Please Don't Ask Me Where I'm From (Bonus: An intense look into my use of humour as a defense mechanism!)

I want to preface this entire post by saying that this is an expression of my personal experience, and I do not presume to speak for anyone else. I also do not dare to compare my annoyance with actual racism that persons of colour experience everyday. I just need to get this off my chest: Don't ask me where I'm from. There. I've said it. Please, for the love of all that is good and holy, stop asking me where I'm from.

For a long time, I've struggled with this interaction. I continually have minimized my own discomfort for the benefit of not offending other people, but guess what? The more this happens, the more offended I get. At 26 years old, I get this question so often and in so many different ways, that I feel compelled to write an entire blog post about it. So, I swear, if anyone tells me I'm being too sensitive, they can go suck a whole dick. I mean it.

To be fair, it isn't always "So, where are you from?" Just for the sake of clarity, here is a (by no means comprehensive) list of some of the variations:

• But, where are you from originally?
• Where are your parents from?
• Where is your family from?
• What's your background?
• What's your heritage? 
• How did you get your skin to be that colour? 
• Are you Spanish?
• Are you Lebanese?
• You're greek, right?
• So, are you half black, or what?
• Are you sure you're not Portuguese?
• I mean, I get it. Big Italian family, right?

Now, pick at least three of those and you, too, can create your own awkward, kind of racist interaction with an olive-skinned friend- or even a stranger! 

For a counterpoint, I could construct an equally long list of potential reasons why people ask me these things. But mostly, in the end, I think it boils down to being curious. There's no harm in curiosity. At least, that's what I've told myself  when I'm trying to ignore all the weird feelings that come up from these interactions. In retrospect, they tend to be funny, especially in the retelling. But that's just because that's how I cope. They say, comedy is tragedy plus time. As with anything uncomfortable, I generally skip the "time" part and just immediately spin my shame, pain and humiliation into an amusing anecdote to share with everyone around me. If I control the narrative, if I make them laugh with me, then they can't laugh at me, right? 

"You won't believe what that guy with the giant recumbent bicycle just said to me."

or

"You think that's bad? I once had someone refer to me as "Brown Meg" throughout an entire four hour callback."

Now, I don't think these interactions would affect me half as much if I actually had a good answer for people. But I don't. I'm not Spanish, Lebanese, Portuguese or Italian. Neither is my mother. Nor her mother. But my mother does have darker skin, and a couple of her siblings, one of my brothers, some of my cousins- even my four year-old niece. I mean, don't get me wrong, there's definitely a reason for the extra melanin, I just don't know what it is. Probably colonialism. Here is the extent of my knowledge of my ancestry: English, Irish, Scottish and German. Read: predominantly white countries. Someone once told me there is one Inuit person in our family tree. Maybe that's why? I doubt it, though.

Look, I'm an open person. I generally don't mind sharing and, in point of fact, I often bring up this very topic of conversation when I meet new people. I mean, it's a tactic so that I can control the narrative (see above) and so that they don't have the opportunity to make me feel uncomfortable with their stares and wild guesses. And that's really the crux of what bothers me- the guesses. When I respond to a person with a complete list of my ancestry that is frankly none of their business, they inevitably start telling me what race or nationality they would have thought I was.

As I said before, I know that most people are just curious, or maybe the're looking for common ground on which to build a relationship. But I can't help but feel like some of the interactions are racially charged- whether positively or negatively. When two young women asked me if I was Lebanese, they just wanted to tell me I was beautiful. I don't know why I had to be Lebanese to be beautiful, but it was still a nice compliment. But, occasionally when someone (usually an old white man- sorry) asks me "where I'm from" because I "have such an exotic look" I can't help but feel fetishized or like they are trying to use my answer as a racism litmus test. How racist should they be towards me or around me?

Now that I'm winding down this post, I'm not sure where to leave you. I'm not sure what point I want to end on. I guess, just maybe take a second to think before you ask someone (especially someone you don't know) what could be really personal question. And if they respond with "Canada" you should know that they probably don't want to talk about it.