A Confession 

A Confession

By: John Kazerooni

I have a confession to make. When I first came to America, I spent an entire day looking for a bowl in the Super Bowl. At that time, English and I were still getting to know each other. I spoke slowly. English spoke quickly. We communicated mostly through patience, hand gestures, and hopeful guessing.

I think it was mid January 1977. Everywhere I went, I heard the same words: Super Bowl. Super Bowl. Super Bowl.

On the radio. In the classroom. On the streets. In the cafeteria. In conversations between people who seemed more excited about this than anything else in life.

Naturally, I became curious. Then interested. Then completely convinced that something extraordinary was about to happen.

A bowl? And not just any bowl — a Super Bowl.

In my imagination, it was magnificent. Perhaps large and shining. Perhaps flying through the air. Maybe the players carefully passed it to one another. One wrong move — crash! Game over.

What skill! What drama! What a nation!

I did not have a television, so on the day of the great event, I went to the university cafeteria. It was full. Students were cheering, laughing, shouting. The excitement was real. I sat down, ready to witness history — or at least excellent kitchen equipment.

The game began. I saw a ball. I waited. Maybe the bowl would appear later, I told myself. This is a special event. Americans like big surprises.

Halftime came. Still no bowl. I waited more. The game ended. No bowl.

I turned to the student next to me and asked politely, “Excuse me… where is the bowl?” He looked at me with concern, the way people look at someone who might be lost.

I asked others. “Where was the bowl?” No one answered. Some smiled. Some ignored me. One person slowly moved to another table.

That night, I went home disappointed and confused. I could not sleep. No bowl?

How could something called the Super Bowl not have a bowl?

Then I realized something important. I could not change the meaning for everyone else. So I did what many people do when the world disagrees with them.

I accepted it. I accepted the bowl. Not because it made sense. Not because I understood it. But because everyone else accepted it. I accepted it with a bowl full of salt.

But that was only the beginning.

Soon I discovered that in America, language itself was full of surprises.

People say, “I could care less.” Really! Then please… care less.

They say, “For all intensive purposes.” Intensive? Are we exercising?

They say, “Nip it in the butt.” That sounds painful. Very painful!

They say, “Blood is thicker than water.” But aren’t we all connected?

They say, “Chomping at the bit.” Or is it champing? At this point, forget about me; even the horse is confused. 

Don't bother with logic; English gave up on that a long time ago!

Slowly, I began to understand something deeper. Language is not always logical. Sometimes it is simply agreement.

If enough people repeat something, it becomes normal. If everyone accepts it, it becomes correct. If no one questions it, it becomes truth.

And then I began to wonder…

Maybe this is not only about language.

How many things in life do we accept because everyone else does?

How many times do we nod without understanding?

How many traditions began as mistakes?

How many beliefs survived simply because they were repeated?

How many “bowls” in life are actually balls?

So here is my second confession: Since that day, whenever everyone seems certain about something, a small voice inside me quietly asks, “Are we sure this is a bowl?”

Because perhaps wisdom is not knowing everything.

Perhaps wisdom is the courage to pause, to look carefully, and to ask — even if others smile, even if they move away, even if the whole world seems convinced.

So let me leave you with a gentle question:

In your life, in your work, in your beliefs — where might you be watching a game, cheering with the crowd, and still waiting…for a bowl that was never there?

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