As I stood in my bathroom, brushing my teeth, I had an epiphany of the injustice that seemed to be unnoticed during my childhood years. With all impartiality, I believe that justice is exactly what was lacking in Vietnam. Evidently, as a child, I was being scratched and scared all over my face by a bunch of kindergartners on my first day back from America. Although I have no recollection of it, the situation itself still makes me want to throw a tantrum. I blamed the kindergarten teachers who left my face harmed, and left the other kids free from blame.
I remember a remarkable event that took place during the 9th grade in my class, one that I will forever feel proud of. My class president, a former friend of mine, was ostracized from a popular clique, which was known for its popularity and also brutality. She neglected to give the leader of the clique a ride in her new bicycle, which ultimately resulted her in being constantly tormented by him, along with his many followers. Everyone at the school was afraid to befriend her because that would mean they would be tortured as well. On an ordinary school day, I approached her with great benevolence and care as she was sitting alone under the red flag of the school. Without fear of consequences, I started talking to her, and in short, I became the person for her to rely on. I had fewer possibilities of being abused by the leader because I was his help on math tests, and other tests that required memory skills. I was also perceived as a rich kid, which came in handy for me because of the school's abundance of prejudice. One day, as my friend and I were having a casual conversation, a peculiar freshman approached the girl's back with a bag of guava in his hand, readily poured over her hair. As her head dripped with sugar and guava juice, she immediately burst into tears, and ran straight up to the principal's office. After the break, the whole class reassembled in a classroom, waiting for the teacher to resolve the situation. While waiting for the teacher to come up, the clique starting talking smack about the class president, calling her names like "wussy", and "bitch". She then turned to me and started crying and moaning about her innocence. The group thought she was slandering them so they talked even louder for the whole class to hear. When my teacher finally arrived, she asked for the people who witnessed the plight. Not a single person volunteered. Five seconds passed by, I steadily raised my hand, and stood up. I told her the whole truth, and convinced her that my friend had no fault in the situation. I was the only person who represented her, and probably, the only one whose opinion can influence the teacher's decision. When the teacher believed my story, a girl from the group pathetically shouted out that my friend was talking bad about them before the teacher got to the classroom. I stood still, and confidently defended her on her behalf. My teacher could not have cared less about what the group had to say. She ordered the girl to stop talking and assured the class that she trusts me more. She even added that I am more of a role model than any of the students who have a position in the class. No one dared to say another word.
The trial went for a long class period. For everyone else, it was one of those rare days where we delay the class, and not have to study any Literature. For me, it was a day without the pain of literature, and with the omnipresence of justice. As we marched outside the classroom to form two straight lines, a male student came up to me, telling me only that I was a "hero". My walk home consisted of a large smile on my face, and a satisfaction that justice was served, and I was the bright lawyer. Even though my friendship with the class president was ephemeral, it had the slightest effect on me because nothing else mattered. I only cared about my uncredited help for her.
