My First Ally
My early encounter with racism and a teacher who stepped in
(Performed at Venus Cabaret Theatre in Chicago on 11.23.24) Thank you Jeremy Owens, producer of “You’re Being Ridiculous” for inviting me to share my story.
Transcript of the story:
TW: Racism / Xenophobia
(Me and Mrs. Nilan in 2022)
“Chico! Chico! Chico!” yelled a white 5th grader, who was two grades older than me, as he shouted at me from across the hallway. A few moments later as I was about to close my locker, I was startled when he dashed towards me, grinning from ear to ear and yelling “Chico” directly to my face. He then proceeded to put his two fingers on the side of his eyes to make a slanted eye gesture, and yelled, “Chico” once more. My classmates around me paid no attention and were oblivious to his histrionics. I stood there, silent in shock and waited for him to disappear into the crowd of kids as they made their way downstairs to the exit.
I had never heard the word “chico” before, let alone understood its meaning, but I knew it had something to do with the way I looked, and what he was associating me with. Chico means “boy” in Spanish. Although its definition seemed harmless, his interpretation of that word became his weapon of choice against me. His slanted eye gesture was rather odd considering my eyes were bigger than his and that he gave me a nickname that is associated with another culture that I didn’t belong to. He was a kid who I had never met, but in those 30 seconds, he became someone that would matter to me. He found an opportunity to assert his dominance over me and it gave him permission to take advantage of my vulnerability.
As a 3rd grader, this was my first encounter with racism that I remembered. I was one of a few Asian kids in a predominantly white school in the early 90s. I had spent my first few years in elementary school being isolated from my peers. I was much too shy and frightened of interaction. I spent my recess time quietly retreating in the shaded corner of the trees from a house next to the school while my classmates were out playing tag, or recreating their favorite action heroes on the playground. When the day concluded, I sat in my normal spot on the bus, towards the middle. I would find out that this kid would be taking the same bus as me. He spotted me again and gleefully started yelling “Chico” to my face followed by his eye slanting gesture. I responded by turning away from him while sitting quietly in discomfort, not knowing what to say. The 15 minute bus ride was agonizingly eternal as I was anxiously waiting for the bus to stop in front of my home.
This would go on for weeks, and as it did, so did the kid’s ability to encourage everyone to greet me with a chorus of “Chico’s” and eye slanting. I continued to feel helpless. Even as a 3rd grader, I couldn’t bring myself to let my parents know what was happening. I knew that telling them would throw my mom into a panic, and my dad into a rage. My silence was only amplifying his bullying and I had no one else sticking up for me.
One day, Mrs. Nilan, my 3rd grade teacher noticed me acting worried as the school day was nearing its end. I was getting apprehensive to leave the classroom and kept looking over my shadow as I was getting my belongings out of my locker. She took me aside and asked me if I was okay. As I was struggling for several moments to respond back, she quietly kneeled down and gently said, “Randy, you can tell me. I want you to be okay.” I began to tell her what happened and saw how horrified Mrs. Nilan’s reaction was. She was outraged–outraged at the racism that was coming out of this kid and how it was affecting me. She softly looked me straight in the eye with both of her hands on my shoulders and in a firm voice, she said, “I am going to have a talk with him but I want you to remember Randy to never let anyone shame you for who you are.” She was reassuring me that she was going to take care of it. I pointed the bully out to her and she quickly walked right up and took him into another classroom. For what seemed like an eternal 5 minutes, Mrs. Nilan brought him over towards me. The bully surrendered and he was forced to apologize. Mrs. Nilan took me aside again and said, “What he did to you is never ever acceptable. I want you to know that I’m here for you.” For the first time, I felt that someone had my back. Someone was standing up for me and thought I was worth the protection and love.
Mrs. Nilan taught me something about that day. In a world that is often grappling with white supremacy, LGBTQ phobia, and other forms of toxic bullying, she modeled what an ally should look like for me. For a then middle-aged white woman, she saw how much her privilege could be the one to dismantle that kid’s racist bullying. She saw how much a brown-skinned Southeast Asian kid like me was struggling to assimilate into a white majority community back in 1992, a community that was back then deep into its conservatism, and into its intoxicating fear of HIV/AIDS. She would make it her responsibility as a teacher to make sure that my classmates knew how to respect other kids of color, and to know that I was being supported.
When I became an adult, Mrs. Nilan became one of my important mentors. I observed her classroom a few times when I was planning on becoming a teacher and got to witness first-hand how she instilled compassion and confidence in her students. I vividly remembered how she responded to each student when they raised their hands up to respond to one of her questions during class and how she would never say the word “No” or “That is wrong ''. Instead, she made sure that every student got to respond before explaining her answer. When I lived in Korea as an English teacher, she was my sounding board and provided me with some helpful advice when I had my struggles even when we were thousands of miles away. She even got to witness me being out and about as a queer man.
The fire in Mrs. Nilan’s heart, which played a role in the way she advocated for me, would often come up at times when we’ve hung out together. She reminded me that compassion didn’t mean having to play nice, but that it can mean fighting the ugly battles for what’s right.
A few years ago, Mrs. Nilan was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. In May 2022, I drove out to Minneapolis to see her, with the expectation that she wouldn’t be able to remember me. When she opened the door, I was introducing myself and said, “My name is Randy Kim. I don’t know if you remember me but I was your student and you were my mentor.” Her mouth dropped open and she quickly said, “I remember you”. She was able to remember who I was. In our conversation, she was able to recall certain memories about me that left me stunned. Maybe, I picked a good time and the energy from the universe was all aligned to make this visit happen. I was able to tell her what she did for me, how she protected me as a kid, and empowered me as an adult. I told her, “You really made my day” . To which she replied, “You made my day too”. Being able to finally thank her for all these years that she protected, supported, and empowered me was our full circle moment. In the end, she reminded me of the potential that I have in advocating for others during their time of need, and to give those permission to do so through courage and compassion. She may have stopped the bullying of that kid, but as I got older, there were many racist and homophobic abuses that I had to endure from classmates, strangers, and co-workers. However, there would also be many days that I got to stand up for myself and for others who needed it. When I think back to the day that I needed that protection, Mrs. Nilan’s answer provided me with the blueprint of what it means to be a trusted ally, and to be my own self-advocate to navigate and resist a world that is not so welcoming. She made me realize that this act of kind intervention would lead me down a path in which my self-worthiness was not going to be defined by those whose intent is to harm, but that it would be defined by my vision and the people who deserve to be in company with me.