I was born in Brooklyn, delivered by a Chinese doctor on a table in a boarding house on Sept. 23, 1920.
I was born in Boston, Massachusetts on May 16, 1923, the only child of Joel and Sylvia Miller.
I was born on the eighteenth of December, 1935, in the town Bourg-en-Bresse, about thirty miles northeast of Lyon, the second of three sons of Jeanne and Jean-Victor Pepin. Weighing only two and one half pounds, I nearly died at birth.
Nobody can hide their birthdays anymore, so there's no point in lying.
It turns out I share a birthday with Jose Mourinho. He is exactly 10 years older than me.
I was born on September 27, 1918, the second of five children.
I was born on 22 March 1931 in New York, the elder child of Abraham and Fanny Richter.
No one on this Earth knows how old I am.
Your date of birth is a security point for identity theft.
I was born in Washington, D.C., on February 19, 1941, the eldest of four sons.
I was born in Taunton, Massachusetts on June 1, 1917, but I actually grew up in nearby New Bedford.
Anna Held's birthdate and hometown are a dark mystery, thanks to her own mythmaking.
I was born in Belgium on 6 November 1932. I am married to Mira Nikomarow and have five children: Michele, Anne, Georges, from a first marriage with Esther Dujardin, and Sarah, Helene from a second one with Danielle Vindal.
If you tell me your name and date of birth, that's all I need to steal your identity.
What will be left of all the fearing and wanting associated with your problematic life situation that every day takes up most of your attention? A dash, one or two inches long, between the date of birth and date of death on your gravestone.
