“Where Are You from?” It sounds like an innocent enough question, the kind of icebreaker we use to get to know someone new. For some, it is just that – a simple inquiry about geographic origin. But for many people of color, and particularly those in increasingly diverse societies, this question carries a weight and a subtext that goes far beyond mere geography.
Living in North Carolina, a state experiencing rapid demographic shifts due to booming tech and university sectors, I’ve become accustomed to questions about origin. This region, once characterized by small towns, is now a melting pot, attracting individuals and families from across the globe. My own children grew up in public schools where diversity wasn’t just a buzzword, it was the reality – a vibrant mix of East Asian, South Asian, and White students, reflecting the evolving face of North Carolina. In this context, asking “Where are you from?” feels almost commonplace, even expected, a natural part of navigating a diverse social landscape.
When asked, I often respond, “Florida.” It’s the truth. Born and raised in the Sunshine State, with family roots still firmly planted there, Florida is undeniably home. It’s part of my story, and sharing it feels like a normal step in the human dance of connection and discovery. I embrace the multiple facets of my identity – my Iranian heritage, my Florida upbringing, the pull of Turkey, the peace of Switzerland. These places are all homes in different ways, weaving together the tapestry of who I am. North Carolina, Iran, Florida – they all hold a piece of me.
However, the simple answer of “Florida” rarely satisfies. This is where the seemingly innocuous question morphs into something else entirely. Because when people ask me “Where are you from?”, it’s often not a purely geographic inquiry. It’s a question loaded with unspoken assumptions, and it quickly becomes apparent that they are searching for something beyond my state of birth.
The polite ritual of getting acquainted quickly dissolves into a frustrating game of biographical interrogation. It’s as if my initial answer is deemed invalid, prompting a series of follow-ups that feel less like genuine curiosity and more like a demand for a “more acceptable” origin story. It often unfolds like a real-life rendition of “Who’s On First”, a comical yet telling exchange:
“Where are you from?”
“Florida.”
“No, I mean, where were you born?”
“Florida.”
“But where did you grow up?”
“High school in Florida.”
“Okay, but where do your parents live?”
“Still Florida.”
Exasperated, the questioner often resorts to the revealing rephrasing: “You know what I mean. Where are you really from?”
And yes, I do know what they mean. They, too, know exactly what they mean. The real question lurking beneath the surface is: Where does your brown skin come from? It’s a question that echoes the less subtle, more overtly prejudiced inquiries of my youth in Tennessee, where I was bluntly informed, “You ain’t from ‘round here, are you, boy?” The sting of that word, “boy,” a term loaded with the racial history of the South, contrasted sharply with the benevolent “son” – a linguistic lesson in the subtle yet powerful ways language can be weaponized.
The crux of the issue lies in the differential experience of this question. When a white person is asked “Where are you from?”, it is generally taken at face value – a genuine request for geographic information. The questioner is usually interested in knowing their state of origin, their previous residence, their regional background.
But when people of color are asked the same question, it resonates differently because it is different. It often stems from an underlying assumption that “America,” or “the South,” or “this state” is inherently a space belonging to people “like us” – a tacit understanding that “us” refers to a white majority. The question implies: You don’t quite fit the mold of what an American looks like, so where do you really belong? Tell me which box to categorize you in, because the prevailing, often unspoken, definition of “American” doesn’t readily include you. It’s about questioning belonging, about subtly challenging the validity of someone’s American identity based on their appearance. This act of invalidating someone’s biography extends beyond casual conversation; it seeps into perceptions of competence and even language.
The backhanded compliment of “You speak English so well!” is a frequent microaggression, often delivered by well-meaning individuals, including academics. While intended as praise, it is underpinned by a patronizing assumption: We don’t expect eloquence or articulate speech from people who look like you. The internal response is a mix of weariness and simmering anger. The practiced smile, the mumbled “thank you,” the strategic retreat – these are the survival mechanisms honed through countless similar encounters. The unspoken comebacks, simmering just beneath the surface, range from witty retorts to vividly imagined, and unprintable, scenarios involving prickly cacti.
Of course, there are times when asking about someone’s origin is genuinely about geography and accent. Meeting someone with a distinct New York or Boston accent, a Southern drawl, a Midwestern folksiness, or a Canadian pronunciation of words like “process” and “about” naturally sparks curiosity about their background. In these instances, the question is usually innocent and welcomed.
However, for immigrants and people of color, the experience is often fundamentally different. It’s not merely about having a different accent, or brown skin, or features associated with a particular ethnicity. It cuts to the heart of the American dream itself. Is this dream truly expansive enough to encompass all of us, regardless of background and appearance? Or is it, at its core, still defined by a narrow, Anglo-Saxon ideal?
In countries like the United Kingdom, the distinction between being British and English highlights a similar tension. An immigrant can become British, but not necessarily English, suggesting layers of belonging and identity. In America, theoretically, citizenship equates to being American. We are a nation built on immigration, and our history, though complex and often flawed, ideally strives for inclusivity. While the definition of citizenship was historically limited to “free white men,” the hope is that our understanding of what it means to be American has evolved to embrace the rich tapestry of our diverse population.
So, the next time someone asks me where I am “really” from, my answer will be: “Here.” I am from here, wherever “here” may be at that moment.
And “there.” I am also from there, from all the places that have shaped me. I am from the land of poetry and ancient history, from the forests of North Carolina, from the very stardust of the cosmos. Echoing the powerful words of writer Mark Gonzales,
There are questions this world will ask
What are you? And where are you from?
On that day tell them this:
Yo soy Muslim. I am from Allah, angels, and a place almost as old as time.
I speak Spanish, Arabic, and dreams.
