When I meet new people, I don’t usually say I’m adopted; nonetheless, I never questioned it because it was all I knew. I’ve spent my entire childhood with a lovely family, but I’ve never had the opportunity to learn about my culture. And, while I am technically an “African-American,” I am African. I was born in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, and raised in Atlanta, Georgia and Ann Arbor, Michigan. When you hear the two cities together, they sound, look, and feel so different that they are difficult to compare. However, neither of them has the community that I would have grown up in if I had stayed in Ethiopia. This isn’t a terrible thing; it’s simply different. But it has made me realize that I am not like the other black children at my school. They knew who their parents, grandparents, and even great-grandparents were. But all I know is that I was born and raised with a white family. Beginning to end. Have I ever wondered about who they were? Yes, but it’s difficult to accept that so many things could have gone wrong that landed me without them. If the worst-case scenario (they give me up by choice or give birth to me but do not want me) is true, I would prefer not to know. Thanks to the caring individuals who raised me, I don’t want to find the people who created me; I’d rather be with the people who chose me.