Niel: I met Yoon in the early 90s when we were both in junior high. We quickly became close friends largely due to the fact that we both played the trumpet and the seating chart put us near each other in the majority of our classes. During those early teenage years as we entered high school, but before we got our drivers licenses, we kept busy in any way we could imagine. One activity that we enjoyed was working at Yoon’s dad’s liquor store on weekend nights. I can’t remember if we got paid or not, but it didn’t really matter. Smashing empty boxes behind the store, sneaking a peek at the nudie mags, and stocking the shelves inside a giant walk-around refrigerator…. What more could you ask for when you are 14 years old?

One night while we were working/messing around, a serious incident went down at the store—an underage young man purchased booze using a fake ID and was busted by undercover agents from the Department of Alcoholic Beverage Control, or ABC. In addition to bringing a case against the young man, the ABC tried to say that Yoon’s dad had not asked for his ID. This is a serious charge.  A store that incurs several violations within a span of months could cause the owner(s) to lose their liquor license, which would be akin to Yoon’s family losing their livelihood.

Yoon: Niel and I were in the back drinking sodas and eating candy when I heard some arguing at the front of the store.  My dad was adamantly stating to the ABC representatives that he had specifically asked for the youth’s identification, which the officers denied.  There was one witness, a regular customer of the store, who stepped up in my dad’s defense and told him that he would serve as a witness in court if it ever came to that.  ‘That’ turned out to be one month later at a criminal trial at the county Superior Court.  The case: The People of the State of California v. my dad.

This charge against my father did not sit well with him. He had asked the youth for his ID but could not prove it because the security camera in his store was just for show—it was a video monitor but it did not record the events of the work day. To him, the criminal accusation was complete rubbish. And to show it, he refused to hire a lawyer. He had a witness—three if you include Niel and me—and a firm belief that the justice system would work in his favor. After all, he was right and the ABC officers were lying.

Niel: Yoon’s Dad, if he’ll allow me to say so, was a character. He was loud and funny and had a thick accent. Respect was important to him. He kept me on my toes, which was a good thing.

It was surreal to get permission to leave school, walk out to the curb with Yoon and hop in his Dad’s big ol’ car (I think it was a Lincoln Towncar) and head over to the courthouse as a witness. The best part by far was missing school and eating breakfast at Carrow’s, as we discussed case strategy.

When it was my time to testify, I’ll never forget placing my hand on the Bible and solemnly swearing to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Yoon’s Dad was representing himself and as such, was the person who examined me. The funniest part was that to prove my credibility as a witness, he asked what type of grades I got in school—all As. (Nothing but the truth.)

I then gave my recollection of the night in question. Yoon and I had actually seen his Dad ask for ID and that was the gist of my testimony. The prosecutor then crossed-examined me. Though he didn’t dispute my high marks, I had no idea what kind of chance we stood.

Yoon: The inaccuracy of some details of this event highlights just how old we are now.  Since this happened almost 15 years ago, some memories are fuzzy.  But I am confident that the prosecutor was a woman.  And she ran circles around my dad.  His law skills were of course overmatched, due to his lack of training.  She objected to nearly every question he asked and understandably so. Pops made a number of errors (asking leading questions of witnesses for one) but it ultimately didn’t kill his chances for acquittal.

The government had a tough job to do—it had to provide evidence that my father had committed a crime, beyond a reasonable doubt.  Still, the son of the defendant isn’t supposed to help the prosecutor—when my dad asked me to point to the undercover ABC officer that had been at the scene that night, I made a terrible gaffe and pointed to the wrong guy seated in the gallery.  The officer was actually seated next to the prosecutor, but I swear the gallery guy looked just like him.

Before any reader ridicules me, please note that it is extremely nerve-wracking to see twelve jurors looking at you, a judge listening to you and your father staring at you with a look that says, “What the eff did you just say?”  Panicking inside, I quickly added that I wasn’t sure what he looked like.  I was devastated.  I thought I had just lost the case for my dad.  After my testimony, I quietly left the court room and waited outside.  I think may have even cried to myself.

Niel, where were you at this point?  Do you remember consoling me?  I’m sure I needed it.

Niel: That’s right. She was a woman. The details are fuzzy for me, too. I think Yoon must have gone first because he actually somehow pointed out which guy he had made the blunder on. (I am sure this is against the law, don’t tell anyone.) I don’t remember you crying, dogg. But I would have been cool about it if you did. Promise.

In my life I have spoken in front of large audiences (in two languages), performed while playing a musical instrument, and taken hugely important tests that would determine my future opportunities, and yet I can’t remember ever being more nervous than I was up on that stand.

Somehow between Yoon’s, mine, and the other witness’s haphazard testimonies—enough members of the jury were convinced that Yoon’s dad was telling the truth. The end result was a hung jury. Charges dismissed.

A few years later, after my first year in college, I had to make an appearance in that same court building for a traffic violation. All the memories came flooding back—breakfast at Carrow’s, the liquor store, and most importantly, Yoon’s dad.

Yoon: Yeah, that was a relief.  I don’t remember too much fanfare at home after the verdict.  I think we went back to school and our daily routines.  A couple years later, I got a job working at a law office in the same lot as the Carrow’s we ate at the two mornings of the trial.  I never set foot in that restaurant again.  The Day in Court was a great experience but not necessarily a pleasant one for me.  I will say this though, Niel—I’m glad you were there to support our family.  I owe you a cold one, 15 years later.

A friend of mine is a student at a large public university and he was recently assaulted by an alleged fraternity member of the local “tough guy” frat for being Asian.  Nothing more nothing less.

Flash back seven-plus years to September 12, 2001, a day after Middle Eastern holy warriors murdered thousands of civilians in New York City.  I am an Asian student at the same public university and I am threatened by fraternity members while walking down the street that night.  They are angry and drunk, spewing profanity at dark skinned male pedestrians; presumably, the alcohol they had consumed had distorted their minds into believing that we (I swam outdoors regularly then, the sun giving me a darker complexion than my parents did) were involved in the horrific act of terrorism 3,000 miles away.

After hearing that an Egyptian-American acquaintance of mine had to literally fight his way through them only five minutes earlier – the three frat members saw a Persian looking man and went after this guy – I was waiting for the fratties to say something to me.  I intended to exact retribution with physical violence.  Suddenly, a third victim of the verbal abuse appeared on the scene and she had brought her boyfriend, and the guy looked pissed.  Apparently, the fraternity members had also spewed their obscenities at women that night.  Bad for them.

“Are you down, bro?” asks pissed-off boyfriend to me.  The next thing I know, the mean-looking, short-stature boyfriend turns and drops the shortest fratty with one punch to the chin and then jumps on the largest frat guy who was at least 6′ 3′.  Wow, he’s amazing, I thought.  That left me with the beer-bellied fratty who was more or less my size. I wildly threw my fists at the guy’s head and connected a few times. He eventually fell to the street and curled up to protect himself, leaving me to aid the boyfriend. Keep in mind this guy is a complete stranger to me but my brother-at-arms at that moment.

The police arrived about two minutes later but the boyfriend and girlfriend had fled the scene.  The guy must have done this kind of thing before because he knew what would happen next.  The police sat everyone on the curb and proceeded to question everyone for at least 30 minutes.

In the end, the fratties went to jail for being drunk in public but not for assault, not for yelling obscenities, not for being a-holes.  Why?  Because I decided not to press charges.  I merely thought I would follow that “Bro” code and keep it simple.  They were just being drunk and stupid that night.

Back to present day and I am looking at my friend: he has a lacerated lip, seven stitches and bruises all over his face.  All of this caused by a drunk dude committing assault on my friend because he is Asian.  I immediately think, “Nothing has changed at this school in eight years.”  We have a black president and more minorities in elected office than ever before yet racism still pervades the so-called liberal college campus in California.

Nothing has changed because I did nothing to change it.  I don’t think I could have prevented my friend’s injuries had I pressed charges the night of my sole adult fist fight but I could have brought awareness to the campus in 2001 that could have blossomed into a closer, inclusive community in 2009.  A fist fight did nothing but a simple article published in the school newspaper that condemned racially motivated attacks could have achieved a step closer to a real, peaceful community.

Okay. Lesson learned.  Oh, and fighting is bad.  Really, what kind of meat-headed, immature, ignorant Neanderthal reacts to name-calling with violence?  But that was 2001 me.  I’m wiser now.  Right?