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On my first birthday, my parents placed twelve objects in front of me, each representing a different future. This ceremony is part-tradition, part-superstition, but the very idea of selecting your fate as an unknowing infant reminds me that being Vietnamese is inherently poetic. Of all the objects I could’ve picked, of all the paths I could chosen instead, I chose the pen during my ceremony. Interpret that how you will, but I’ve always known that I was a poet, even before I knew this story.