed to deliver. My initial splash of being the determined figure skater everyone believed I was suddenly evolved into thoughts of doubt and fright. A rush of thoughts entered into my brain: What are the judges and audience going to think of my jumps, spins, and routine? What if I fall or make a mistake? I have to make my parents, my friends, my teachers, and my coach proud by skating without error. I have to be perfect.
Amid the anxiety inside of me and the judgment of the people surrounding me, I inhaled and took a deep breath. My music, “Barber of Seville — Overture,” began to play with the first set of notes being projected through the big speaker on the ceiling. I followed the movement of my choreography and barrelled down the ice. I found myself to morph into an “auto-pilot” figure. Any distress about possible mistakes was erased from my mind in part because of the countless programs and mock competition skates my coach would prepare me for.
With my mind cleared, I set up for my first jump, inhaled once again, and launched myself up into the air for two revolutions hoping for the best. After less than half a second, my quarter blades strike the ice, my head found itself to the right, and my arms were positioned straight out—I landed the jump. The judges look down to write their remarks as I set up for my next jump. After landing my first jump, I sunk into the ice with my knees, and I became comfortable with the competition ice. The process of the first jump would be repeated with my next element; a mere thirty seconds later, I came out of the two-revolution jump with my leg extended and my head to the right—I landed it again. Only four more jumps to land, I thought.
For the next two-and-a-half minutes, my blades would rip through each inch of the ice, I would hear clunk after clunk from my blades after executing and landing the next four jumps, completing three spins, and skating a quick-paced footwork routine to the beat of “Babor of Seville — Overture”—all while the panel of judges, my coaches, and the audience watched closely at every movement I made. As I struck my final position, I realized I skated the routine I yearned to accomplish in my dreams. I was filled with relief and disbelief after managing to skate an error-free routine. Leaving my final position, I skated toward the center of the rink and bowed to the judges and the audience with an infectious smile knowing what I had just achieved — a clean skate.
However, my competition experience was not completed—yet.
My coach and I made our way onto the “Kiss and Cry” where we eagerly awaited for my score and placement. For three minutes, silence would fill the arena. The technical panel went back and reviewed my elements inspecting any flawed jumps, spins, or footwork that may have been completed on a small projector monitor. The judges meticulously gave each element I completed a score, or a “Grade of Execution (GOE)” as judges call it, based on a standard set of merits—I could either get +3 or -3 depending on the quality of the element in the judges’ eyes. Every movement I would make with my arms, every extension I would make with my legs, and every stroke I took on the ice, would be closely examined by the judges and be counted towards my final score.
As the judges entered my score, my coach and meticulously waited in the “Kiss and Cry” area; while I skated to the best of my repertoire, the nine men and women on the judge’s panel ultimately would dictate my score and my placement. With the audience looking at me and my coach, and the judges slowly beginning to lift their heads to watch the scores be announced, I clenched my fists just before hearing my score be announced. The announcer says, “Victor Shi from the Skokie Valley Skating Club has earned a combined score of 44.47 points, placing him in first place.” My friends and family in the audience cheered, and I was approached with a hug from my coach—I was in awe. Not only was I bereft of speech because I won and advanced to Sectionals, but I also had a new season’s best score.
The constant assessment and evaluation I would receive for my three-and-a-half-minute performance—from both the audience and judges—had finally reached closure with achieving first place. I was left shaking with nothing but happiness and respite for the remaining period of the day.
I woke up the next morning rejuvenated and energized for school. It felt good to win the Upper Great Lakes Regional Figure Skating Championships, but I made an effort not to make a huge deal of it at school. I maintained my normal Monday schedule at school the next day as a ninth-grader: go to each of my classes, have lunch with my friends, and then attend Political Action Club.
At school, I strive to escape the constant appraisal thrown at me from my skating coaches and figure skating judges. Going to school serves a fundamental purpose for me: learning and constantly bursting new intellectual curiosities with my peers around me. But, at a school with a student body of over 4,000 people, a culture of judgment for one’s outfit, social media, grades, courses that are taken is pervaded throughout each corner and end of the school. Instead of dealing with the world as it is, the world is shaped as one needs it to be.
Going from my 6th period lunch period to my Freshman English Accelerated course, I would be filled with nothing but dismay. I walk with my friends and appreciate the candid conversations we have about a wide range of topics including the latest material learned or political issues. But during my moments of discussion with my friends, I am disturbed as I notice guys and girls laughing in the hallway about the latest post on social media, looking oddly at someone’s outfit that may go against the latest “trend,” murmuring about how poorly someone did on a test—judgment is spread throughout my school. While I yearn to see a school free of a desire for materialistic items, materialism, in an age of advent social media growth, is what causes a standard and expectation that people have of other people—but judgment is alive and kicking no matter where I find myself to be.
For the past sixteen years of my life—whether it is through figure skating or being a student—I am submerged in a life of constant judgment and scrutiny from peers, coaches, teachers, parents, and judges. Each competition I partake in, each essay that is left with remarks in red, has me searching on how to deal with the judgment faced.
Initially, judgment from others would spread through each centimeter of my body, infecting and causing me to have a sense of insecurity and a sense to be perfect. Judgment would cause me to be re-shape my identity and try to be the mold that everyone expects me to be.
After each competition and essay written throughout my formative years thus far, judgment is something that is inevitable in my life—and just when I want to escape judgment, it directly confronts me no matter the situation. Instead of allowing any judgment to dictate my emotions and decisions, I dismiss any judgment thrown at me.
Where I used to be overly sensitive towards other people’s judgment, now, I view judgment as something that is negligible in my life. Whenever someone would look at me oddly or judge a competition I skate at I tell myself you know yourself best; don’t let anyone decide your life other than yourself.
Judgment is human nature. Judgment is a brutal reality in the world. Judgment follows me wherever I find myself to be. Instead of spending weeks or months trying to fix my character or mold a new identity based off of someone else’s point of view, as sixteen-year-old, I choose whether or not to allow judgment to impact my character.
