I wrote that I wanted to use my pen to serve the vulnerable. That I wanted my passion for humanism to defend victims of social injustice and racial discrimination. That I believed bigotry and hubris are what cause the downfall of societies across history and cultures.

That statement was written by a college student in an ESL class. It was not a slogan. It was not a political platform. It was the early declaration of my life’s moral direction.

At that time, I did not yet know how deeply I would need those words.

Because later, I would face my own battle for justice. I would experience what it feels like to challenge systems more powerful than myself. I would learn how procedure can be used to silence, how authority can be exercised without accountability, and how an accent can cause people to underestimate your argument.

And I faced that test sooner than I could have imagined. While I was still in that ESL class, my son became a victim of anti-Asian discrimination in his middle school in Elk River during 3 consecutive years 2003-2005; it ended by a 5th degree physical assault, with physical injuries and long term mentally hurts.

The police report was messy, confusing, and incomplete. When the case reached juvenile court, the judge and the defendant’s lawyer did not understand what had truly happened, and of course defendant denied his wrongdoing, claiming that he was the victim in this case, despite witnesses proving the otherwise.

I wrote an essay titled “Prejudice In A Small Town.” It was not written with perfect grammar—it was written with truth. In it, I described my son’s experiences, the quiet but painful effects of prejudice, and the human cost of discrimination that no bureaucratic report could capture.

I submitted that essay to the judge in juvenile court. The judge invited us into the courtroom and allowed us to speak directly—to say what we wanted to say to the defendant and his family. And because of that essay and our voices, we won justice for my son.

That victory confirmed what my ESL-class declaration had already said: words, truth, and moral courage can challenge injustice, even when the system seems against you. It was my first real test of the principle I had written years earlier—and it worked.

That moment changed me.

Because I saw with my own eyes that words matter. Those writing matters. That even someone still learning English can stand before a court of law and be heard.

English was no longer just a subject in college.
It became my shield.
It became my evidence.
It became my sword.
I did not seek revenge.
I sought fairness.
I sought accountability.
And justice prevailed.

That victory was not only for my child. It was a reminder that institutions must answer when confronted with truth. It was proof that conscience, when expressed clearly and courageously, can move even the structures of power.

History teaches us that societies decline when prejudice is ignored, when arrogance silences humility, when people decide it is safer not to speak.

That is why mastering English matters for immigrants.
Not merely for employment.
Not merely for assimilation.
But for participation in civic life.
For defending equal protection.
For demanding accountability.
For protecting the vulnerable.

My dream began in a college ESL classroom at NHCC, written in imperfect sentences but rooted in moral clarity. Life tested that dream immediately. And through that test, I learned something profound: a pen guided by truth can cut through injustice.

That principle guides me still.

In today’s work, I face legal and political battles every day—fighting for policies that protect the vulnerable, challenge abuses of power, and ensure accountability at every level of government. The lessons I learned in that classroom and in that courtroom—clarity, courage, persistence—inform every decision I make as an elected official.

We must use English like a sword—
Not for hatred.
Not for revenge.
But for justice.
We immigrants do not come empty-handed.
We bring resilience.
We bring memory.
We bring courage forged through hardship.
And when we sharpen our language with integrity and human dignity, we bring something powerful—
A voice that refuses to disappear.