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.
I haven’t faced it here in UK, but I lived in the US till last year, and had similar experiences.
In fact, on my very first visit in 2001, I stepped out of JFK, and was waiting for the bus to La Guardia, to catch a connecting flight. And this guy comes up to me and starts talking in rapid Spanish. And when I told him in English that I can’t speak Spanish, he apologized and said he is from Texas and that I look very hispanic.
And in Indianpolis where I lived for some time, people routinely used to mistake me for a Hispanic as well. Of course, when a pretty Cuban girl mistook me for a Cubano (on a visit to Florida), I gratefully utilized the ice breaker to get to know her better 🙂
Reminds me of the very filmi saying: Bade Bade deshon mein, aise chote chote cheez hojaate hain.
Cheers, Kumar
Ahem…know her better, eh? Should try that myself, then… 😉
I’m going to call you chukaray and leave it at that. I empathize with your desire to be inclusively South Asian. Viva la revolucion. The best I’ve ever got was “mi indio lindo”. I think being called an indian prince would be too traumatic for me. mmm. baingan bartha. yum.
At some level I understand why people get tired of the derivation question – not only is it tedious to have to pull out the pat answer, but sometimes you just want to feel part of things in a way that the question itself disallows. But at the same time I usually feel like people are just being friendly and curious. That’s not so bad, is it?
My all time fav is when I was verbally assailed by this munchkin – couldn’t have been more than 10 or 11 – trolling about the Crown Center (Plaza?) mall in Kansas City: “Yo, darkness!” A nice, catch-all phrase. I told him I was old enough to be his auntie. OK – not really, I was about 16 at the time, but it made his young posse giggle, and deflated his…pride. (He was too young to have anything resembling ‘manhood’.)
My all time favorite response to “where are you from/are you (insert olive-drab ethnicity) – “Oh, thank you for asking – but I’m already promised to a prince from my country.” For whatever reason, that seems to quell unwanted conversation. (Depending on who’s asking and how, I’m usually a lot more gracious and patient.)
Since we are sharing…
I was at the mall in DC a couple years back, and got assailed as well by a bunch of teens, the typical “Hey, baby, wussup” usual speak, and then he had the nerves to say, “I’m Bin Ladin. You wanna piece of me now?” (Don’t remember the ver batem, but you get my drift) I was fuming, but alas, was never one for witty comebacks…
Indian Princess. Ugh. Exotic. Ugh.
i have a reverse complaint than some of you. i can’t understand why the potent combination of my accent (carefully nurtured and perfected ‘speak english like kannada’ accent btw) and my no-mistaking-all-too-mysore look cannot place me in india.
i was at a persian club during new year, and this woman asks me if i am turkish. me: no. she: farsi? me: no. she: arab? me: no. she: pakistan? me: no. and finally… she: oh hindu? me: (puzzled at the choice of term) yes. well, so some middle easterners think i am one of them. even so, no logistical problems while flying—the airport security fellows are always mexican, and mexicans also think i am one of them anyway. so no hassles. and i am a bro when necessary.
that is not all. a few years ago. my neighbor (vietnamese): where are you from? me (in thick karnataka accent): i’m from india. she: i know, but you were not born there, were you?
where did that come from? in retrospect, i should have asked her before she moved out where she thought i was from.
now, am i becoming zelig?
I hear you on the “I hate that question” thing. Though now that I’ve been in da muthaland for 10 months, where my name is always pronounced correctly and where people can peg what religion and caste they think I am part of (“think” because I’m the product of one of those scandalous intercaste lowe marriages. Hail Ambedkar!) based on my last name, I sort of miss the murkiness of being brown in America.
That said, it’s been awhile since I had an overtly racist experience, so this is perhaps another one of those homesickness induced romantic notions of life on the wesside of the planet.
I suspect people sometimes disguise the “where are you from?” question by asking about names. As in, “Kuveeduh…hmm, so what kind of name is that?”. I confess that I’m not beyond such techniques myself. Sometimes you just want to know. Sometimes it’s just a way to connect with another person whom you suspect might share experiences similar to your own…
Byteword: “Bengalooru” or “Mysooru” Accent??
It’s usually people in check out counters who ask me- “Where are you from, Honey (THAT fake honey)”- I say me?? Tennessee. The reactions to these varies on my geographic location- In the bible belt- You dont look like Mexican- You can’t be black either- so we wonder..where are you from? and the black lady in Detroit laughed so hard that I told her I was Indian. I have got Brazilian and Columbian though mostly from men in Coffee Shops and Grocery Stores..
I actually love this question. I love the look of disbelief that passes over peoples faces when I tell them I’m from Kenya.
And when they say “but you’re not black” I reply, “Neither are many Ethiopians, Somalis, Egyptians, Tunisians, etc.” This usually befuddles them enough to stop this line of questioning.
My dad’s the best. When he goes to desi functions he’s often asked (in Gujrati) “What town are you from?” His reply, “Kisumu” (i.e. the town in Kenya where he/his father were born)…
Kenyandesi:
I hear what you’re saying, but aren’t you on SOME level “from” Gujarat? Origins, culture, identity? The town that your great-grandfather (and probably countless generations before him) was born? I know 3rd generation Sikhs in the UK who still proudly proclaim which village in Punjab they are “from” (which is actually their paternal grandfather’s village). Just the fact that you visit this site and have ‘desi’ in your handle tells me that “Kenya” alone does not describe you. Am I wrong?
24 Most educated Americans should know that since India was a part of the British empire, privileged upper-class Indians, often the professionals who come to the US, speak very good English. I always say it is a first not a second langauge for me since I started learning English in India when I was three years old, simultaneously with other languages. This concept usually boggles the Euro-American world which has been so focused on monolingualism as the norm. The same is true of other colonies.
32 I have a vague memory that at one time Indians were supposed to be the best speakers of English outside of England (and I mean pronunciation as well). My own memories from the 80’s of Doordarshan (national TV) news announcers such as Tejeshwar Singh and Nidhi (forget her last name), and this is before BBC and CNN went to India, are that they were fantastic. In at least a couple of decades of listening to news, I never once heard them say things like ‘survey lance.’ Many of the English news announcers in those days had experience in theatre or radio or some other media that had trained their voices and accents. And if you compare Indian English to most other regional Englishes, it’s the least ‘accented’ of any. US universities will tell you they prefer Indian TAs because of their English SPEAKING skills. BTW, I personally, have nothing against accents and am all for the spread of ‘englishes.’
Have any of the US-born desis here had the experience of going back to India and being immediately recognized as an American? I’ve had more than a few people walk up to me on the street and ask me if I wanted to exchange dollars on the black market. At first, it used to only happen in the airports which is a no-brainer, but it has also happened randomly around the cities too. Is that just a lucky guess based on appearances, clothes, etc? And mind you, they specifically asked if I wanted to exchange dollars, not just any foreign currency.
Also, regarding the kappipala, palu kappi debate… I guess the transliteration is all up to debate, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard the word for milk pronounced as “pala” with an “a” at the end. I think that’s the word for a bridge, right? pala or palam? At least, that’s the way it is in my tharavadu, we represent hardcore mallu styles, like the autorickshaw on 20″ dubs.
DJ88, Happened to me after a scant 4 years stateside. This was in Madras and I was waiting at a bus stop and asked the next guy, if the 23A, or whatever I was waiting for, was expected in the next ten min. I was proudly flaunting my language skills and I thought I had managed to supress my accent and instinct to lapse into english slang as I was wont to do stateside, with my tamizh friends. I guess my accent must’ve leaked through.
Ob. Ethnicity reference:
It doesn’t bother me at all when people ask me where I’m from. I know exactly what they mean…then again I AM from India..ah ah ah.
Most people are not mean spirited when they ask the question. Chill!
I’ve been specifically mistaken for latino drug dealer (long haired motorcycling days in the late 80’s) by an undercover cop who tried to buy from me.
Recently I keep getting “Salaam alaikum’ed” (bald, goatee/beard) by strangers who are not obviously muslim (but I think are). What is the etiquette? It always takes me by surprise and I’m too thrown to respond with the “Alaikum asalaam” and I end up with a sheepish Hello.
That’s nice, but I’m not going to let it invalidate my irritation. It’s not like my Asian friends of Chinese descent get asked what they are every time they go out. Experiencing curiousity is understandable but expressing it isn’t always the wisest or most appropriate thing to do.
This guy was benign compared to most, btw. I wrote about this instance vs. others b/c I had those two dissonant moments I mentioned:
1) when I wondered if someone would ask my child similar 2) when I remembered how certain commenters stated that there was no way in hell I could ever be “Indian”.
If I wanted to be admonished with that word, I would’ve stayed on my home coast, over on the left paretheses of Amreeka. 😉
Chandi (#62):
The problem is not with people speaking fluent English. That’s obviously a huge advantage in today’s world. The problem in my view is that the subset of Indians you describe barely knows how to speak its own language(s). Urban educated youth in India are gradually losing fluency in their so-called mother tongues (I say ‘so-called’ because as you yourself acknowledged, English has become their de facto mother tongue). And I stand by my assertion that people with self-respect would never allow that to happen.
Globalisation may mean that you need to know English. It DOES NOT mean that you have to invite English into your homes, into your most intimate of relationships, into the very hard-wiring of your brain. English-medium education is having such harmful effects on Indian languages, the full outcome of which will only be apparent in 2-3 generations. Nowadays, getting into a good primary school is so tough in India. They interview children as young as three IN ENGLISH. Parents deliberately start speaking to their newborns in English so that ‘they don’t get left behind’ and so they can be ready for that interview. Not to mention the snob appeal of speaking fluent English. Now, if your parents are speaking to you in English, and your siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins, neighbors, friends, etc. are speaking to you in English (since most of the time they will come from the same socio-economic status as you), and your school is in English (many schools fine the kids if they are caught speaking anything other than English), how the hell can you become fluent in your mother tongue (so-called)? I know that in Mumbai, Hindi is introduced relatively late into the curriculum, and is over by 8th standard (10th in some cases). You also have a few years of Marathi which do not really teach you to speak the language. In Punjab in the English-medium schools, Hindi is introduced somewhat earlier, but shamefully, Punjabi is not introduced until 4th grade, and is over by 8th grade. You tell me how our languages are expected to survive in this environment.
All this would not matter if it was restricted to just the upper class. But English has penetrated middle-class India in a BIG way, and as the middle class expands (currently expanding rapidly) English will expand with it. Conversely, our languages will continue to deteriorate, and eventually be stigmatised as the preserve of illiterates, servants, and rural poor. When the British were in India, they learned a bit of Hindi (or other local language) to communicate with their servants. If you observe the English-speaking Indians, that seems to be their only use for Indian languages as well. So we have become so colonised mentally that we view our own tongues as fit for the servants only.
Sorry for this long post, this issue is a really bitter one for me. I feel so bad about the linguistic changes going on in India, and the constantly deteriorating status and condition of our languages. I know I can’t change anything, I can just vent, and hope some people agree with me.
To pull a “kaavya” on John Lee Hooker “The left coast is in him and bound to come out”.
In reality I don’t know how I would react if I WAS born here. Maybe I’d be pissed as well. I’ll ask my son when he can talk in complete sentences and his attention span isn’t 2 min!
If your Asian friends of Chinese decent were asked if they were Japanese (or if they asked the Koreans if they were Japanese) they’d be just as pissed. As far as the “generic amreekan” goes they are all chinese so it doesn’t matter.
As far as being Indian enough for commentators, I just love the nasty, politically incorrect, quote about the similarities between arguing on the Internet and participating in the Special Olympics.
I just want to add that your mothertongue is your cultural heritage, it’s your birthright, and parents who do not speak to their children in their mothertongue are robbing them of that, and doing them a great disservice. My opinion.
Amitabh,
So you mean to say that English is not a superior language of superior people? C’mon now, everyone knows that, only domestic help speaks in the “native” tounge … OK sarcasm off You describe my sentiments exactly in the above. About Americans being surprised at fluency in spoken English demonstrated by an ethnic (I hate that term, but ..) person may be annoying, but the fact still is that amongst people of Indian/Desi ancestory, less than 20% are probably fluent English speakers. (Conting the diasporic Desis), So actually the numbers are on the side of the person being surprised at a Desi speaking good English. (Although I dont agree with that person, as his/her surprise is due to a stereotype and all sterotypes suck !!!)
Maybe, but I think your grandchild will probably be spared the question. I believe New York just became the first state where whites are now a minority and 30 years down the road there’ll be many more such states.
But now that i think about it, I’ve often heard this question asked of whites as well and think it’s just a generic conversation starter. Also, I remember reading somewhere that the 4th generation tries hard to get in touch with its roots. My boss is nth generation american of Scottish origin and is a member of every society – tartan club, burns club, bagpipers something – and is very happy to talk about where he’s from. Who knows, our children may end up being miffed at not being recognized as Indians 🙂
Very cute point. 🙂
Hell, you don’t have to wait ’til the 4th generation, I already get miffed when people think I’m not Indian.
This question is a curse. Glad to know that I am not the only one who has had to deal with it all her life.
One point of contention: American Born Desis do not like this quesiton, ie, “We are not set apart from the US”, but yet they enjoy being set apart from other Americans for their supposed intelligence, instruction at elite universities, and so on.
Can’t win either way.
Clarifier: we do not, rightfully so, enjoy being seen as not American, given the fact that we were born and raised here in Amreeka. So we are American, and this question “Where are you from” suggests that there is an ideal real “American”- basically white or African American– while the rest of us are really from somewhere else.
However, there are also American Desis who appreciate and embrace “positive stereotypes” (defined by the white elites) which suggest that we are somehow more intelligent, educated, and so on by virtue of our ethnicity (Indian), in contrast to other ethnic groups. In this sense, we are proud of being set apart from the other Americans: ethnicially, we are not from America, and this different ethnicity is socio-economically superior to the other ethnicities.
Not sure if I am making sense, but those are my two cents/paisa.
Chandi and Amitabh: This has happened before, you know. The last person to speak kannada fluently in my family – much the less Hindi, or anything save the Queen’s English, was my great-grandmother. However I’m a 2nd-gen; my mother’s the immigrant. Frankly, I feel like a slightly-lame desi for being brown but Anglophone. Yes, kannada and hindi are on my list of languages to learn, but there’s practically no-one to study with (side note: anyone know kannada speakers in Boston?).
There’s a whole identity crisis in the family as a result; are we Indian, Canadian, English, Amrikan. . . it seems that we are all these things, and emphatically. It’s actually a bit tragic; we who were poets in Mangalore are identity crises in the New World. So how can the current generation in India gain English — and economic power — without losing identity? Surely it can’t be the French-Canadian method of shutting off all non-French discourse and thus torpedoing the economy.
I think part of me is miffed at not being recognised as Indian, and having to sit through the litany of medium-beige ethnicities until someone reluctantly guesses aright. Anyhow, as a side note, if anyone ever tries to call my grandmother Anglo-Indian (as I did once), I pity da fool.
Amitabh, Chandi and Anandos: Here’s another disturbing observation. In most of the schools (English medium) in North India, Hindi is taught as a “second langauge”. Entire education..right from kindergarten to 12th grade is in English. Hindi is just another subject, and is given very little importance. Very few people opt for Hindi in 11th and 12th grades. We were taught basic Sanskrit for 4 years (grade 5 to grade 8), but the funny (bizzare) thing about our textbook was the fact that it had English-to-Sanskrit or Sanskrit-to-English translations! We never had any Sanskrit-to-Hindi translation questions in our exam. None of my friends have written a single word in Hindi in the last 10 years! None of them remember the ‘aksharmala’ (ka kha etc). The situation will only get worse.
I have been mistaken for:
In each case, members of the respective ethnic group started speaking to me in their language, and I just looked at them bewildered, telling them that I did not understand what they were saying. I repeatedly reassured them, despite their disbelief and protests, that I am 100% Desi (at least, as far as I know) and no, I am not “Kurdish” {insert one of the above ethnic groups here}.
This is very interesting, because I think that I look obviously Indian (well, “Indian” meaning stereotypically Indian).
The only ones who are able to identify me right away are Punjabis and Pakistani Punjabis: “You’re Gujarati, aren’t you?” Me: “Yes! How did you know?”. Them: “I can just tell”.
When White and African Americans ask me, “Where in India were you born?” I respond, “New Jersey”. If they ask me, “Where do you come from?” I say “America”. When White Americans insist, “No, really, where are you from?” I always say, “Really. I’m from here. I’m American. How about you? Where are you really from?”* Then they laugh uncomfortably and concede that the point has been taken.
Isn’t it funny living in Amreeka?
*I only make this point to Euro Americans, not African Americans.
Clarifier:
This point is what I do not stress to African Americans. Asking them “where are you really from” is quite insensitive and demonstrates a lack of knowledge about African American history. In my opinion
CAD: Are you less offended by african americans asking you that question? Why would you get all sensitive about it? I say if somebody offends you, offend them back. Otherwise, just let it all slide.
JayV:
To be honest, yes, I’m less offended by African Americans when they ask me this question. I may be wrong, but from my experiences, they have been marginalized and place on the fringes of American society all throughout US history, where they haven’t been given equal rights and haven’t been treated as equal citizens (well, theoretically they have since the CRM). So, taking that into account, if they see me as someone coming from somewhere else, I don’t get as offended (though I do tell them that I am American).
The reason I get sensitive about this question is because when there are volatile political and social moments, it’s not fun being singled out for not being “American” when I am in fact American, by virtue of birth and having been born and raised here, at least. Sometimes I do let it slide– after all, you pick and choose your fights– but many times I don’t. Why should I? It’s not like I’m pulling out an AK-47 and saying “Now, bitch, tell me where you’re really from”; I ask them in the same tone and spirit that they have asked me; nothing aggressive about my parroting their question. If my questioners really insist, beyond good manners and etiquette, I tell them that my parents are from India, but I was born and raised here.
Furthermore, this impression that I am somehow a foreigner just because I look different unsettles me even more. It’s not like I have an accent when I speak; I have the thickest California accent. Yet I have been complimented on my “perfect English” by the passenger sitting next to me on every single plane ride.
Lastly, this question implies that only White Americans are and can be the true, real, native Americans, when they are clearly nOT. They are descendents of colonial settlers, immigrants, and they too, come from “somewhere else”. Why doesn’t anybody ever think of asking a White American randomly, in public places, upon the very first meeting, “where are you from”? Because White is the default of American identity.
NOTE: My opinions are based on my own personal experiences.
Hope this answers your question!
CAD:
I think it is fair to say that is the truth in a nutshell.
However we slice it, the US was created by white folk for white folk. It’s character may change over time as the demographic grows more brown skinned and latino (much to many a desi uncle’s chagrin) but in it’s roots it is a white xtian country.
African-americans who were brought here against their will, have been been here as long, as if not longer, than many whites. So nobody questions their origins, ever. I am sure latinos from texas and so-cal have had to put up with this stuff for a lot longer than we have (remember the song “Born in East LA”?).
I think the rest of us will just have to suck up our insecurities and go with the flow.
repping for the mixed-desis in the mutiny, this question is often loaded different ways. On top of the cheesy “indian princess” crap, there’s a high percentage of “oh, MIXED people are so gorgeous”… as if we’re all the same mix… or as if we should beam and say “gee, thanks” when really I had nothing to do with it.
I see where ANNA is coming from; it’s not so much outrage as much as it is “here we go again”, and after years and years of answering the question, I think at the core of it, some of us wonder “why does it matter to you??”
It’s different to be approached by a stranger, where this is their opening line, versus a friend you’ve known or worked with for a while who has gotten to know you, as a person, and asks only after learning enough about you that race or culture isn’t going to cause any judgements or assumptions on their part.
“…after years and years of answering the question, I think at the core of it, some of us wonder “why does it matter to you??”
Desidancer, I ‘m sure you have already figured out that most people like to put others in neat little boxes. I am in the “married-10-years-but-no-kids-so-must-be-infertile-poor-thing” box, at least according to some comments I receive.
touche, SK, touche.
DD (who-fled-nyc-before-i-got-here, ahem),
well, aren’t we?
🙂
JayV:
Yes, I completely agree with you. Incidentally, I just finished reading a book on American nationalism, and it’s interesting that white nationalist movements define themselves as the “native Americans”– “native American” not meaning Native Americans, but white Americans.
I hear you, ANNA. Another thing is the whole “exotic Indian woman” garble. Once, when I was standing at the bus stop to go to work, this random white guy came up to me and asked me the dreaded question: “Where are you from?” Me: “I’m American”. Him: “But where are you originally from?”. Then, he launched into a whole spiel — mind you, it was 6:30 in the morning, I not being completely awake yet– about how he’s convinced that “Eve was Indian. The first woman on this planet was Indian. No other woman as seminal [!] and beautiful as Eve could have been anything but Indian. An Indian woman set the standards on what is a woman and what beauty is” and how he just loves Indian women, they’re so exotic, blah blah blah.
DesiDancer:
I’m with you on this one, DD. It’s one thing when someone who knows you or is getting to know you and asks this question. But it’s another thing when the first thing that comes out of a stranger’s mouth, upon the first meeting (usually supermarket check-out lines and cashiers, cafes and pastry shops) is this question.
Relatedly, other 1-ger immigrants– like Arabs, for example– will ask me this question. After the whole, “I was born and raised in the States but my parents are from India” line, the response I usually get is “So what if you were born here? Your blood is Indian.” Huh.
JayV,
I was just listening to this hiphop song, on a mixed CD (so I can’t name the artist) that ended with an MLK speech and the opening line for the speech was that same quote! I was impressed and thought of SM, but than again, there’s a lot of wonky types on SM, so I shouldn’t be surprised…!
Taz:
Hmmm…
That was definitely pulling a kaavya. Didn’t mean to rip off MLK! Sounds soo Malcolm-Xey (maybe even Garveyesque) though.
Does this mean I don’t get to keep my advance?
@59, su
bengalooru. we shifted from mysore, what can be done. i still get all nostalgic abt the holidays when we used to go back. mysore was so laid back: many stores would open past 11, bakeries smelling amazing at 4pm (remember those palya buns?) and the city virtually folding down at 6pm :). my parents would have no problems abt me running anywhere in mysore, b’lore was “big bad city” and mysore was safe. then we shifted to kolkatta for a few years, and then b’lore was considered safe too :). i can only imagine what would have happened if we shifted to delhi!
@Indo American Cheap Ass Desi, #77
you look brazilian eh? always loved them. long lost browns they are. tell you something, why dont you leave brown_fob and come and marry me? instead of taj mahal, we will do carnival. i will then take you to the royal palace in mysore instead of the royal tomb in agra. see, things are looking better already right? 🙂 and because i feel guilty abt brown_fob, we will gift him the taj mahal.
bytewords wrote:
Man! your words do bite! Leave my Cheap_Ass_Desi alone (with me).
Cheap_Ass_Desi IS my Taj Mahal 😉
brown_fob, you are like a brother to me. except when we fight over cad.
but maybe she should decide? tomb or palace, cad?
I was born in Australia and when Anglos ask where I am from they are happy when I answer India. However other Indians need details like what part or city so I have to go into details of both parents origins. Then they proceed to berate me for not knowing at least 3 Indian languages…
You’re saying then, that you really wouldn’t get what the fuss is about if you’re Indian and are from India?
That said, I’ve been accused of being Spanish by my Thai colleague, French by a university acquintaince (sp.), Singaporean by a Malaysian backpacker, and Cambodian at heart, apparently for my love of things Khmer. I still insist that I will truly find my roots only when I seek lunatic asylum in Samoa and finally realise my dream of being a beachcomber.
Missed this post…
Roma’s off A St.? I remember it being on E St.; my jazz band used to play gigs there all the time in 7th & 8th grade.
Anyhoo…
A few years ago I was in Chicago for my cousin’s wedding, and my family had put up in some hotel. A few of us got into the elevator to go up to our floor along with an older black woman. It was a long ride, and the woman had plenty of time to look us over and ask the question (in a solid American accent).
My cousin and I instinctively replied with our US places of origin, and the woman of course wanted to know where we were REALLY from. But this time it was different – she asked in a way which said, “Come on, I’m not like everyone else asking you this question – you can tell me, look at me, I’m different too.” It was interesting…
kavita (#58):
Indeed!
There were two locations; your band played downtown, I hung out at the other Roma, which was near the deathstar, off-campus books, Raja’s, Ali Baba’s et al, not that any of this exists anymore (aside from the deathstar).
I don’t even know if you’ll read this, but I’m in the mood to talk identity, so here goes.
I’m Kenyan. That’s a national identity. I’m also VERY Guju/Desi, a cultural identity, but, that too, I’m Guju East African’ly so (for eg. I can’t stand the syrup that passes for food, tea etc. in Gujrat. Sugar/Gor is not meant to be a staple item in any diet).
Much like desi-Americans (who are usually the first gen born here) don’t like being challenged on their Americaness, I get offended if someone challenges my Kenyaness. My family has been there over 100 years. I’m THIRD gen born East African. My ancestors left the subcontinent before modern India (as it stands today with the borders that make it “India”) was born.
yes, Kenya, India, they’re all bound by imaginary borders. I get this (which is why I identify with East Africa, and South Asia), but while Kenyan borders are a part of my family’s cognizant past, Indian borders are not. Which is why I’m Kenyan and not Indian.
in that case, we’re all “from” east Africa anyway 😀
When I was in college the few Indians from East Africa considered themselves “Africans first,” hung out with other black Africans, and generally looked down on the ABDs. But then, everyone looked down on ABDs, even the Canuck Desis 🙂
Thanks because we have no culture. didnt you know that?!
When somebody asks me if I’m from Africa, I usually say:
“We’re all from Africa, but my family left a long time back”
😉
sigh.