Chapter 3: Iustitia Dei

 “Back off,” I said, feeling braver than I actually was. I stood, facing a kid I didn’t know. My legs were shaking, my stomach lurching, and my mind screaming at me. But I kept his gaze, my anger stronger in that moment than my fear.

The kid stared at me, glared over at my friend Tyson who seemed to cower and wither under it, and then back at me.

“I’m going to f***ing shank you, chink.” The kid turned and walked away.

I stood there feeling like a death sentence hung over me.

Tyson came up to me and sheepishly smiled, despite the fear still evident on his face.

“Thanks man,” he said. What did I just do?

What did I just do? Tyson was a friend of mine since elementary school. He was, as far as I can recall, a Samoan kid. He was probably the only Samoan kid I knew. Dark of skin, Tyson was kind and funny. His love of Yugi-Oh cards and Gameboys matched my own interests.

He was a good friend. We had known each other for years.

Then came junior high, otherwise known as middle school.

Seventh grade felt like a weird, almost sadistic social experiment. After the cozy and relative safety of Morningside Elementary School, where we as sixth graders were at the top of the social hierarchy, we were thrust into a new dynamic as scrubs. 

Scrubs being the term for seventh graders to the eighth graders’ toilets.

Irvine Middle School loomed large in my head. I remember going to play basketball there after school in fourth or fifth grade and staring, wide-eyed, at the full-sized courts. The hoop towered over me. Could I even get the ball that high up?

Our first day of middle school we were told to get into the multipurpose room, where a passionate speech by the principal used words like “ladies and gentlemen” directed at us kids. 

I was a gentleman now? When did that happen?

The principal stated it plainly, “You are no longer kids. You have left elementary school and are now expected to behave like young adults. We will not hold your hand.”

I was terrified and a little excited at it all. At home my parents didn’t treat me like an autonomous adult. But here? Maybe I could be different.

Middle school included things like dating, which was foreign as it was enticing. Couples held hands, even made out. Gross. But also… huh. They talked about things like having sex. Or masturbation, which was both something my peers laughed about and talked about with increasing frequency.

Mr. Via, our biology teacher—who was old, had tattoos we could see on his wrinkled skin when he took off his lab coat, and who smoked like a chimney—had his name re-drawn into the shape of a man masturbating to fits and giggles during class.

Middle school included fights. Sometimes it even involved someone pulling out a knife and brandishing it.

Rumors spread of boys, and girls, getting jumped for saying the wrong thing, being in the wrong place.

“Jumping” was a common term. “Shanking” was also a common term, and more than one sibling of classmates were in prison for shanking someone.

The 1990’s and early 2000’s in Vietnamese identity was one of gang banging and an increasing adoption of the East Asian ethos of scholarly achievement.

We were on the precipice.

Or, I supposed, the proverbial fork in the road.

Would we rap, cuss, smoke, drink, jump, and shank?

Or would we study, achieve, succeed, and make our parents proud?

Were we Vietnamese or were we Asian?

I didn’t know.

I only knew that I was neither a good student nor someone who was willing to shank someone and go to prison.

One time, as I was standing in front of my middle school waiting for my dad to pick me up, a group of high school boys came up to me. They looked read to beat me up.

One of them asked me for my name. I told him. They looked at each other, asked me if I knew so-and-so. I told them I did not. They shrugged and went searching for him, saying they would kick his a** when they did.

I was relieved I didn’t happen to have the same name as the poor kid who was about to get pummeled. 

I gave Tyson a fist bump and took a deep breath. I was proud of myself; even was sure I was going to end up in the hospital or worse.

A day ago, Tyson had told me he was getting bullied. And I hated bullies.

I had been a victim of bullying for years—from first grade to third grade. The kid would chase me around school with a spork. He would hit me, throw sand at me, call me names like “chino” and “chink.”

And I was terrified of him. I told my parents one day about it, sometime in the third grade. They told me to toughen up.

I did. One day he came at me with a spork. I grab the spork from his hand and stood my ground. That kid literally disappeared from my memories from that moment on. I don’t think he ever came near me again. 

And so, I listened to Tyson’s being bullied with an empathetic ear. I would not let Tyson—my friend—be bullied.

That day, as we were transitioning between classes, the kid came up to my friend. Tyson said hi but I could tell from his demeanor. This was the bully.

At Irvine Middle School we weren’t allowed lockers. We had lockers for P.E. That was it. It was for our smelly, sweaty clothes. Not for books. And so, Tyson held onto his books, his backpack too full to carry more.

I weighed my backpack one time. It was almost seventy pounds. 

The kid came up and then slammed his fist down on Tyson’s books, sending them collapsing onto the floor. Tyson cowered, head ducking and stepping backwards. 

I stepped forward, glaring at the kid who had, without provocation, attacked my friend. Maybe I saw my mother’s face in that kid. Maybe I felt the anger that raged inside me like a storm—an anger that would grow and grow as I got older.

I don’t know what it was. But I stepped forward and despite my fear I said, “Back off.” And he did, despite the threat of violence. 

Justice. I did not know that word then. But I did know the concept.

***

Bao Công was a Taiwanese TV series in the early to late 1990’s that I watched with wrapped attention. Also called Bao Thanh Thiên, he was a righteous and fearless judge who always dressed in black and gold with a crescent moon birthmark on his forehead. It symbolized divine justice, and he was known for his wisdom, sense of fairness, and harsh but just rulings. His face was black, but it wasn’t about his race. That wasn’t how Chinese operas worked.

The black face represented his impartiality, integrity, justice, and unyielding righteousness. White was cunning, treacherous, suspicious, and untrustworthy. Red was loyal, heroic, and courageous. Gold/silver was divine, supernatural.

Bao Thanh Thiên represented both the black of righteousness and the gold of divinity through both his face, and his black clothes with gold embroidery.

His scholar adviser was Công Tôn Sách, strategist who was clam, rational, and intelligent. He would help investigate crimes, gather evidence, and present legal arguments.

There were the four enforcers— Trương Long, Triệu Hổ, Vương Triều, and Mã Hán. They enforced the law, made arrests, and even performed execution.

And lastly, there was my favorite. Triển Chiêu, the protector, the skilled swordsman, the marital arts expert. His red robes were iconic, standing out sharply from everyone else. He was royal guard who wanted to serve Bao Công because of the judge’s integrity. And he became the focal point of many action scenes. He jumped from rooftops to rooftops, battling assassins, defending justice with his sword.

Triển Chiêu had power, autonomy, and the ability to fight back against the injustices that not only affected him, but everyone else. And I wanted to be just like Triển Chiêu.

I look back and I wonder—why did I want to be like Triển Chiêu and not Bao Thanh Thiên, who was the actual protagonist of the story?

In many ways I think I knew I was not an impartial judge. I certainly wasn’t touched by divinity. Bao Thanh Thiên sat on his imperial chair, dispensing justice with a word. 

As an adult I can see that he held true power and authority over everyone, including over Triển Chiêu. But as a young boy who didn’t have any voice, any confidence or power. Any autonomy over his body, or his world.

I simply wanted to take action.

To stand up to the bullies, metaphorical sword in hand.

I did not pray to God.

I did not believe in iustitia dei, the divine justice of God.

I did not believe in God.

I did not believe that there was anyone, anything, out there that was looking out for me.

I did not see the black and gold on Bao Thanh Thiên as a sign of deliverance. 

I saw it as the loud noise of absence. 

The red, though. The red robe, the flashing sword, the martial prowess built inside me both a hope and a longing. A longing for justice, yes.

But also a longing to see a world that was better than I experienced it.

In many ways, Tyson looked like Bao Thanh Thiên. Dark, almost black skinned, and his eyes just exotic enough that if you didn’t pay too careful attention, it could have passed off as Asian.

And I guess I was, in that moment, Triển Chiêu—not divine justice.

Something more personal. Something with more agency.

I was the hero in a story with bullies. The narrative centered on me.

If only for that moment.

My understanding of justice—my understanding of righteousness—was flawed and limited.

But for the twelve or thirteen-year-old version of me, who felt alone, lost, abandoned, and anchorless, I just simply wanted to take things into my own hands.