IT WAS A RAINY EVENING in May when Ricky Sim, outfitted in a sharp navy-blue suit from a day full of meetings, stepped out of his downtown Manhattan office and made his way uptown. His destination was the No Nazar Café in the East Village — not for another meeting, but for something more personal. That Thursday night, Sim was taking the stage as both host and performer for the debut of YumChaa: AAPI Storytelling Series, a show he created to foster community by promoting AAPI stories and artistic expression.
The theme of the evening was “Our Asian Parents.” The café could seat less than a dozen audience members. Huddled together in the intimate setting, they witnessed more than comedy — it was storytelling woven with laughter, tears, and emotion.
“YumChaa” means “drinking tea” in Cantonese, and for Sim, it represents something deeper. “Sharing stories over tea has been a popular practice to bond and build community within various Asian cultures and communities,” he explained. “YumChaa English Storytelling Series aims to do just that.” Through YumChaa, Sim hopes to build a space where Asian American voices and experiences can be heard, understood, and celebrated.
Sim’s own story begins thousands of miles away in Malaysia, where he was born and raised before immigrating to the U.S. at age 13 with his mother. Like many immigrants, they arrived with dreams and uncertainties in equal measure. Sim was raised with what he calls a “scarcity mindset,” shaped by the pressures of survival.
Growing up in Flushing, he said his mom always reminded him that as immigrants, they didn’t have the same room to fail that U.S. citizens did. Her advice, always rooted in love, also came with an unspoken message: stay safe, stay quiet, stay on the path.
When the time came to pursue a career in college, his family urged him to study something practical, like computer science. They hoped it would help him avoid the disadvantages of being a non-native English speaker entering the job market.
Then, in 2006, while Sim was still a freshman in college, his mother — his only immediate family in the U.S.— passed away from stomach cancer. “It was sudden,” said Sim, recalling that it took just two years from his mother’s diagnosis to cancer claiming her life. Her death deepened his anxiety about survival and stability in a country that still felt foreign.
He went on to earn a law degree from Brooklyn Law School as a part-time student while working, eventually becoming a lawyer, before pivoting into finance. On the surface, he had succeeded in the immigrant dream. But late at night, another dream tugged at him.
He often found his thoughts drifting to stand-up clips of Asian comedians like Margaret Cho and Russell Peters — performances that fascinated and moved him. He was inspired by Cho’s jokes about her mother and how she used humor to shed light on the Asian parent-child dynamic. “It was rare to see another Asian comedian at that time,” said Sim.
He also reflected on society’s shifting attitudes toward LGBTQ rights over the years. YouTube videos of queer kids coming out to their parents, and the gradual legalization of same-sex marriage in parts of Asia, made him wonder: How would his mother’s viewpoint on his sexuality have evolved had she not died so early?
In 2019 — 13 years after his mother’s passing and just before the pandemic — Sim took his first step into comedy and went to open mics. Then came the pandemic. In lockdown, he began to reevaluate his life. Maybe now was the time to follow his heart. He began writing more seriously, shaping the fragments of memory and longing into his first set, a 5-minute-long informal show performed in a karaoke bar basement in Manhattan’s Chinatown. Then he developed his solo show: “Coming Out to Dead People.”
“I think the message I’m trying to share is that you’re not alone,” Sim said. In the show, he explores themes of love, loss, identity, and healing — how we reconcile with ourselves and find closure with those who’ve passed on. After two years of bringing the show to places between New York and the UK, “Coming Out to Dead People” has since toured nationally this May and will be performed at the legendary Off-Broadway venue Joe’s Pub in New York City on July 18.
As for how he came out to his dying mother — or whether he ever did at all — that’s something audiences will have to find out by watching the performance.
This June, in honor of Immigrant Heritage Month and Pride Month, Documented sat down with Sim to talk about his journey and the making of his solo show.
Since your show has already debuted in Austin and Los Angeles, how has the audience feedback been so far? Have the reactions differed from city to city?
They were great. Austin is great, a community town. There were a lot of people, especially from the AAPI community and the LGBTQ community, who came out and supported the show. No matter where I go, the reaction has been pretty universal. A lot of audience members came up to me, telling me that the show reminded them a lot of when their parents passed away, and what they couldn’t tell them, or what they wish they could have told them, or just stories about Chinese or Asian families as immigrants, and kind of juggling between two worlds — between the Asian family and the Western world.
This show is rooted in something deeply personal — your decision to come out to your mother after her cancer diagnosis. I assume this experience must be emotional and difficult. What inspired you to turn it into a stand-up comedy show?
So the show is set in the late 2000s to early 2010s. I feel like things were different back then, especially in New York City. The representation of AAPI and LGBTQ people in media wasn’t as common as it is today. Coming out was already difficult, and the fact that I was debating whether to come out to my mom as she was dying made it even harder. There was no blueprint, no roadmap for me to navigate that.
Throughout the [experience], I always thought, ‘Maybe I’m the only one going through this,’ which made it even more isolating. It took me a long time and to try to understand the decision that I made — which I still can’t say. So, the show is about whether I came out or I didn’t. I guess people will have to find that out by watching the show. But whatever decision I made, whether that was the right decision all the time.
“The fact that I was debating whether to come out to my mom as she was dying made it even harder. There was no blueprint, no roadmap for me to navigate that.”
Because after my mom passed, I saw how, in America, more and more queer people were able to be true to themselves, and how their parents could love them unconditionally.
What was it like back then when you were trying to come out to your mom?
So most of my show dives into this. At the time, my mom was sick and I don’t know how common this is, but I feel like it’s very common in Asian families: when someone is sick, you just want to please them. You want to make sure they’re happy. You don’t want to add any more stress, because they’re already dealing with so much stress with cancer, with chemo and the fact that she’s leaving the world.
There was a lot of pressure from the family, like, ‘Why don’t you just find a woman? Why don’t you get a girlfriend just to show your mom you’re not gay?’ That was one aspect of it.
The other aspect was my mom, who was a very typical kind of Asian mom, always worrying. She would always worry that, ‘If I’m not here anymore, who’s going to take care of my husband? Who’s going to take care of my son? Do they know how to cook? Do they know how to make eggs?’ From the perspective of a traditional Chinese housewife, that’s what she thought about all the time. She didn’t really know anything about LGBTQ. All she knew was that she felt like she had failed as a mother, because she was leaving too soon, and she didn’t know if her husband and sons would be self-reliant.
And then, the idea that her son might not be interested in women and might not have a wife, that made her even more worried. Who would take care of me? So I think it was that kind of emotional pressure.
So can I say that you would prefer to keep whether you came out to your mom as a mystery until audiences watch the show?
Yeah. Because I think what I’m essentially trying to get across is that in Asian families, or with traditional Asian parents, we don’t say ‘I love you’ that often. So if they don’t say ‘I love you,’ how would they say ‘I accept you’? Or ‘I don’t accept you’? It’s going to look different.
What my show is really trying to explore is: In a culture where we’re not as emotionally expressive, how else do we show love and acceptance? I feel like a lot of coming out videos, especially in America, are relatively white, and they often go like, ‘Oh, I love you, son, no matter what,’ which is great. I’m not saying that’s a bad thing. But I do think there are more diverse ways of showing acceptance, and that’s what my show is trying to highlight.
You can come to the show and see how that plays out. Whether I came out or not, and whether I was accepted or not — that’s also open to interpretation.
That’s interesting, because your show is a comedy, but there’s clearly a lot of vulnerability and grief in this story. What was that process like for you, emotionally and creatively?
I started writing the backbone of the story a few years after my mom passed. As I went through that time, I started noticing things were changing — there were more coming out campaigns, more YouTube videos of people coming out. Then, a few years later, gay marriage was legalized. And that made me think, what would have happened if my mom were still around? That’s when I began writing stories about those feelings and experiences.
On the comedy side, I actually started doing stand-up during the COVID lockdown. A lot of my early jokes were about my dad, trying to get him to accept me, or what it was like coming out to him. And I think that’s a pretty common theme among gay comedians, talking about the coming out process on stage. But then people started asking me, “You always talk about your dad, what about your mom?” And I would say, “Well… my mom’s not here.” But then I realized — Wait, why can’t I talk about my mom? Even though she’s no longer here, I’ve written so much about her.
“That made me think, what would have happened if my mom were still around? That’s when I began writing stories about those feelings and experiences.”
That’s when I started leaning more into storytelling, like Moth-style storytelling, and eventually decided I wanted to blend stand-up and storytelling into one show. I started with a 5-minute story, then expanded it to 10 minutes, and began mixing in stand-up jokes.
From there, I started performing the show at different theaters, and eventually decided to take it to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. Over time, through many iterations, the show really started to shape itself.
What do you hope audiences take away from the show? Is there a specific message or feeling you want to leave them with?
I think whether you’re a queer child or a child of Asian descent, there’s always that feeling of regret — of not being able to say certain things or do certain things with a loved one before they pass. And then the cultural baggage, and the baggage that comes with your sexuality, can make that sense of regret even stronger.
I think the message I’m trying to get across is that you’re not alone in that situation. A lot of people go through it, and I hope this show can make people feel less alone.
And second, there are ways for you to find peace to get past it, or to accept it, and take the best version of it with you as you move forward in life. I think those are essentially the two messages I want to get across.
You work at a bank by day and are a comedian by night — two very different worlds. When did your passion for comedy first emerge? What made you decide to pursue it seriously?
I always wanted to pursue the arts and do creative things when I was young, like when I was in college. And I remember when my mom was alive, she told me this. She said, “You know, you’re an immigrant. As an immigrant, you’re not like the people who were born in the United States. You don’t get to go out there, fail, and have a second chance. Because for people born in the U.S., if they fail, they can always move back in with their parents. But as an immigrant, if you go out there and fail, you have nowhere to go back to. No one will be able to help you in America.”
So I think it was that sense of… I don’t know what to call it. Perfectionism? Resilience? That feeling that I had to secure myself first before I could pursue the things I loved. I had to make sure I could survive.
I mean, I wish I could have started pursuing the arts or entered the creative field when I was younger, but I just couldn’t. My mom passed away when I was still in college, and I had to figure out how to survive before I had the means, or even the audacity to study or pursue comedy.
That’s essentially what happened to me. I just couldn’t afford it. And working in comedy costs money. You have to pay to perform at open mics just to try out a 5-minute set. You might have to drive somewhere far just to get on a show, and they’re not going to cover your gas or transportation. Sometimes, they don’t even pay you. Or if they do, it’s like $10.
As someone who’s an immigrant, as someone who lost a parent at a young age, that just wasn’t something I could afford. When I was younger, I always had that scarcity mindset.
[When I] had been working in the industry for over 10 years. I finally felt a little more stable in my career. That’s when I thought, Okay, maybe it’s time to start spending more money, more time, and more resources on pursuing comedy.
Can you tell me more about your immigrant background and how that has shaped your voice as a comedian and performer?
I think immigrant parents are always very sarcastic, and also the cultural clash between Malaysian families and American society and community, were often the subject or the inspiration of my comedy routine. So I think that really helped shape my comedic voice.
Coming from an immigrant family, there weren’t a lot of chances for me to study performing or acting. And actually my family encouraged me to just look for a job that doesn’t involve a lot of public speaking, because I came to the U.S. not speaking any English. They would say things like, “Why don’t you study computers? You don’t need to speak English if you know Java. You don’t need to speak English if you know C++.”
“And I remember when my mom was alive, she told me this. She said, You know, you’re an immigrant. As an immigrant, you’re not like the people who were born in the United States. You don’t get to go out there, fail, and have a second chance.”
So I don’t think my family background influenced my comedic or performer voice directly. What actually started shaping that part of me was watching people like Margaret Cho and Russell Peters, those early Asian comedians. That’s when I started to learn about comedy. They were the ones who kind of gave me “permission” to try it myself.
When you were growing up, you separated from your dad and tried to survive here with your mom. What was that experience like?
It’s definitely tough. It’s almost like there’s this cold reality of truth happening. As my dad is still based in Malaysia, that’s a set of realities that I have to deal with. For example, going back to the topic of coming out, if I come out in the U.S., it means I came out as an individual. But if I come out in Malaysia, it also means I’m taking my parents out of the closet. They’re the ones who would have to face their friends and relatives asking, “What happened to your son? Did he get married?” They’re the ones who would have to figure out what to say.
In Asia, especially among the older generation, it feels more serious. Because at least in the U.S., if one community doesn’t accept you as queer or LGBTQ, you can usually find another. But in Asia, for a lot of people, that’s their only community. That’s all they’ve ever known.
So you founded the YumChaa AAPI storytelling series this May. What inspired you to create that platform?
I think a lot of the complexity in human relationships and family dynamics that AAPI folks face hasn’t really been widely talked about. In the past, the conversation was always just, “Oh, we need Asian representation.” But what does that even mean? When you say “Asian,” there are so many of us. We’re all different, and we each have our own unique challenges.
That’s really what made me want to create a Moth-style AAPI storytelling series. I’m also incredibly grateful that so many theaters have been willing to take a chance on the show.
Your show has grown tremendously — from a self-funded performance in a Chinatown karaoke basement to a run at London’s Soho Theatre. Can you walk me through that journey?
I think the reason I got into London’s Soho Theatre was because I brought the show to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival in 2023. I did a full month of performances, 24 shows every day.
Wow.
Yeah, and during one of those shows, someone from Soho Theatre happened to be in the audience. I didn’t even know they were there until two months later, when they reached out and said, “Hey, would you like to do the show in London?” That was an incredible, incredible experience.
Finally, what advice would you give to others who may be struggling with their identity, or who want to pursue a similar creative path but don’t know where to begin?
If I were to give two pieces of advice, I’d say, first, something kind of like what my mom used to say [laughs]: make sure you can take care of yourself. You have to find a balance between feeding your soul and feeding your stomach. Make sure you understand what it means to be sustainable, especially in a city like New York, where everything is unnecessarily expensive.
But second, also listen to your heart. When your heart is telling you that your soul needs nourishment, honor that. Respect that. Take the time to slow down and reassess. Ask yourself: Five years from now, ten years from now, will I regret not doing what my heart was telling me to do?
I think it’s always about balancing those two sides.
This interview has been condensed for clarity and concision.
