You walk up to the park and there’s one Chinese guy by Andy Chen

"Our language is violent"

You walk up to the park and there’s one Chinese guy

by Andy Chen

running the court, directing traffic, crossing over 
his defender and dropping him. He jumps a pass 
because he knows who’s scared to shoot. 
He pushes the pace, and what seems like chaos 
is just speed, what seems like noise is song: choir 
of collision, got-game gospel, heat-check harmony, melodies
that soar. You blink and he’s at the rim. 
You hear damn and ooo, but mostly sounds 
that can’t be spelled—before realizing you gasped too. 
Our language is violent: beast, steal, charge,
cut, hack, bury. Our country was built by these
migrant sons accustomed to sweat, these great-
grandchildren of slaves, those who grind and rebound 
and reach, and him with the crossover 
like a golden spike. A black court with white lines 
to remind us what’s worth what. He jabs, steps back, 
doesn’t even watch as his shot drops. That’s 20,
so you tie your laces. His shadow flickers by, his lava 
orange Kobes barely making a sound. Does it surprise you
that he talks the most trash? That his parents’ names 
are Sharpied on his soles? That opponents call him 
shifty? That he can dunk but never does? That
was game—you got next.

First published in Split Lip, 2025. Reprinted with permission.