About me

I grasped my sister’s hand and laced my fingers between hers as we crossed the street in front of our house. With my other hand, I hunched over, gripping the handle of my sister’s bike, which I pushed while trying to keep the training wheels from hitting my ankles. With the objective of teaching my sister how to ride a bike, I directed us down the street to an empty basketball court. 

 

Only the cry of buzzing cicadas could be heard as tall trees hid us from the summer sun. I helped her onto the pink, sparkly bike and cumbersomely stood over its training wheels. Soon enough, two boys started circling the basketball court, closing in on us. I was annoyed that they were not respecting my sister’s space as she tried to learn how to pedal, and eventually I told my sister to stop.

 

“Hey, why do you have four wheels? That’s not a bicycle. It’s a four-cycle,” one boy called out.

“Can you not ride a bike? It looks stupid,” the other laughed. 

 

These boys were around the same age as my sister: 12 years old. She stared at them without saying anything. Then she turned towards me. Without any exchange of words, I knew what her expression meant. I knew she was aware they were mocking her even if she didn’t understand what they were yelling. It was clear to them that she was not neurotypical like nearly everyone else in their world. My sister has a developmental delay, which means that even though she is almost 13, she has the same verbal communication skills as a five-year-old, she cannot count to 20, and, no, she cannot ride a bike. 

 

My body flooded with rage, and my ears felt like they were pressed against a stovetop. Just shouting a verbal threat seemed like it would be satisfactory, but in that moment, my chest was subjected to a different law of gravity. I desperately wanted to fulfill my job as her older sister and protect her, but I remained helpless because I knew those boys’ actions were a representation of how their world is. Only their world is just two blocks away from mine. 

 

I hated that there were people like that. I hated that there were parents that taught children to be like that. I hated that I told myself I couldn’t do anything about it. 

 

It wasn’t until six months later that I decided to write about that moment. Upon the Jan. 6 riots of 2021, I felt a desperate need to describe my disappointment for the world in the school newspaper. 

 

To my surprise, my story started getting recognition from scholastic journalism organizations when I  placed fifth in the nation for social justice reporting. That was a moment when I realized that my personal story not only impacted me, but that it had the potential to impact others. 

 

Even though I can come across as “quiet” or “reserved,” it doesn’t mean that I don’t have a lot to say; I just didn’t know how to share those thoughts until I started writing for the newspaper. I found my voice through writing, which allowed me to bring difficult topics to light. 

 

I didn’t even realize the changes that I was exhibiting in high school until a former teacher of mine told me why she nominated me to represent my school at a meeting with the school district President.

 

“I told them, ‘Olivia Kim knows how to speak her mind,’” she said.

 

My confidence reached a point where it transcended the 11x17 page and into how I spoke, too. Although my current skills were not all realized through easy experiences, I can confidently say that as I am confronted by other basketball courts in the future, I can advocate and speak up for what I believe in. No matter what industry I end up working in, I will always carry the skills I have learned through journalism with me. I am a better listener, leader, writer --- a better Olivia.