A story about me when I was a little girl

My mother just told me a rather unexpected story about myself when calling me to wish me a happy new year. 

She told me how she who enthusiastically greeted by a woman about my age who thought she was me.  When my mother corrected this impression she was told by this woman who was my age that she would always remember me because I stopped her from being bullied by those horrible English girls at the English kindergarten I attended.  She is, like me, Oriental.  I must have been between 3 and 7 at the time. 

How touching and extraordinary.  I have no memory of that at all and am astonished at this feat of memory on her part.  She is now living in Alberta, apparently, and has a good figure, my mother added.  (This may mean she is in fact unmarried and childless, my mother speculated.) 

Unfortunately, my mother has forgotten her name.  I have no recollection of any childhood policy of standing up for the weak at all.  One of the few things I do remember - with terrible pangs of guilt and remorse of course - is being quite unkind to a ginger, deeply freckled, probably Down's syndrome Australian boy called Bruce.  I seem to remember stabbing him with a pencil I had just sharpened, for no reason at all except that I felt an irresistible urge to do so ...