After almost an hour of traffic, I’m nearing work, though I’m furious that this succession of delays means that by the time I get there, it will be too late to get fresh breakfast. Now that I’m off donuts, there’s not much left in the “continental” spread that I feel like eating.
WasnÂ’t there an amazing indie coffee place around here? I remember grabbing something hurriedly before my pre-wedding mani/pedi a few days agoÂ…I hadnÂ’t expected much, but after my first sip of perfectly brewed espresso, I was a believer. The place had a cutesy nameÂ…there it was: The Bean Counter. Unfortunately, parking was not allowed in front of it. Fortunately, I snagged a coveted “zone two” spot right around the corner. Go me.
I knew they were famous for a Cuban sandwich or similar, i.e. something I could never eat, but I wondered if they served breakfast. As yummily necessary as coffee was, it wasn’t a proper meal. I started to read the menu which was framed to the left of the front door—
“Just go in, I’m sure it’s fine.”
I slowly turned and found a very well-dressed older black man smiling at me. In my peripheral vision I noted a gleaming black town car, illegally parked.
I started stammering, I had been in my own little world before he yanked me out of it.
“Um, yes. It, um is. It’s good—really good actually. Excellent espresso.”
“That’s what I heard from the woman down the street. Thought I’d check it out. Well, I don’t want to crowd you, so…”
“Thanks you, I mean, thank you.”
My goodness I was an idiot first thing in the morning. Fine, second thing, too.
I went back to the menu but the only thing which appealed contained nutellla, which IÂ’m staying away from, since IÂ’m weaning myself from sugar. Just coffee then, I guess. I went in and walked all the way to the back of the narrow space, to the register.
“How many shots are in a large?” I asked, slightly ashamed that I knew exactly how to order my desired drink in Startwat lingo. I didn’t want to betray my shameful secret, so dumb questions were in order.
“Three.” She had a rather thick accent I couldn’t place.
Madre de Dios, thatÂ’s a lot. I remembered my junior year at Davis, when I went to Roma off A street right before a final exam and ordered a triple shot drink. I spent the majority of our two hour test period puking my brains out, leaving me a whopping 20 minutes to fill a blue book with my suddenly very shaky handwriting. Thank goodness it was just poli-sci. 😉
“Large, single-shot latte then.”
“Single? You single?”
DidnÂ’t I get enough of this shit at the wedding this weekend?
“Yes, I want a single shot. But I still want a large. I like milk.”
“Single?” she continued, still a prisoner to her disbelief.
I sighed. My parents have ruined me for “normal” coffee. I started drinking kappipala before I was two. Milky coffee is just what I love, thatÂ’s not going to change after three decades.
“Okay.” She was shaking her head, eyes wide. “Low-fat?”
“Yes, please.”
I looked down at the box labeled “Customers” in front of the cash register, so grateful to have something else to focus on besides the people behind the counter, who were still exclaiming “single!” to each other. Please don’t misunderstand– I wasn’t irritated about “single” in the context of relationships, I was irritated that a single shot was creating this kind of reaction. Whatevs.
I donÂ’t like carrying around feeble little cards which grow weaker every time some cashier punches a hole in them to signify a purchase, but I think rewarding loyalty is a sweet idea. This café was a new favorite because of their system for recognizing frequent customers; the aformentioned “box” was a small plastic container, the kind I used to file index cards full of evidence in when I did that lesser form of debate which requires TWO people in high school. There were dividing tabs with all the letters of the alphabet. After “Z” there were a few blank cards. You wrote your name at the top and then listed your drinks on the ruled lines below, getting the tenth entry free. Simple. Old-skool. Fantastic. I was deeelighted. Take THAT corporate coffee clones.
She handed me my drink and said, “Here is single, honey”. Here it is, indeed. I walked away, to the island of sweeteners and Nissan flasked-milks by the front door. Mmmm, foam, I thought to myself, as I enjoyed the top of my much-needed latte.
“Excuse me, miss-“
Jay-Z started playing in my head. Damn it. I had been humming along to the Pixies.
“I just have to ask-“
Of course you do.
“Where are you from?”
I fucking hate this question.
“May I…hazard a guess?”
Well at least if they guess, itÂ’s kind of entertaining to hear what they come up withÂ…I was suddenly less annoyed. I wonder if people are going to ask my children this shit.
“Are you…middle eastern?”
If I were elsewhere, I’d think he meant desi by that, but this is D.C., where Saudi royals can be found in every third pair of Diesel jeans. I suddenly had a flashback to my first year of grad school, when I used to take cabs home to my Logan Circle apartment every night because my classes finished between 10 and 11pm. After I stated my preferred destination, a cab driver had once asked me, “Are you Kuwaiti?” I remembered being so amused by this, because it was the first time anyone had guessed THAT. Possessed by a silly whim, I said, “Sure.” GW was chock full of Arab kids. It wasn’t a stretch.
I suddenly felt a little queasy, because my next thought was obviously a memory of 9.11, which only emphasized how innocent I felt back in 1999, the year of my memory. IÂ’d never do that now and I felt slightly ashamed but mostly sad. This is what we lost on that day, this freedom from fear, panic and anxiety. Has it already been five years? Mein gott.
The dapper inquisitor looked perplexed at my pause.
“No…I’m not.”
“Can I try again?”
“Sure!” I smiled at his hesitant enthusiasm.
“Southeast Asian?”
ThatÂ’s kind of impressive, considering I know desis who think thatÂ’s what we are. Not bad, not bad at all.
“Not exactly—“
“Indian?”
His single-word question brought comments from Sepia threads past rushing back to my consciousness. I am Indian, I am not Indian, I cannot be Indian because I do not have a passport, I have the right to self-define, I do not have the right to choose “Indian”…I suddenly felt a bit dizzy.
“My parents…they’re Indian, I was born here.”
“Ah, I thought, with the name, you couldn’t be Indian.” He was eyeing my work I.D., clipped to the bottom of my pale pink shirt. I was in no mood to play name games. I smiled back at him, he reminded me of a certain “Brown” Mayor who had a penchant for Brioni and Borsalino.
“So you’re American?”
“As American as Fenway.”
“You from Boston???”
“Nope.” I had just seen “Fever Pitch” on cable last night.
“Have a good day, Indian princess.”
I willed every muscle in my neck to freeze, to prevent me from shaking my head. Don’t roll your eyes, either! Let’s forget for a moment that I’m a born Amreekan citizen: “Indian Princess” oddly felt more Native American to me, possibly because I remember some Girl Scouts knock-off troop which the kids across the street had joined with that name and premise. No wonder I pictured feathers, not red dots.
The door closed gently behind him, setting off a little bell, which reminded me of little girls’ ankles. I took a cleansing breath. It was too early in the morning for me to fall in to my head with the questions I could consume myself withÂ…who has the time or energy for that shit? Not me. Especially not when it was time to take my South Asian American commoner kundi to work.
“This happens to me every damned day”, I thought, pondering why I have desi friends who NEVER get asked this (presumably they never get accosted by Scam-way types either). Lucky me. Then I thought of this weekend, and what being “other” has gifted me with, even as it prevents me from just “fitting in”. Lucky me, indeed.
Well Anna, I am 100% white, but nearly every day I get asked if im half something…..mexican, inuit(Eskimo), “red indian” (native american, but in India they called me a Red Indian!), half black, half nepalese (nepali, whats the word?), half chinese even!
I guess I think it’s funny….at this point I use it to my advantage……sure my mom is from Canada and my dad from Nepal when Im in South INdia…why not, it works better for me….. In Mexico, yep, my mom is Mexican, my dad american…they love it…. But actually my mum is Canadian and my dad American….dont know how I came out lookin’ like this, but I dont mind.
Cant comment on coffee, I have never had it….but,I think that guy was just flirting with you and really what he was saying was, “you are gorgeous and I’d like to get to know you” ..think maybe?
Peace out!
Anna, I wouldnt advise you to click my link today to see what I look like…I have posted a totally crazy pic of me with berry juices all over my face and you wont be able to see my “halfness!” 😛
That dude was clearly just trying to get some action….
I myself cringe anytime anyone asks me where I’m from or if I’m “east Indian.” I usually respond:
I LOVE screwing with people’s heads anytime this situation comes up. The more “random” my supposed point of origin is, (i.e., Appalachia, Denmark, Korea) the more fun I get out of these encounters — and the more likely the inquisitor will realize that it’s none of their business in the first place.
Seems to me you’re being hit upon and this is an obvious opening line. Must be b/c you’re attactive. Be careful what you wish for, you just might…
Here’s a link to my favorite blog entry about that question.
yeah, I think it’s just the lowest common denominator attempt at getting a gorgeous girl in a conversation. If you’d had an orange vest on and been carrying a shovel, he’d have gone for the “so, you work construction?” route…
Nonetheless, you should have picked up a packet of crackers to go with that cheese.
Lately I’ve been trying out a pre-emptive “Where are you from?” or “Are you from India?” but only with desi shopkeepers etc. I actually enjoy this dialogue now because I like to think that, although I was born in Illinois and the guy behind the counter is from outside Mumbai or whatever, we could in fact be one another. When it’s not a desi asking the question, though, and I know it’s an attempt at bonerly (yes bonerly) exotification I stress my Midwestern origins, quietly and unsmilingly, and leave as soon as possible. Eww “Indian Princess” just makes me cringe.
I can attest to that, I find it easier to start a conversation with “So Where are you from ?”. But then again, I do not use it unless I am meeting someone at a party or something, not somewhere public.
And Lavanya
I could not agree more. When I walk into a gas station, I always get asked that. If the guy behind the counter is Indian, I always use the “I’m from Pakistan. What about you?” line and see their reaction. OMG its funny to see them stutter.
I have to admire the gaul of the guy though…
Indian Princess! LOL
I can only guess at how much action the dude got, ANNA! 😀
On a totally side note, I’m visiting NYC for a week in mid-July, and I intend to try out the Central Asian restaurants in Queens (samsas!) that Manish had blogged about a while ago. Anyone who cares to join for some ethnic foodism, well, email me.
Different enrivonment, same deal – every time I open my mouth in India I get the same question.
… I hope that the auto drivers weren’t looking for any action!
Do you have an American Accent? In India it might just be someone trying to figure out where the brown dude with the “non-brown” accent comes from. Although they might be lookin for some play…
Awesome link Ikram.
It works that way in India too. We moved all over the place when I was small and so I always had trouble answering the ‘where are you from?’ question. I schooled in X and Y, I was born in Z, but my parents actually speak a language that is from some other place W. It is frustrating, but it helps that I always have some personal connection with 4 places instead of one. So when any of these places come up in conversation, there is something personal I can associate the place with. Being multicultural at the individual level is an easy way to go about being cosmopolitan.
My postprandial navel gazing is now over.
I know. Those French dudes think they can just charm any girl (they might actually be right)
🙂
Never paid much attention to spelling. have always tried to get the point across as fast as possible.
Stuff like this happens a lot less to me now than it did even five years ago. Even then, it didn’t happen much. I guess people just use it as an ice-breaker when they are trying to hit on someone and that doesn’t really seem to happen to tall, gangly, hairy brown dudes like myself.
This kind of thing happens to me all the time. In the case of a pretty girl it is getting hit on. in the case of a lame guy, it is a case of mainly white people deciding on the spot that a brown dude cant be REALLY american. This guy might have been “from” here, but he is really a “ferner”.
Ah, the eternally confounding question, which fortunately I don’t get asked much anymore. But in my days of living in DC, and even while traveling outside of the US, the “Where are you from?” was always two steps behind me. At any given time, according to total strangers on the street, I was: (1) generically Latino, (2) specifically Nicaraguan, Ecudorean, Spaniard, etc., (3) Italian (specifically, an Italian woman asked if I was Sicilian, I replied “Every time I get away from this, you pull me back in”, (4) mixed (i.e. “Are both your parents Indian?”, i.e. there must be some white in me somewhere.
The most uterly ignorant statement from a complete stranger: “You speak English so well! You don’t even have an accent.” And she was a nice middle-aged lady who had no clue how silly she sounded.
Evreytime I go walking about town with one of my desi friends, who is female, friendly and smily, she invariably gets other desis (usually men, hmmm) coming up to her asking, “Where are you from?” “Manchester.” (England; we live in London, England) “No, no, where are you originally from?” sigh “Pakistan.” “Aaaaah!” The really crazy ones then go on to ask where exactly in Pakistan (if they are Pakistani too) and do they know their
father’s brother’s step-sister’s son-in-lawcousin Amar?On a recent trip to California (I live in India), a colleague said, “You must have lived in the states before. You speak very good English”. And this was in San Francisco, not some out of the way midwestern town. I tried to make a joke about being trained in a call center, but he was too dense to get it.
Cogito Ergo Sum:
I get this all the time. They usually think that my level of English should be comparable to his/her level of spanish/french/german (or whatever they took in high school).
awww, give anna’s ephemeral friend a break. if he was as she says older, dapper, african-american with an air of willie brown, sounds to me like this was a perfectly good natured exchange and one that stems from a long-standing tradition of banter as mutual acknowledgment. there are slimy and non-slimy ways to pay a compliment. as for “indian princess,” why not? it sounds sweet to me.
Cogito Ergo Sum:
That was not dense on his part. MOST foreigners in the US don’t speak fluent English. Why should he have somehow realised that Indians are an exception? One thing people from India don’t seem to understand is that the fluency which Indians have in English is quite an abberation in the general scheme of things. Most people in most of the world (non-native English speakers) are NOT that fluent in English. There is no reason why an American should automatically know that most educated people in India have adopted English as their mother-tongue and in fact speak it better than their own native languages. Americans would never assume that because they probably (correctly) feel that no self-respecting people would ever do that.
Thanks, Siddhartha…I was starting to feel clueless for not picking up that someone was trying to pick me up.
Nice one Anna.
KenyanDesi and ChickPea’s folks and other brownies who are from Africa will attest to this one:
Them: Where in India are you from? Me: I am indian but I am not from India. I am from Kenya Them: Kenya? Where is that? Me: In East Africa Them: You look so indian though! And you’re not black Me: I smile and walk away thinking, ‘No Shit Shurlock’.
I had an interesting incident yesterday. I walked in this Indian restaurant for lunch….it had some 10-15 people (me being the only desi in sight). I was busy devouring chola-bhatura …but at the back of my mind I had this lingering feeling that somebody was observing me. I turned a little bit and saw two people staring at me….one of them was a 20 something (white) male and other was probably his girl-friend. She had the typical ABD looks (more about this later) and I’m sure that she was an indian american. They immediately took their eyes off me..and I didn’t take much notice. After a couple of minutes, I could hear the girl faintly talking to her boy-friend…”this is how you eat Indian food..look at that guy..he’s using his right hand to break the bread while his left hand is squeaky clean ..to hold the glass of water. This ain’t messy…you should know the right way”. On hearing this, I became a bit self-conscious. It appeared a bit funny to me. I stood up, turned around and walked past their table to re-fill my drink (no ice!). The guy just winked at me..and smiled sheepishly. I went back to my table ..but this time I started eating my bhatura as if it were a pizza. After each bite of bhatura, I used the spoon to eat some cholla. I could hear some giggling in the background. After a while, they both came to my table and apologized for making me uncomfortable (!). The guy thanked me for saving him from yet another lesson of “Desi for Dummies”.
Aaah, Msichana, the gift of being an immigrant twice over (Indian parents, born and raised in Kuwait, moved to American when an impressionable teenager). “Indian Princess” seems worlds better than “Tamilese Tigress” to me. Yes, a regular at one of my favorite haunts actually calls me that. Tamilese? What the hell is that?
That’s what our Cicatrix is, duh. 😉
nicely written anna. i guess i don’t really post here that much anymore but i felt like chiming in here. i’ve been mistaken for:
a.) black (got offered literally a brick of weed by this guy at, of all places, a 7-11) b.) black portuguese (not sure about this one) c.) latino (this was hilarious because a pakistani guy couldn’t tell i was indian after 2 weeks of knowing each other… after i told him, he was like, “dude we’re practically brothers!”) d.) middle eastern – arab e.) middle eastern – persian f.) the others i don’t really remember
A couple of years ago, I spent an entire day at a close Sikh friend’s wedding where half the people there thought I was a Pakistani Muslim (because of my facial features and skin colouring — I wasn’t walking around saying “Mashalla” or doing namaaz in the corner). Which wouldn’t be so bad as that kind of mistaken identity happens to me fairly often, except for the fact that a few weeks earlier I’d attended a weekend-long bachelor party with nearly two dozen of the guys concerned. And most of them were Sikhs.
Timepass,
Getting mistaken for an Italian is actually a good thing. You know those guys have a smooth image.
By the way, did the Italian woman concerned look like Sophia Loren, Monica Bellucci, or Gina Lollobrigida ?
All Italian women look like that. Yes they do. Stop arguing. I’m not listening to you.
@Cogito Ergo Sum
You should take that as a compliment. Just because Indians can cobble together some english into the semblance of a sentence doesn’t mean they can speak English. Most of time, its very difficult to understand their “pronunciation.” I remember reading this article by Khushwant Singh about pronunciation by English newscasters in India. It was hilarious. It started with how they can’t even pronounce ‘Welcome.’ After having lived outside India for a number of years, those errors and the thick accent is glaring. I remember watching a news broadcast last month on an Indian satellite channel and the pronunciation was atrocious! And no, it was not British pronunciation, as Indians love to say. I have never heard surveillance pronounced as “Survey Lance.”
You should take the compliment because it was a genuine admiration for fluency since we usually hear too much “desi english” from the “we speak like the british” crowd.
What is kappipala? Google gives nothing.
Kappi = coffee
Pala = milk
🙂
Though I must say, I know several Malayalees who never use this word, even though my Father said it daily.
Anjan:
Not always. Not if it comes from a person who uses the word “like” more than 3 times in a sentecne.
The best is when I travel in South America or hang out with Latinos down here in Houston. Mexicans claim I look colombian, colombians claim I look dominican…and the list goes on and on 🙂
Nobody’s ever called me an ‘Indian prince’ though :C
Spelling? I thought it was an extremely smart pun. Really.
mschiana 🙂 nice one. i’ve been mistaken for everything under the sun…greek, middle eastern, eastern european…italian.. hawaiian? i should be a spy…every person i encounter in my work asks me where the hell i’m from.. one guy started jabbering at me in farsi… i just looked..and smiled..and said nothing until he stopped…and i told him i’m indian…
one person said: ‘but honey.. i lived next door to italians all my life..and you’re ITALIAN..’… okay maam… more percocet and sleepy pills for you..i think i know how brown i am….;)
i was eating lunch with a group of folks, an elderly indian physician was also at the table.. somehow india came up as a topic, and we were chatting about travels and such.. she looked at me, and said, ‘wow, for a nonindian, you know a lot about india!’… okay.. when indian aunties don’t know what you are.. what GIVES? my attending couldn’t believe how another indian didn’t know i was indian (i had told her that before…and this just put a lock on the door)
and then one of the other memorable incidents was this..
You’d need a Vij for that…
I suppose you mean to say, that “you” find it “difficult”.
@brown_fob
If you were to use that standard then only the people who speak the Queen’s English can claim to be native speakers. You name it, Scots, Irish, Aussies, Americans, Welsh – have their colloqualisms. And there is a distinct, lucid distinction between using local euphemism/shorcuts and not being able to converse coherently.
Internalized Self-Hatred! Party of One!
In my veedu, we called it Pal Kappi ie Coffee with milk or Cafe’ au lait, inversely Kattan Kappi was Black coffee or Cafe’ sans lait. Just getting my 2 paisas worth in while the topic was still “garma-garam” Hey Anna,lookin’ Good 😉
Yeah, I was pretty stoked to be mistaken for a Sicilian. But then I realized she probably asked that question based more on my “swarthy” complexion than my smooth image. My ego boost came crashing down.
Unfortunately I don’t remember what the Italian woman looked like. And dude, don’t get me started on lovely Italian (or Spanish) women. If the woman who mistook me for a Sicilian looked anything like Maria Grazia Cucinotta (sfw), she could have said I looked like a baboon’s butt and I would have lapped it up. 🙂
Ugh. Try lookin’ about half as hungover as I actually was, after a night of doing shots of Black with the bride’s Dad. Kindly keep in mind that THAT madness came after I had already downed seven black and diet cokes while only eating the side dishes at dinner, since I’m the only vegetarian in the world who won’t eat eggplant parm. When three out of five girls in a hotel room are puking after the reception, that’s one legendary night. Shakes fist I curse you, open premium bar! We all do!
I’m done. Done, I tell you. You will call me sharaabi no more. Owwww, my tummy…my head…my liver…
You may want to add “Indian English” to that list. Most of the Indians are able to carry out coherent conversations. They do have problems with pronouncing some words….but that does not mean that they don’t know how to “speak English”.
Indians ain’t speaking no good english.
I get that question every damned day.
Best of friendster messages: “You look so exotic in your picture!” WTF!?!? I’m wearing a shirt and tie and look whiter than Bing Crosby.
There’s also a healthy dose of hilarity whenever I go to a Greek church and the little old ladies try to set me up with their daughters. . . until they find out I’m not Greek. Then we go through the litany. . . Italian, Israeli, Arab, Spanish, and the big winner:
Black Irish.
WTF!?
Eventually they get to Indian. And then say something in that @#($*&^ accent. From now on I’m Krzkstani.
and doesn’t our friend Russell Peters have a routine about this? (the Italy bit)
@anna #45,
nope, you have company. i abhor all eggplant-ed dishes. eggplants are like cockroaches, same color outer skin, and the little white seeds… don’t even get me started.
Ikram (#6) — that was a wonderfully written post. Check it out if you haven’t read it already.