About Kevin Minh Allen

 

I was born in the Gia Ðịnh district of Sài Gòn, South Vietnam on December 5, 1973 to parents who still remain unknown to me. At 9 months of age I was flown to the U.S. in August 1974 to be adopted.

My first American name wasn’t Kevin, but Dominic. I found out from my adoptive mom that she and my dad were not the first couple to adopt me. It seems that a young couple from Springfield, Missouri brought me home first and took care of me for a couple months until their marriage fell apart. According to the adoption agency’s rules, I was placed in a foster home somewhere in Colorado and within a month my second set of adoptive parents waited for me to arrive at the airport in Rochester, New York.

It’s quite humorous to me that I went through three names all before I reached 1 year of age – Nguyễn Đức Minh, Dominic and then Kevin Keith Allen.

My existence is the only memento I have of the two people who conceived me. My body is the only evidence I have that proves they were alive and came together on this planet at one time or another.

According to my Vietnamese passport, I am a mix of Asian and Caucasian. More than once, when I looked in the mirror, I tried dividing the parts of my face into Vietnamese and Caucasian features. Of course, dividing up the features that could have belonged to my mother or father is really an exercise in futility. I could certainly guess where my mother’s eyes begin and my father’s nose ends, or conveniently attribute my lack of height to my mother’s genes and my curly hair to my father’s genes.

What I truly desired were pictures of my parents that would show me just how much I look like them. I could say to myself that I look more like one or the other.  I could smile and think, So that’s where I got my hair from. Not being able to open a photo album and point to pictures of my mom as a little girl or my dad on his first day of school is significant to this feeling of loss. I think I’ve always been aware of the hurt deep inside of not knowing what their families looked like. It’s as if the train carrying my other family, the one separate from my adoptive family, was redirected and split off to head toward a completely different horizon with only the slightest memory of my birth.

Sài Gòn is the city where I was born. Webster is the town where I was raised. The two probably couldn’t be more different from each other.

My adoptive parents were very happy to receive me on that November day in 1974. 

Many times I’ve looked at the photos of my reaction as that large group of people converged to see the new arrival. My face was plump and flush. My natural curls looked tousled from uneasy sleep.  My eyes were wide with surprise and fear. I had no idea who was holding me and I didn’t know I was being handed over to new parents. It looked like I was in desperate need of an explanation.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I was born in the Gia Ðịnh district of Sài Gòn, South Vietnam on December 5, 1973 to parents who still remain unknown to me. At 9 months of age I was flown to the U.S. in August 1974 to be adopted.

My first American name wasn’t Kevin, but Dominic. I found out from my adoptive mom that she and my dad were not the first couple to adopt me. It seems that a young couple from Springfield, Missouri brought me home first and took care of me for a couple months until their marriage fell apart. According to the adoption agency’s rules, I was placed in a foster home somewhere in Colorado and within a month my second set of adoptive parents waited for me to arrive at the airport in Rochester, New York.

It’s quite humorous to me that I went through three names all before I reached 1 year of age – Nguyễn Đức Minh, Dominic and then Kevin Keith Allen.

My existence is the only memento I have of the two people who conceived me. My body is the only evidence I have that proves they were alive and came together on this planet at one time or another.

According to my Vietnamese passport, I am a mix of Asian and Caucasian. More than once, when I looked in the mirror, I tried dividing the parts of my face into Vietnamese and Caucasian features. Of course, dividing up the features that could have belonged to my mother or father is really an exercise in futility. I could certainly guess where my mother’s eyes begin and my father’s nose ends, or conveniently attribute my lack of height to my mother’s genes and my curly hair to my father’s genes.

What I truly desired were pictures of my parents that would show me just how much I look like them. I could say to myself that I look more like one or the other.  I could smile and think, So that’s where I got my hair from. Not being able to open a photo album and point to pictures of my mom as a little girl or my dad on his first day of school is significant to this feeling of loss. I think I’ve always been aware of the hurt deep inside of not knowing what their families looked like. It’s as if the train carrying my other family, the one separate from my adoptive family, was redirected and split off to head toward a completely different horizon with only the slightest memory of my birth.

Sài Gòn is the city where I was born. Webster is the town where I was raised. The two probably couldn’t be more different from each other.

My adoptive parents were very happy to receive me on that November day in 1974. 

Many times I’ve looked at the photos of my reaction as that large group of people converged to see the new arrival. My face was plump and flush. My natural curls looked tousled from uneasy sleep.  My eyes were wide with surprise and fear. I had no idea who was holding me and I didn’t know I was being handed over to new parents. It looked like I was in desperate need of anI was born in the Gia Ðịnh district of Sài Gòn, South Vietnam on December 5, 1973 to parents who still remain unknown to me. At 9 months of age I was flown to the U.S. in August 1974 to be adopted.

My first American name wasn’t Kevin, but Dominic. I found out from my adoptive mom that she and my dad were not the first couple to adopt me. It seems that a young couple from Springfield, Missouri brought me home first and took care of me for a couple months until their marriage fell apart. According to the adoption agency’s rules, I was placed in a foster home somewhere in Colorado and within a month my second set of adoptive parents waited for me to arrive at the airport in Rochester, New York.

It’s quite humorous to me that I went through three names all before I reached 1 year of age – Nguyễn Đức Minh, Dominic and then Kevin Keith Allen.

My existence is the only memento I have of the two people who conceived me. My body is the only evidence I have that proves they were alive and came together on this planet at one time or another.

According to my Vietnamese passport, I am a mix of Asian and Caucasian. More than once, when I looked in the mirror, I tried dividing the parts of my face into Vietnamese and Caucasian features. Of course, dividing up the features that could have belonged to my mother or father is really an exercise in futility. I could certainly guess where my mother’s eyes begin and my father’s nose ends, or conveniently attribute my lack of height to my mother’s genes and my curly hair to my father’s genes.

What I truly desired were pictures of my parents that would show me just how much I look like them. I could say to myself that I look more like one or the other.  I could smile and think, So that’s where I got my hair from. Not being able to open a photo album and point to pictures of my mom as a little girl or my dad on his first day of school is significant to this feeling of loss. I think I’ve always been aware of the hurt deep inside of not knowing what their families looked like. It’s as if the train carrying my other family, the one separate from my adoptive family, was redirected and split off to head toward a completely different horizon with only the slightest memory of my birth.

Sài Gòn is the city where I was born. Webster is the town where I was raised. The two probably couldn’t be more different from each other.

My adoptive parents were very happy to receive me on that November day in 1974. 

Many times I’ve looked at the photos of my reaction as that large group of people converged to see the new arrival. My face was plump and flush. My natural curls looked tousled from uneasy sleep.  My eyes were wide with surprise and fear. I had no idea who was holding me and I didn’t know I was being handed over to new parents. It looked like I was in desperate need of an explanation.I was born in the Gia Ðịnh district of Sài Gòn, South Vietnam on December 5, 1973 to parents who still remain unknown to me. At 9 months of age I was flown to the U.S. in August 1974 to be adopted.

My first American name wasn’t Kevin, but Dominic. I found out from my adoptive mom that she and my dad were not the first couple to adopt me. It seems that a young couple from Springfield, Missouri brought me home first and took care of me for a couple months until their marriage fell apart. According to the adoption agency’s rules, I was placed in a foster home somewhere in Colorado and within a month my second set of adoptive parents waited for me to arrive at the airport in Rochester, New York.

It’s quite humorous to me that I went through three names all before I reached 1 year of age – Nguyễn Đức Minh, Dominic and then Kevin Keith Allen.

My existence is the only memento I have of the two people who conceived me. My body is the only evidence I have that proves they were alive and came together on this planet at one time or another.

According to my Vietnamese passport, I am a mix of Asian and Caucasian. More than once, when I looked in the mirror, I tried dividing the parts of my face into Vietnamese and Caucasian features. Of course, dividing up the features that could have belonged to my mother or father is really an exercise in futility. I could certainly guess where my mother’s eyes begin and my father’s nose ends, or conveniently attribute my lack of height to my mother’s genes and my curly hair to my father’s genes.

What I truly desired were pictures of my parents that would show me just how much I look like them. I could say to myself that I look more like one or the other.  I could smile and think, So that’s where I got my hair from. Not being able to open a photo album and point to pictures of my mom as a little girl or my dad on his first day of school is significant to this feeling of loss. I think I’ve always been aware of the hurt deep inside of not knowing what their families looked like. It’s as if the train carrying my other family, the one separate from my adoptive family, was redirected and split off to head toward a completely different horizon with only the slightest memory of my birth.

Sài Gòn is the city where I was born. Webster is the town where I was raised. The two probably couldn’t be more different from each other.

My adoptive parents were very happy to receive me on that November day in 1974. 

Many times I’ve looked at the photos of my reaction as that large group of people converged to see the new arrival. My face was plump and flush. My natural curls looked tousled from uneasy sleep.  My eyes were wide with surprise and fear. I had no idea who was holding me and I didn’t know I was being handed over to new parents. It looked like I was in desperate need of an explanation.

 explanation.