As many of you know, I’ve cherished this country called the United States of America for all the years of my life. What with the sweet taste of freedom, constitutional rights, the barbecues that come with Independence Day and the Super Bowl, and, of course — football! I’ve grown in this world for nearly 17 years and counting… only to find out recently that I wasn’t actually born in it.

People, my parents broke the news to me last night — I was actually born in Vietnam, and… they adopted me during a visit there. Unfortunately, they don’t remember much about my adoption nearly 17 years ago; all they recall is that I was born somewhere in central Vietnam, and then they came along — that’s literally it. It kind of dismays me that nobody has a clear memory of my adoption, not even my biological and adoptive parents.

Right now, I’m scrambling to figure out this whole puzzle. What do I know and what can I infer? With this revelation, it is my understanding that I became an American citizen at some point in my life — but I don’t recall making that first pledge. Yet somehow I went on to live my entire life as a U.S. citizen, subsequently pledging my allegiance to the flag of the United States of America and betting on the Broncos’ victory in 2016 with absolutely no idea where I was really born. But… it doesn’t fit. Nothing does. And I don’t know if that makes any sense — does it? How and why was this even possible?

I think to myself, “I wish I could answer that.” But I can’t, my parents cannot, and nobody else can. At least not completely.

Like the mysteries that transcend Doyle’s detective stories, this shocking new fact is something that none of us can totally understand in its entirety. As with everything in life, my adoption and their ramifications happened for a reason — but perhaps for a reason beyond understanding. It happened certainly not just because, but perhaps because my adoptive mom and dad swooped by like those flying baby delivery storks from 20th-century cartoons at the right place, at the right time? Or because my parents just wanted someone they could call their son? Or because they wanted a son who could teach them how American football works? We can only guess.

For now, I will assume that this is the case, even though I don’t yet know if this new understanding of my true birth is even sufficient — there is a chance that, one day, I will discover the truth behind my real roots.

Only then will I truly understand — once and for all.

One thing that will never change, though, is that I am somewhat at peace with my origins, however befuddling they may be — as long as I love the country I am in, especially for their penchant for football and the Green Bay Packers, everything is alright. Where we were born becomes negligible once we find themselves absorbed into great American pastimes, from cheering on football teams on TV to cheering them on in stadiums. (No, the Raiders don’t get my praise. Screw those guys.)

Let’s just hope that, even if made little sense before and makes even less sense now, the fogginess behind my past clears in time for the next football season — and hopefully, I can meet my real parents and predict the winners of the next Super Bowl with them, too.



P. S.: Hi, guys — if you haven’t yet figured it out, you might want to go back and read the first letter of each paragraph — I hope you’re having a great April Fools’ Day!


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