text: My first year in the United States was a complete culture shock to me. A huge part of this was the food. It was difficult to get authentic Asian food; you had to go to specialty stores to get the basics. And in the normal aisles? I had no idea what a lucky charm was, or why you'd have it for breakfast. A PB&J was a foreign, strange acronym that was supposedly a lunch staple. I mean why the fuck would you put something salty with something sweet!? A pop tart was a piece of bread, slathered with icing, then swallowed with sugar and vomited into a box. And school was even worse. This was one of the roughest periods of my life and school was a major component of that. My parents hadn't taught me anything to prepare for our move; they didn't know any English. So imagine, as a young kid, coming over to a new country you had only seen rarely in a movie (and as we all know, the one city you always see is only New York), going to a new school, and not being able to communicate with your peers. It was hellish, and I don't use that word lightly. It meant instant social ostracisation. There were no other Chinese kids in my class, and the teacher had to essentially smile and nod and hope for the best whenever I spoke (which, as you can imagine, was not often). Oh, by the way, my name “Tommy”? It was a result of my kindergarten teacher inability to pronounced my actual name, Toan Ly (Its two syllable!), so she decided to name me Tommy, like some sort of Asian pets she just adopted. After the first week, I was being picked on every day. Everyone seemed to join in on the bullying and I had no one to turn to. I couldn't even tell the teacher they were bullying me, not that I would have - I was too scared to. And I couldn't tell my parents. I had neither the courage nor the resolve to do so, as this would mean I've somehow failed in our big move; the move being, obviously, a huge step forward for our family. They seemed to be adjusting fine, or, more realistically, they didn't let me in on their difficulties. And so I didn't want to be the only one having trouble, and they were left in the dark. I used to hide in the bathroom stall and cry. Every lunch time, I'd run out of class before the teasing and bullying could start, I'd quickly find the nearest bathroom, I'd pick a stall and I'd sit on the closed toilet, knees pulled up to my face, crying my eyes out. I still tear up thinking of the despair felt by younger me in those moments. But something happened during my second week. I came out of my stall after my usual routine and an older boy came up to me, asking what was wrong. I was stunned - I could understand him. He spoke Cantonese! I was absolutely shocked. I couldn't believe it. He must have noticed my face; one or two bruises, and red from the tears. I couldn't even speak, I just stared at him. He told me it was going to be alright, and took me by the hand to the school office. The first gift he gave me was acting as translator, meaning I could actually communicate with the school officials and the teacher. I'm sure he was infuriated by the lack of facilities for new immigrants adjusting to the school, as he probably was once, and took it upon himself to help me not go through what he must have had to go through. The teacher was called in and I promptly explained in Cantonese, happy as anything with my new translator by my side, what had been going on. I'm sure my translator/new friend added some things, as he and the teacher spoke a bit without my input. The teacher left and I went back to class, thanking the older boy. I still didn't know his name, and I actually never would, not to this day. But his tale isn't over. He invited me to have lunch with him on the next break, later that day. I think the kids engaged in my torment were spoken to; I'm not certain, but it more or less ceased from that point on. I went to the lunch hall, and excitedly found my new friend. He introduced me to the rest of his Cantonese speaking friends, opening up a whole new world of social interaction and acceptance. Finally I had some people to just speak with! A whole revelation had been made and I was chatting away to them in my own language. I was no longer ostracised wholesale; I was included in something and that made all the difference. That same lunch break, after eating, the older boy had me come with him, and he approached the white kids who had been bullying me. I didn't understand a word he said to them in English except a lot of expletives. He pointed at me a few times, then himself, and the table of Chinese kids we just left. The conversation went something like this; “(pointing at them) *Fucking* (gibberish) *fuck* (gibberish) (pointing at me) *fucker* (gibberish) (pointing at himself, then the table of our friends) *fucking* (gibberish) (pointing at me) *fuck* (gibberish).” If I repeated any of those words at home my dad would have beaten me to death. But my older Chinese saviour with reckless abandon managed to scare those kids enough to stay away from me for the next year. I saw their wide eyes and frightened looks. I called him “Big Brother” in Cantonese after that, still not knowing his name, and it stuck for the whole year. I spent every lunch break with him and his (now my) friends, we hung out after school and he helped me adjust; he helped me to learn English, he helped with my schoolwork. He was the kindest boy I had ever met in my life and to this day I am so thankful for his existence. I wish I could thank him today. But it wasn't meant to be. The next school year, I went to a different school, and I never saw him again. But I've thought about him many times since, and I sincerely wish he's doing well. He deserves to, for giving that new, little Chinese kid crying in the stall a lifeline he longed for, and truly turning the darkness to light in his mind.