No, but where are you really from?
Jeff Chen,
Canton, MI
It’s always bothersome to hear despite hearing it so many times as if it in itself solely determines how others will perceive me.
You Must Be Mixed With Something
Melanie C.
Canada
But where are you really from?
I am unfortunately and surprisingly all white. Ahem, according to 23 and Me: 33% Northern European, 45% Mediterranean, 22% Eastern European. But at first glance, I look anything but. That’s the funny thing about DNA. It plays by it’s own rules, and we have to accommodate it.
Sometimes, around white people, I felt like an undercover cop. Hearing all the racist shi*, having them say it to me at times, not knowing that on the inside I was exactly like them. Like at 10 years old, my “friends” telling me to shave my armpits or asking me why my hair is just “so dark” like I picked out the colors at birth. Or thinking that I wasn’t born in Canada. Actually, that was last week. Haha.
It was as if everyday was like this: when a substitute teacher comes in and reads out the class list- then they read out my name, I’m like “present” and they look at me like “Really? That’s YOUR name? Are you sure?” That’s what happens when I tell people of my extreme causticity. And honestly, sometimes people don’t believe me. I don’t blame them- I barely believe it myself. It’s not like my family helped- I remember the first time I got compared to a celebrity was my uncle telling me I looked just like Halle Berry. Flattering? Of course. Confusing? Also yes.
I often thought that because people mistook my race for anything or any combination under the sun, I knew what it felt like to be subjected to racism. I know understand that it is not the case: that my pretend struggle in no way mirrors the systemic oppression that never seems to end. But did it confuse and hurt me? Absolutely. Because I was mistaken for everything I became nothing. I had no idea where to fit in. I think the closest struggle I have to compare it with would be an individual of mixed raced. It was like a tug of war on both sides: not white enough to be privileged, not brown enough to own my struggle. The middle ain’t pretty.
Most of my family members look nothing like me- my sister has blue eyes and light brown hair. Some days I wished I could have gotten a different set of features, or shifted a few colors lighter in some way. But then I stop myself and remember all the great things I get to experience because of the way I look. That when I go traveling, I am almost always mistaken for a local. That I get to fit and blend in with anyone I please. That I get to remind others that we don’t need bleach- dark eyes look the best in the sunlight. At the end of the day, I am undeniably proud to look this way. I am grateful for the interesting journey I get to experience everywhere I go. It has made me see things from the other side, and I can only hope that by experiencing what I have, I can be a supporting voice for those who will rise. I know my parents named me Melanie for some cosmic reason- it comes from the word Melanin and it means “darkness”. And only in darkness can we find the stars. <3
Half brown. Half white. From Vancouver.
Yasmin Pallan,
Canada
As a half Indian, half white person growing up in Vancouver and later Toronto, I was and still am tired of always being asked the question “where are you from? I mean, where are you REALLY from?” People like absolutes and obvious answers and mixed race is never that. To add to my story, I spent many years living in Barcelona, so speak Spanish. And my late husband was Jewish so I converted. Funnily enough I have felt the most relaxed in my 2 adopted worlds because I look like everyone else and people just assume I was born into them. But culturally I’ve often felt like an interloper. I’m old enough now that I’m past the point of caring what others think and of trying to fit in. But shockingly I am still asked on a fairly frequent basis where I am from. Even after everything that has happened in the world. And I still answer the same way. “From Vancouver. Where are you from?”
But where are you really from?
Christopher Lee-Rodriguez,
Boston, MA.
We don’t live in a post-racial society. We live in a post-race society. We live in a country where in a short amount of time, there will no longer be a majority race. And race is continuing to be reshaped and redefined. I am half Chinese and half Puerto Rican. I live in Boston, and I see dozens and dozens of couples of white men and Asian women. The half Asian community it doubling by the decade. There are so many Black and Latino families in this country as well. Race is not real. It is malleable. Racism is real. It’s pervasive and inside all of us. When people ask me where I’m really from, they are saying that I am not really American. Even though I’m second generation on both sides and can really only speak English, I do not look like an authentic American. I am part of the other American. The new American. And no matter how many racist cops kill people of color or disenfranchise communities, we’re still going to be around. It’s time to not only reform the system but redefine what it is to be black, Latino, Asian, and in the end, American.
No, Where Are You Actually From?
Shagun Doshi,
Naperville, IL.
Coming from a predominately rich, white suburb, and not being rich and white has been an interesting experience. While there is a lot more diversity within my community compared to many others, there is still a lot of hostility. The divide between white and every other race is very prevalent; as it is in many places throughout America. I never really got to know the people that surrounded me until I started working at the local Jewel-Osco. This job not only consisted of cleaning dirty bathrooms and pushing carts that were ten times my size, but I also encountered some of the most ignorant people that I lived amongst. I eventually lost count of the amount of times that people asked where I was from or started the conversation with some Hindi word that I didn’t know. The surprising part was that it wasn’t only old, white people that made such assumptions, it was also many Indian people. I was offended that even though I was born in America, had lived in Naperville most of my life, went to school in America, and saw myself as an American, people were still only looking at what I represented on the outside. While my Indian culture influences a lot of my values and beliefs, the American culture that I have been brought up into also attributes for my personality and views. So yes, even though my skin color and my ethnicity is 100% brown, I am actually from America.
Where are you from? No, really.
Sunil Yapa,
New York, NY.
I’m biracial and grew up in rural Pennsylvania. The question where are you from has always hounded and haunted me. I’m from the US. I’m from Sri Lanka. The only two places in the world where they are certain I don’t belong.
No, where are you REALLY from?
Gerard Achilles Obnial,
McAllen, TX.
When I first worked in the hospital, it had always been routine that my patients would ask not for my name or how my day went as was customary (even though I knew that people don’t really want to know) — they would always ask for my age and where I was from.
I could bet a trillion dollars that one of my patients or their relatives would say “You look so young!”
Then they would follow up with “where are you from?”
I knew what that question meant.
Just to tease my patients, I’d always tell them I’m from McAllen, Texas to which they would say, “No, where are you really from?”
My patients are just curious as to what my nationality is. They’d usually say I look Chinese, Japanese, or Korean. Sometimes, they’d say I look Mexican. I always laugh it off because in a year, only 3 patients correctly guessed that I am Filipino.
I don’t really mind. The Philippines is basically a hodgepodge of cultures from the east and west anyway. Whether or not people would find out where I’m from is not my concern, nor would I offended if they ask me. If anything, I think people just ask because they’re curious.. and race is just a man-made concept.
First question asked: Where’re you from?
Rayna
Rochester, MN
People of other skin colors can be from America too. Even though it’s probably not meant to be offensive, it is a little irritating when strangers repeatedly ask this question when I meet them, just because of my appearance.
No, really — I’m from Iowa.
Thi Thumasathit
Palo Alto, CA
I’m Asian-American. I was born in Thailand, but immigrated here when I was 3 months old so I speak perfect accent-free English. Since the age of 4, I grew up in Hull, Iowa, population 1,500. Invariably, I am asked (even in the Bay Area), “Where are you from?” After I respond, “Iowa.” most people just do a double-take, and I respond, “No, really — I’m from Iowa.”
But where are you really from?
Adriana Green
Richmond, VA
Cornered in the grocery store, back pressed against stacked cans and rows of condiments – “But where are you really from?” On the subway, walking home, hair grabbed by a stranger in a pale coat – “What are you?” I spend my life defending my identity. The constant questioning: but, where, what. I’m from here, I say. I’m from right here, our land, our state, our country. I want to tell them that by rejecting my answers, shaking their head and asking, again and again, “No, no. But where are you really from?” they are telling me that I cannot belong.
Their words leak from their patient smiles, they are certain that I cannot come from the same place they do because we are so very different. To them, my curly hair and brown skin are incompatible with their lives, their land, their country – they are trying to steal my home from me without realizing they are robbing their own house. When you ask me, “But where are you really from?” I want to say – I’m from right here. I’m from this space between two people meeting for the first time who feel worlds apart. I’m from the difference between skin and the constant questioning of my parentage. I’m from a motherland that sometimes feels it’s easier to pretend I don’t exist and a fatherland that can’t always see itself in my smile.
I am from here, the gaps and grey spaces in our nation where people don’t quite belong. I am from the space between two patient smiles shared by strangers trying to convince each other that they exist. Friend. I am from right here, from the moment when two people who seem so very different, realize they are at heart the same- I promise you, this, is where I’m really from.
