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June 24, 2011
I do not know what I am. While I don't think it matters, in the end, it nevertheless would fascinate me to learn what cultural heritage I might have claimed had my parents raised me, given me access to my grandparents.

I envy those who have family histories. My adoptive family has history, but the story is faded. My parents did not keep it. My grandparents' tales, as they died, were fragmented. I have shards only, and none of their stories tell me whence the shape of my face, the color of my eyes, nor the breadth of my hips.