I love living in the middle of Washington, D.C. I love walking everywhere (only three miles to work!) and being able to run all my errands within minutes of my apartment, which is an extra fantastic place to live because the building manager is a sarcastic, blunt, eyeliner-and-nicotine-addicted mother hen of a woman who has me on lockdown (“Uh, no…of course I didn’t take some random young man upstairs, just because I’ve gone on seven dates with him!â€) because she dotes on me more than my own Mother does. That kind of affection is priceless and it more than compensates for tiny kitchens or ancient bathrooms.
In the dark days of 2006, when I still lived in fArlington, I dreamed wistfully of such city living; I left Manhattan in 2002 and have never quite gotten over that loss. I haven’t felt the exhilarating, unstoppable happiness I am only able to experience when I overhear four languages on one city block, when cabs are plentiful 24/7 or when ambulances are screeching by at all hours, serenading me to sleep (when I visit my Mother at home in “quiet†NorCal, I sleep in the living room with the TV on because the silence is too eerie).
I was ecstatic when I found my new home (which I did thanks to one of you!) and I gleefully pictured myself walking down Connecticut Avenue to the metro every morning; I’d have a “drip†coffee in hand and I’d be beaming uncontrollably while humming the “These are the people in your neighborhood!â€-song from Sesame Street as I “commuted†a whopping eight-minutes to work.
I love coffee. I have loved it since I was 18-months old. I am picky about it, as much as I am about everything else. That’s why I adore the fact that there is this little place which no one seems to be aware of, tucked away even while in plain view of one of the busiest thoroughfares in the city. I don’t know what kind of beans they use and I don’t care, their coffee is outstanding. The only thing which could possibly taste better is the elixir which my detail-obsessed Father used to make after freshly grinding beans every morning (gawd, I love engineers and the precision with which they seem to do everything).
I didn’t think I could feel such affection for a coffee place unless it was venerable Caffe Greco in North Beach, a joint which is the closest thing I will ever know to Cheers, since everybody knows (and shouts) my name when I walk in, even though I only go there once or twice a year now. But like Greco, my coffee-pushers now pour my drink the moment they see me through the window; it’s a beautiful way to start my day, to feel that seemingly inconsequential bit of recognition from the young man behind the counter who knows exactly how much space to leave in order to fulfill my ridonkulous addiction to half-and-half. He is Asian and if you’ve read this essay this far, I’ll reward you by telling you that he is the point of my entire post.Over the past few months, we’ve created the sort of content rapport which forms when you see someone right on schedule, five days a week, when the “How are you?†you’ve posed is actually sincere and answered with a smile. Today felt a little bit different and not just because there was a bewildered tourist obtusely blocking the tiny counter which holds all the sugar, stirrers and cream (they usually just go with the “sure†thing and hit the Starbucks across the street). He cocked his head and looked at me in a way I had yet to experience there. I was amused as I wondered what could possibly come next.
“Where you from.â€
I smiled, but I was exceptionally conscious and somewhat surprised at how this felt so different, how instead of tensing up, feeling “othered†and noticing the hairs on my neck prickle, I was utterly relaxed. I tried to be extra mindful of the exchange, especially since I was already thinking, “this is going to turn in to a Sepia Mutiny post†even at such an early segment of a social exchange. While I felt my “blogger sense tingleâ€, he kept going.
“India?â€
I replied immediately, casually, so easily.
“Yeah. My parents. I was born here.†I was smiling.
“Where?â€
“L.A.â€
“I was not born here.â€
I continued to smile at him, waiting for him to continue but he didn’t and I wanted to laugh.
“What??â€
“And you, you…are…from?â€
“Oh, Mongolia.â€
“Cool. I’ve never met someone from there. Awesome way to start the day.â€
He smirked at me.
“Do you know where Mongolia is? I’m kidding, I know you know.â€
I laughed and turned to leave, only slightly acknowledging his
“See you soon.â€
…because I was already mired in thought about what it all meant and how profoundly different that interaction felt compared to how it usually goes. Maybe I was a bigot, who gave preferential treatment to other Asians, like I was U.C. Berkeley or something. Was it only a problem for me when someone black or white asked me about my past? No…that couldn’t be right…when I first met my Russian and Ukrainian co-workers and went through this with them, my reaction was similarly neutral, if not positive. The Eritrean and Nigerian cabbies get indulgent smiles from the version of me which has no guard up.
So…I’m only chill when the question is posed by…people who aren’t American? It was so much to think about and I cursed myself mildly for wearing 4-inch heels (platforms, people…platforms) because I was wasting grey matter by having to negotiate D.C.’s ultra-crappy sidewalks so carefully (I rolled my ankle my first semester here…twice). I wanted to delve, to turn this over and over again mentally and call myself out, if necessary.
Was my all-consuming adoration for my parents making me feel solidarity with every immigrant? I do feel an immediate connection to anyone with an accent from abroad. I do understand what it is like to be in exile. Maybe that was the key to accessing a kinder, not offended me. But was this wrong? Unfair?
Was this bigotry?
Why was it okay to ask me where I was from, as long as the question emanated from anyone except another American? Have I become so hardened and embittered by constantly dealing with either ignorance or stupidity that I was now emotionally over-reacting whenever confronted with this query, which I am on a daily basis?
As abhorrent as this is to type, if you kick a puppy enough times, eventually it will bite. That encapsulates how I react here to trolls as well as how I feel like lashing out and pushing back IRL. I hated the omnipresent insinuation that I did not belong here, that I couldn’t possibly be born here, because despite my lack of accent and the abundance of pearls, argyle and headbands, with my skin I was obviously a foreigner.
I loathed the surprise which registered on far too many faces when I answered “When did you come here?†with “I was born here.†This emotion has nothing to do with being ashamed of my roots or feeling scorn and superiority at all things Indian; it had everything to do with being treated like an unwanted stranger in my own home.
I love being South Asian. I am so proud of being Malayalee. I love being social. I wouldn’t mind answering the “WAYF†bit, if only it was asked without malicious intent, but maybe my radar was broken. Maybe, the next time someone who shared my American origin blurted the question out, I would remember this morning and how it is possible to exit such a conversation without feeling angry, alone or like the protagonist in a Jhumpa novel.
Maybe.
::
If you come back later, this post will be updated with my typical link-littering. It might provide more context for certain aspects of this essay, since I’ll be able to refer back to past discussions here etc. I know, I know…why publish this if it is not ready…well, the east coast needs lunch-time distraction and the left coast enjoys fluffy reading material during their coffee. I aim to displease.
yup, you know it. Your daily coffee routine reminds of this commercial where the girl skids pass the new guy to the counter to get her daily fix, leaving heel-marks like tiremarks
Interesting post, Anna. I think somehow it does tend to matter who asks the question, because we sometimes (perhaps unfairly) question the intent behindd certain kinds of people asking us certain kinds of questions. Do you see some connection between this and some of the reactions to your billboard post?
BTW, and somewhat OT, will be moving to DC in the Fall, working in the Foggy Bottom area, so tips on areas to live in with nice coffee places nearby/on-way-to-Metro are great. One of my best friends lives near U and 19th, so I’ll look in that area preferentially, but really anywhere in Dupont-Adams-Woodley-Logan is good. If you hear of anything opening up in August, please to let know.
My cousin in Manhattan, who’s AB, was telling me about the doorman in her faculty building who accosted her a few days after the tsunami, and kept asking her if ‘her family was okay’. Turns out he was from Tamil Nadu, and had actually lost some family. Apparently she initially got pissed off because he kept asking her ‘where are you from’, and her answer was ‘New York’, which I tried to tell her I thought was perhaps unnecessarily snarky in the context of what turned out to be some guy far away from his family who was just looking for someone else who might, maybe, speak the same language or be in a similar situation (also, he wasn’t particularly well-educated, and may not have understaood the subtle semantics of where-are-you-from versus where-are-your-parents-from, and besides, probably wasn’t trying to doubt her american-ness.
But here’s another reading of her response, which I might have made if it weren’t my favourite cousin, who I know and love: I might have said, hang on, why is it so bad to say ‘I’m from India?’ I know you’re not technically from India, but that’s not really what that question is: it’s a question about roots, origins, what have you. What’s so bad about having to acknowledge that your roots lie elsewhere, even if your life lies here? I guess what you’re getting to is a stage where the who-asked matters, because it tells you something about why it may have been asked.
Would you get upset if someone with a strong East European accent asked you that? What if your Mongolian friend asked you, but not your companion, who happened to be East European? Would this be because he was making assumptions based on race? Would it matter? Just curious.
Thank you!
[Off-topic relative the the main theme of the post, but highly relevant to the location and setting – it was a horrible day for Washington yesterday. Condolences to all those in the District and to anyone who cares about the urban fabric.]
so can you share the secret of where your coffee place is?! pleeeez?
Interesting post.
Cafe Greco is great indeed. But there is even better coffee in San Francisco now! It is already way too crowded, so I’ll abstain from explicitly advertising it here. But as a coffee snob, I’m sure you will be able to find it 🙂
Appears that it is across the street from the starbucks at dupont circle; and I was planning on going to Eastern market this weekend (drat and double drat)
Caffe Greco has great cannoli. Favorite coffee places in Austin, anyone?
“What if your Mongolian friend asked you, but not your companion, who happened to be East European? Would this be because he was making assumptions based on race? Would it matter? Just curious.”
My husband who’s from Eastern Europe gets asked “where you from” when he’s wearing a kurta.
Plus, in India, people ask each other where they’re from down to the last cross street. Helps to make conversation.
JP’s Java. Halcyon.
I’m the same way, and not ashamed of it. Here’s why: from an American, “where are you from” is exclusive – it says “well, you obviously aren’t one of us, you’re not like me.” From an immigrant, the question is a pleasure because it is inclusive – it says “tell me about how you and I are alike – fellow visitors (or children of visitors) to this land.”
Hi Anna,
This is such a timely post. You said what I have been trying to pin down in myself. My husband is caucasian, and whenever I have a WAYF moment with an american caucasian, I get all prickly and chip-on-shouldery. And my husband cannot understand it. Your post will help me explain it to him. Feeling like a stranger in my home. That is exactly how I feel, being “othered.” Thanks.
Recent “othered” incident: I was at my local Trader Joe’s, in the checkout line, with my daughter in the cart. A lady came up behind me and started commenting on how adorable she was, etc. I smiled, but didn’t engage. She then said, “Does she understand english?” And I was floored. I really did not know how to answer. I finally said, “well, she’s 9 months old. I don’t know WHAT she understands, really.” I thought that was that, but it got better: “Oh, of course she understands english, then. [Now directed at Anjali] You understand BOTH languages!”
There are very few moments in life when I get speechless. This was one.
hey anna,
been a lurker here for awhile and was too shy to show up at heritage a few weekends back 🙂 where do you live on connecticut (neighborhood)? all this time i’ve been enjoying your posts and POVs and you’re likely my neighbor – i’m in woodley. the internet is such a small place sometimes – it’s amazing.
btw, for me personally – it always seems easier to interact with the foreigners (be they african or south american or european) than americans. i don’t know why this is, it’s just always been that way for me. maybe i need to be more conscious of my interactions.
One of the first post I read in SM was this self-reflection type and it’s what initially got me interested.
You just articulate well what I’m sure so many of us feel Anna.
I’ve gotten to a point (and I live in DC too) where I generally don’t get offended, unless the question is asked in a salacious, exoticizing manner ( “this manner” is subjective).
Like Anna I am proud of my South Asian roots and love talking about Kerala (any guy whose dated me knows that), but most of the time I don’t feel unwelcome.
Like SomeOlGuy said – to me its someone asking a not too personal question about my roots, which generally I love talking about. And anyways I look like a “new immigrant” meaning nonwhite or black, so I’m pretty patient and usually I get into great conversations and find out things about themselves.
And when I meet IBDs, I have to admit, I want to ask them about where they grew up — which part of India… I understand the curiousity and interest, and depending on how the person asks, which can be influenced by who (as Anna points out in her story), I’m generally not offended.
Also – and I hope this doesn’t sound patronizing –
But one reason I generally don’t mind when people ask me (except when they ask me lewdly) where I am from – I just feel like it’s my opportunity to educate:
I’ve just grown up in different parts of the US and been in different parts of the world and I just want to let people know, “hey Americans look like me too!”
I experienced this so strongly when I was teaching English in East Asia. The East Asians had sooo much interest in me and I loved surprising them when I was asked questions about my identity, that I was American and Indian and wanted them to know all Americans weren’t white, sprinkled with Michael Jordan black people.
Great post Anna. Really. I used to get irritated at the “Where are you from?†question from white Americans, who to me still represent the majority. I heard an undertone to that question of “You’re different and don’t quite belong here.†I don’t mind nearly as much if the person asking is not a white American. I feel a greater affinity with people who are “othered†in the US context, because we are likely to share a certain marginality. I don’t think it’s bigoted to make that distinction depending on whose asking. Since I’ve been asked to basically divulge my life story countless times since I moved back to the States from Zimbabwe, I’ve learned to expect curiosity, and that it’s only to my detriment to be angry when reminded of my differences in the eyes of this country’s sociocultural majority. That just takes too much energy, and in my ire, overgeneralizes about white Americans’ motives. Now I just have the perspective that says “Yeah, I’m not quite from here. And the great news is that there are others like me everywhere.â€
Posts like these remind me that ABDs face exactly the same problems us DBDs in America do … We DBDs often (mistakenly) presume that you guys have it all good out here and its only us who face the heat of stereotyping. The cases many comments have brought out are are cases where ABDs are being mistaken for DBDs… Well, I would also like to bring attention to one more class of stereotyping – modern DBDs being mistaken for conservative DBDs.
By modern DBDs I mean us desis who are brought up on western TV, music , culture… our accents aren’t thick, our fashion sense is good, and we are very open-minded. When Americans meet us, they assume we are ABDs – because stereotypically, all desis are close-minded, arrange marriage freaks, and fans of bollywood!
When an American is surprised that I am Desh-Born, I am offended – because it shows that he knows nothing about modern day India.
I met a Canadian the other day and we had a most pleasant talk.. somewhere along the way, I say I’ve been in the US only for 2 years now .. and he’s so terribly shocked it is ridiculous .. what’s worse, he goes on to say ,’ but your English is so good-‘ before cutting himself off realizing he’s being an A$$.
our fashion sense is good
That part cracked me up.
I love how self-reflective you are, Anna. I’ve never encountered another girl (much less, a South Asian) girl who tormented herself over things like this as much as I do. It is interesting how defensive we are with certain people as opposed to others. Personally, I kind of love it when people ask me about my origin because I guess I don’t really look Indian, so I don’t get a lot of questions. What does bother me is when people know more about Indian history than I do. It makes me feel so dumb.
I’m going to go get a medium Columbian from COHO right now. Or, should I go to Mishka’s? Anna?
COHO all the way! Oh, I miss their ridiculously cheap coffee. Sigh. Good times. Thanks for reminding me. 🙂
As I opened my hot lunch and blog and contemplated the lemon rice with Priya (without garlic) mango pickle, carrot sambhar and beans paruppusili, identity issues seemed distant – i felt fob_forever and strangely the questions of whence and wherefore seem relevant, non-jarring and an invite to chat. The countless number of such incidents in cabs around town (NYC) usually with Pakistani or Bangladeshi cab drivers do not make me uncomfortable. Instead it is an opening gambit to reflect upon sub-continental politics, sports or bollywood. Almost naively, I revel in my “other”ness when the WAYF moment occurs with ‘others’ – whites, blacks etc. More often than not it is the intent – usually a genuine curiosity to learn something new. So, its not such a big deal if you did actually come from India and only recently.
It’s a different issue altogether that my American born 3rd grader says “India” to a WAYF question.
I get the same way when people talk about immigration. If a person of color say’s that there is a huge immigration problem, I really dont have a problem with it, but if a white person say’s it, I immediately think that he/she is a huge racist.
Speaking of coffee, when will people start to realize that Starbucks is not that good? They are putting real coffee place’s out of business with there monoply style of business. And on top of that, they have the nerve to charge people $40/month to use the internet. GO TO HELL STARBUCKS!!
I think when south Asians ask where are you from; they are just trying to find some kind of familiarity or norm. Same way a Turkish guy asks if I am from turkey it’s a comfort thing. the difference I guess is I don’t get asked by Caucasian white folk much, or if I do I may give a dismissive answer. Maybe that’s my prejudices, because I don’t find it normal for them to ask or have any real interest. Or (from my experience) they find this information to make a joke out of, or make me feel different from everyone else.
I’ve gotten the WAYF question many many times, and I usually just respond with whatever US city I’m from. Not only does it effectively end that line of questioning, almost nobody who asks expresses any surprise at the answer.
Indians are just as obsessed with WAYF, for what it’s worth…only with reference to wherever your family is from in India. I get a lot “oh, you’re a Madrasi then” and it usually seems so derogatory too.
left coast enjoys fluffy reading material during their coffee
I’m a chai person…but thank you! 🙂
That’s how I always respond to “Americans”…
…and not only are people often surprised, it has NEVER effectively done anything but create instant resentment and irritation in the person posing the question. It is as if they are entitled to an answer which is not “sarcastic” or clever; their unreasonable and obnoxious expectation that I should immediately jump to attention and say something more exotic makes me want to stab them with a hot fork. Or ten.
CVS, Boston, circa 1997:
I was looking for my favorite pink/purply frosty lipstick, sitting on the floor in CVS. This woman [white] out of no where asks me the WAYF question in an accusatory way. Of course I gave her the snarky answer (she was interrupting a serious lipstick search), “Connecticut.” I continued to look for lipstick. The woman wouldn’t eff off and persisted, “where is your family from.” As soon as I told her she stated, “no… no.. that’s not impossible. I don’t know where you’re from but you’re not from there.” WTF??? Stupidity at its greatest.
Maybe I’m just bitchy but the WAYF questions always rubs me the wrong way.
Randomizer:
thick accent: applies,horrid fashion sense: applies,arrange marriage freak: doesn’t apply,bollywood fan: doesn’t apply
what does that make me, a half conservative, half modern DBD? Your comment reminded me of how Ghalib described himself as half-muslim: ‘sharaab peeta hu, suar nahi khata’ (I drink, but don’t eat pork).
I understand the point you are trying to make, but the dichotomy you set up is too simplistic. eg, wrt, western media => no arranged marriages, you’d constant here complaints on this site on how ABD guys run back to India to get a wife.
It doesn’t sound like bigotry — OK, maybe a little, but not malicious. I’d refer to your “puppy kicking” comment here, because it sounds like a decent excuse/analogy.
Anyway: to stick up for the benign WAYF askers of the world — I enjoy asking and receiving WAYF when given the chance, though I tend not to ask it until after some other conversation, i.e., when someone has given away their accent. It’s interesting to trace back someone’s accent to their roots, whether it’s Boston or India. I guess it’s a small-town thing for me, where everyone from my hometown was of a similar origin: typically Welsh or Croatian settlers that came in to work the local mines. No one that I’ve met here in the DC suburbs — white, brown, other — is near where I’m from, so I share. No malice intended, only curiosity.
The sub-theme to this, and probably how I found Sepia Mutiny months ago, is that if someone sounds like they’re from India (no I couldn’t separate this accent from sounding like someone who is from a surrounding nation), I especially like to ask, after traveling there to visit friends last year. Subsequently, this would translate to any other place I’ve been like Spain or Japan or Montana. It’s a low-effort way to start a conversation. –WAYF? –India. –Yeah, OK, big country, where? –Chandigarh. –Yeah, I met Nek Chand at the Rock Garden…. blah blah blah, etc. (Now that I write it all down, it seems a bit shallow… hmmm… well, I’m not exactly Captain Conversation Skills…)
I meant, ‘you’d constantly hear complaints on this site about how ABD guys run back to India to get a wife’.
atcg, what do you want your 3rd grader to say? I am curious. Also, I am addicted to lemon rice and now want to cry, since I sure as hell won’t be having any for lunch. Or dinner.
I used to make that, almost daily, with a now-discontinued L’oreal frosty pinkish lipstick (coulour riche?) with “mauve” in its name and Chanel’s Vamp lipliner. And you’re not a bitch, that woman deserves a never-ending brazilian.
I went through similar things in India. What happened was that, after having settled in to a particular spot for a good few years, getting the “where are you from” question bothered me on several levels;
I was a common sight in the gulleys and bazaars of this place – you mean by now you still don’t know where I’m from and who I am?
When you have to answer that question on every plane, train, bus, tempo, bicycle rickshaw, motor richshaw and taxi you get in – it gets very, very, very redundant.
Sometimes it was used as a pick-up line.
Too many experiences of being in a cyber cafe next to some guy watching foriegn porn and then being asked that question by the very same guy…. ewww.
Well, then I realized that I was superimposing my previous bad experiences (and the questionable intentions) that I have had being asked that question onto almost every innocent inquiry that came my way in congenial company or social situations. I had been hardened and turned into a b***ch.
It does become hard for us to pyschologically divorce unpleasant events in our minds from pleasant ones when the externals of the event/encounter take on the same form.
What worked for me was periodical breathers and returns with renewed strength and a clearer, more innocent perspective.
very deep of you to think like that and making yourself vulnerable to responses on this comment.
i personally get a bit offended when someone of any race asks me the ‘wayf’ question at first meetings. any other time… i don’t mind. i realize folks are curious and i’m quite proud to rep banaras all day.
Wow 2 posts on sepia in one day!
As some one who looks like they are OTB desi, despite living in the US all of my life, when people ask me WAYF, i say “Maryland. Where are you from?”, and then relate a story to them about how I visited there place once. Happened to me this weekend, when 2 60+ caucasian gentlemen asked me that question at my nephew’s school play. They asked me WAYF, and I asked them the same question and told them about the time I did a 1 year long project in Bluefield WV. Amazing at how I no longer felt other, and they didn’t feel awkward either. Makes me wonder how I will answer that q, when I and my family move to desh later this year. My sons will be ABD technically, but IBD in terms of thier own culture and socialization.
If you see citizenship as basically a license to do business and jury duty as the cost of doing business, visa stamps are merely affirmations of your exposure to different cultures. I think children identify closely with what their parents are doing till they hit independence – so, I am perfectly happy that she says India for now. As long as she feels comfortable inviting her latina, caucasian & other friends to her arangetram 8 years from now, closes her eyes when there is heavy kissing on TV and slogs through the heaviest course loads, I have no problems what she calls home 😉
it does seem a bit rude to ask somebody what their race is when you first meet them. and an American should be able to spot another American accent and western clothing, and not ask something like “when did you come here?”
i’m a bit more “lenient” with immigrants, esp store shop owners, because more often than not, they’re lonley/bored, and are excited to see someone else “like them”.
I think the reason a lot of people go to Starbucks is it’s open at 5:30am. If you are out early running or on the way to work, like I typically am, it’s the only thing open. No little, local joints will drag themselves up at that time.
(Yes, I do drink that swill on occasion, when I forget to set the timer on the pot.)
Good point, mi corazon. That’s when I rush my kundi over to 7-11. Yeah, I’m that obstinate. Watch me end up married to a Starbucks addict; my heavenly father has a sick sense of humor like that.
cheers is kind of lame.. that name shouting thing is kind of cool when you are in high school..
@Sakshi-
The point I was trying to make is that the India today , the next generation, at least in Metros, is very progressive. And just because a person arrives at the US with the label of ‘1st gen immigrant’, it does not make him a stereotypical FOB. .
When ABDs complain and say ‘I’m American, not an Immigrant’ – it seems to me that many times, they imagine Immigrants to be stereotypical immigrants – and what I am trying to point out here is that not all ‘Immigrants’ are alike.
Still bitter over getting banned, eh?
nahh, even better than fourbucks is our lovely neighborhood drive-through dunkin donuts.. they open at like 4:30am.. nothing like a gujarati auntie to give you some cream and splenda and telling you to have a good day ‘beta’…
I get asked the WAYF question quite frequently because I don’t look conventionally Desi. Though I am 100% Indian, I have fairer skin and hazel eyes so I guess it’s hard for people to “place” me. The other day, for example, a man behind the counter of a coffee shop I’ve been to several times stopped me and said, “I’ve been meaning to ask you this for a while now…where are you from?” The question usually doesn’t bother me and I typically respond with, “My parents are from India” or “You mean my ethnicity? I’m Indian.” The one thing that bothers me is when people question my answer. This actually happens more frequently with other Indians than with non-Indians…I routinely have Brown people ask me follow up questions like, “Half Indian?” or just outright refuse to believe I’m Indian, as if they somehow know my heritage better than I do.
Every 7-11 around here burns coffee. Where I live, most of them are owned by Ethiopians, Syrians and Jordanians.
I meant in my previous post that 7-11 and D&D are owned mostly by Ethiopians, Syrians and Jordanians, around my way at least.
The best coffee around this joint is a cuban place that opens at 8am.
If the bean, suitable girl any other of ya’ll come visit, I’ll make you the best con leche of your life.
coach: i’m in dc this weekend, are you around? i’d be down for some con leche 😉
As much as I share the general disgust with the WAYF question that is so obvious in the desi zeitgeist, am I the only one who thought that part of Anna’s nice post was about realizing that sometimes the WAYF question is just that, an attempt by someone who genuinely doesn’t know, and cares to know ? Like maybe the Mongolian-origin immigrant? And some of the time it is also an attempt to do the is-it-India-or-is-it-Pakistan-I-don’t-want-to-guess-because-I-know-you-guys-are-sworn-enemies thing. But what would be worse – to have someone totally assume who you are based on what you look like to them, and have them start a conversation in Spanish, Arabic, or Bengali/Punjabi/Tamil etc when you are not a co-lingual? Someone once started a conversation in Spanish, then, on being told ‘no habla’, assumed I had to be a total sellout. In such cases, I’d rather they have asked me the WAYF question first.
Since I’ve lived in the Vancouver area the last few years, which has a huge desi population[85% punjabi]. I get asked alot of times if I’m punjabi by other punjabi’s. When I till them that I’m punjabi, they tell me that I don’t look punjabi, so I tell them “thanks”.
Happens to me, too. “Are you mixed?” and “You don’t ‘look’ Indian.” are the most common responses. Always with desis; never with non-desis.
Chick pea, I’m around some, but I’m taking a coupla my kids to boxing on Saturday. Sunday a maybe?Email me offline if you want and I’ll give you my cell. I put my email in my handle.