Why White People Should Stop Asking “Where Are You From?” »

I have many stories that follow a similar scenario, but one particular example still burns my brain. I was in college, on a spring break trip to Florida with some friends, and we were ordering bagels. It was early in the morning, but the sun was already warm and streaming through the store windows. A man with white hair and a thick beard walked towards where we were waiting in line. He leaned over, his smile emerging, and asked:

“Where are you from?”

I took a step back, initially surprised by the fact that someone was talking to us at 8 a.m. But then the weight of his question sank in and I walked away, stuttering, “Uh, California,” before pushing my friends toward the cashier and rushing off.

This question that I had heard many times, but coming from him – out of nowhere and only for him to look at me and wonder – gave me goosebumps. I could still feel his warm breath next to my ear hours later. And I still see the yellow plastic of the bagel shop chairs, glistening in the sun, as my day suddenly turns dark.

“The other problem with the question, the more insidious one, is that it alters us instantly.”

A simple question like that shouldn’t feel like a violation. But if you’re like me and have endured this question your whole life – from acquaintances, from cashiers, even from your boyfriend’s relatives – then you know how much it can shake you, test your own sense of purpose. ‘identify. I know that asking this question is a universal experience for many other people of color living in America – women, usually, and often Asian women. And when that question comes from an older white man, it’s hard not to feel stereotyped, exoticized, even fetishized. Ultimately, regardless of the intention, it is almost always a microaggression.

In these cases, my answer is always the truth: I’m from California. I was born there to a mother and father born in Hawaii and New York respectively and decided to settle somewhere in between.

Of course, I know that’s not the answer they’re looking for. They don’t want to know where I am Since, they want to know why they can’t place my ethnicity, given that my characteristics don’t fit into a stereotypical box. That’s too long and private an explanation to say to strangers, so I stick to my answer: California. And then I’m often told “No, but really, where are you Since?“

When I say, “I’m really from California,” some people brush it off.

Others will continue to insist, “No, I mean, where are your parents from?”

To which I respond: “They also come from the United States.”

There are many problems with asking “Where are you from?” “, but one of them is that it’s about asking for a clear answer, something that can be summed up in a short joke. I am not in the business of minimizing my identity for the comfort of anyone else. And every time I’m asked, I wonder: What right do we have to know the personal family history of strangers?

I feel deep pride in my heritage, but I choose to tell the story on my own terms: My mother was born into a family of Japanese coffee farmers in Kona, HI, and my father was born to a mother who immigrated to the United States. a native of Japan in his twenties and a father who grew up speaking Creole in Louisiana. These legacies have shaped many aspects of who I am, in ways large and small, that I am still discovering today, and perhaps that is why I feel the need to fiercely protect the truth when the issue seems violated . It hurts to realize that people probably look at me and want to categorize me as only Japanese, or maybe part white.

The other problem with the question, the most insidious, is that it instantly alters us. This is why the question seems so irregular, even insulting: it always implies that I did not come from here. And that, in turn, implies that I don’t belong here. It reminds me that no matter how I see myself, the world sees me as something that deviates from the norm.

Even if people asking the question claim to be curious, it’s worth questioning what exactly justifies that curiosity. The question ultimately is for them. It allows them to stop wondering and putting us in a box – and assert that they are the ones dictating who belongs in this country. I’m sure that for immigrants and first-generation people, this aspect of the issue is even more painful. It doesn’t matter if the person asking the question thinks they have good intentions; simply by asking the question, they are saying their xenophobia out loud. At least I can claim to have been born here, to parents born here; it gives me a certain level of privilege in these skin-crawling interactions.

I get asked this question less often than when I was younger, and perhaps that’s a sign of progress. In fact, the last time anyone wanted to know about my background, I was getting a haircut, the stylist’s gentle hands as she held my head. She began combing my hair, landing on the tight waves that curled at the sides of my head. “Girl, what’s your blend?” she asked, and told me hers. It was a far cry from that interaction in the bagel shop. We were recovering, together, what it means to be from somewhere and right here.

Lena Felton is Senior Director of Features and Special Content at POPSUGAR, where she oversees reporting, special projects, and our identity content. Previously, she was an editor at the Washington Post, where she led a team covering gender and identity issues.