America,

“I still love you who shaped me yet never loved me because I’m Viet by birth, though I feel hardly oriental enough to call myself a foreigner, but I’m sure you don’t hold that against me. You love it when people melt into you, don’t you? I mean, you’re me and it’s sad to hate yourself though sometimes you really test me—but I’m too Buddhist to care about those petty unenlighted emotions. Oh! Is it not American to be Buddhist? Whatever. Anyhow, I love no one but myself but since I am both America and Viet Nam I guess I cannot love myself without loving them (me). Then again, since I’m Buddhist by birth and Postmodern by time period, I love everything because everything is me and not me,”

I said, drunk on canned cocktails, the broken teachings of a communist homeland, a dubious interpretation of the Buddhist religion, and of course, whatever colors the American flag are.