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.
En alguna parte in L.A. esta manana:
Older woman covered head to toe : Hello! I can see Batman on your jacket Little boy with Caucasian mother : (silence) OWCHTT : I am sure you can talk. You don’t like me? What is your name? CM: He’s Ahmed. Say hi, Ahmed OWCHTT (sitting up alert) : You said Ahmed? CM: Yes. A-H-M-E-D . His father is Jordanian OWCHTT : Salaam Ale-Kum Ahmed! LB: (silence) CM: He understands Arabic, does not speak so much OWCHTT : What is your last name Ahmed?
OWCHTT’s number gets called.
Me (to myself) : I love L.A. (sometimes)
Anna – Do you realize how worried I was as I read through this post and couldn’t click off to any flickr pages? Let’s just say I let out a deep “phew” when I read the last part!
I’m with some of the other posters in that I’ve been asked that question so many times in so many awful no-good, otherness ways that I respond that way to everyone, including the poor, lonely Indian who is trying to make some sort of connection. That’s also partly because if they are male, I assume they are hitting on me.
I don’t like to be like this, because I consider myself a fairly open person, but if I can’t even be polite and open to people I don’t know who are trying to make a connection with me, how can I consider myself open to new ideas?
The standard reply whenever somebody hears my (last) name… “What kind of name is that? Indian?! But you don’t look Indian!”
I have a punjabi name, it’s just that I have a lighter skin tone. Also I guess the way I dress and look is different then other young punjabi males my age.
May I ask (when) is it appropriate to ask the WAYF question? I do ask out of genuine curiosity, and I usually wait until I’ve talked to the person a few times, but still, this made me feel very self-conscious about asking at all.
As an aside, my mom came here from Germany in the 70’s, and while I don’t think she has an accent, she does occasionally get someone asking her where she’s from, though, they usually assume it’s Minnesota or Wisconsin. Go figure.
what are indians supposed to look like?
Darker than me, I assume…
Ahh, how appropriate I comment on this given the fact that I think I know the Conn Ave joint you are talking about and my little handle on this blog:P
I agree. A few creepy questions from some not-so-friendly men and I found myself almost hating the old man who innocently asks me the WAYF line of questions as I periodically see him in the neighborhood. Maybe with me it’s not really an American-asking vs. Other Immigrant/Not-typical-american-looking person-asking, but the tone in which it is asked. I understand what you mean though, especially in bigger cities (or maybe even university communities) where we are constantly so exposed to people from different cultures—perhaps when we do run across someone “Amrikan” we are taken aback by the question.
I will definitely keep in mind your point of view…
Am I the only ABD here who actually asks the question? Once I started asking it I stopped minding being asked.
4. 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.
I am sure this has also happened to you almost every single time you went to a cyber cafe.
Strangely enough, I prefer the “Where in India are you from?” question to the “Where are you from?” question. I suppose, because in one case, I assume that the questioner is 1) intelligent enough to guess I am Indian and 2) curious to know where exactly I am from; rather than decide if I am one of the locals or not. Other good ways, I think are, ‘So how do you like Austin? I assume you weren’t born here.’ and ‘Whoa…its hot in Texas. But it must be no hotter than where you’re from…right?’
Randomizer, my stand on the accent issue is that India has as many English speakers as the US and the UK. So we can debate endlessly about whose accent is “more correct” — or drop the issue completely and just make jokes about it. I get the “but your accent is not so thick” line all the time too, and my usual response is to congratulate them for having a very light Southern/Texan/Midwestern/ValleyGrrrl accent too! It works like a charm.
OT, but AlMfD, congrats on making ‘chutiya’ your own.
His pants fit.
My own reply is usually, “Are you asking what my ethnic background is? My parents are from India. But I was born in Cleveland, OH, raised in Mississippi, and have lived in DC for the last 8 years.”
Then I feel like I’ve pretty much cemented my claim to the soil we’re standing on. I agree, it’s a bit annoying, but I also understand that most people don’t mean any harm by it…they’re just asking because to them, it’s a safe question to ask a stranger.
I’ve never gotten an angry reply or follow-up to my mini-discourse, either.
Story: today I had to make a reservation for a hotel room in Dayton, OH for a friend’s wedding. I called the Crowne Plaza, and got a really nice guy non-desi guy at the front desk (Tom, I think?). When he asked for my Priority Club number, my name must have popped up on his screen. “Sa-lil. Manik…ta…la?”
Oh great, I thought. As soon as I hear the question mark at the end of my name, I usually take a breath and get ready to deliver aforementioned rote phraseology. “Where are you from?”
“My parents are from India, but I’m from–“
“Where in India? Gujurat? No, that’s not a Gujurati name. Are you from the South?”
“No, I’m Punjabi.”
“Punjabi! Wow, I’ve never heard that name before. Hey, can you write Gurumukhi?”
“What? Um…no. I can write a little bit of Devangari, but my Hindi and my Punjabi are pretty atrocious.”
“That’s very cool! Yeah, you’re probably wondering why I’m asking you all this. Sorry! I just like languages.”
“No, that’s great! Kind of a different hotel reservation experience for me, you know?”
“I can imagine! Ok, ji…saab kuch theek hai…you’re all set.”
And I laughed and put the phone down.
Sometimes I really love America.
Do people here get the “Are you Indian?” question from Desi people in general? I rarely get the, WAYF question.
Also for non-indian desi’s would that piss you off, you know if your pakistani or bangladeshi?
Am I the only ABD here who actually asks the question? Once I started asking it I stopped minding being asked.
No definitely not – as I wrote
And when I meet IBDs, I have to admit, I want to ask them about where they grew up — – which means I do also ask IBDs and others where are they from if the opportunity arises. I generally don’t feel unwelcome or that I am visitor when I’m asked that question.
Used to get it a lot in dotcom era. Followed by, “We’re looking for smart, young people like you…bla bla bla…our e-business venture…bla bla bla…†Desi pyramid stalkers. I don’t miss them at all.
Once, at a department store, the sales lady asked me ‘What part of Pakistan are you from?’, which was a bit odd as I am not Desi at all. I explained my familial background, though it was too bad I couldn’t provide the connection she would have liked.
Generally being a private person, I find the ‘WAYF’ question a bit intrusive and personal. I have never thought of it as being branded as a foreigner that doesn’t belong. Most of the time, especially while I was in school, it was other immigrants that would ask the question. I imagine that from their part it was probably a genuine curiosity about other people from possible different cultures.
So once upon a time, when I still read Miss Manners, someone wrote to her to ask about the kindest way to manage intrusive inquiries. The answer: pleasantly ask, “Why do you want to know?”, because that would gently remind the boor that their question was not appropriate.
The next day, while walking down the street:
Bwana: Hi, may I ask you, WAYF?
Me: How kind of you to be so interested! Why do you want to know?
Bwana: Well, you’re obviously not from here.
Me: That’s…um…true…I am…from California!
Bwana: No, I mean HERE. You don’t look American.
Me: I’d respectfully disagree. I look very American. I’m wearing polo, I’m selfish and there’s a stick up my ass– doesn’t get more American than that. Hell, I’m a very tan WASP.
Bwana: You know what I mean. You don’t look…American American. What are you?
Me: Regrettably, I am late. Good-bye.
Cute story. I love it 🙂
I am in total agreement with this. They have some idea of your ethnicity but don’t want to guess and offend you, or they have no idea and are just curious. And Ennis, I agree with you. I’m a country mouse and ask people their ethnicity all the time. Thus it does not bother me at all when I get the same question. I’m fond of telling people that my family and I were the first Indian rednecks. And Salil…something you said struck me as curious because I realized I do the exact same thing — I tell people where I was born and raised in my twangy southern IL accent because I feel it allows me to comfortably stake my claim as an American. Do we have some need to “prove” we’re American, more so than our parents because we’ve never seen ourselves as being anything else and get prickly when it’s insinuated otherwise?
I don’t understand all the hullabaloo.
Accents, colors, smells, etc are surrogates for intrinsic nebulous identities; remnants of a history that once accurately translated to geography. We all wish to return home (which is an embryological fantasy)and yet acknowledge or enjoy our variety or impurities whenever the self needs some validation. We continue to cloak these tensions in language that betrays these realities and therefore are condemned to making mistakes in gathering a mature sense of ourselves. And this cuts through all quasi groups of people.
Mind you, all this serves as excellent motives to publish multi culti books.
I look forward to a time when most of us have weaned ourselves off the inheritance of loss. I fear publishers will continue to make it an issue.
You never did and you never will.
Well, I don’t know if I can speak for others, but…yeah. It’s what comes from being hybridized culturally, right? You can either call yourself conflicted or consider yourself interesting, I guess. But one of the side-effects is that you tend to plant your feet more firmly on your piece of terra if you’ve ever been made to feel it’s not yours. Prove? Proving is like a challenge, an affront. I feel like I plant my feet, and let them dare to challenge me.
I was explaining this to a friend last night, and after I hung up the phone with her, I sat there and thought about how fast I grew up, and how much I learned before I was 10 years old. My parents never really knew because I never told them, and also because the immigrant experience is so vastly different from the children-of-immigrants experience. They have always considered themselves Indian, and only recently have they even really begun to think of themselves as American. That struggle with place was more vast and less personal to them.
My sister and I (and I suspect quite a few other Muti-peers) grew up thinking we were American. No, wait, not thinking it; assuming it. Yeah, I know, that’s nothing new or special, it’s cliche and trite in novels, we all know that. But it was true for us, and true for a lot of you. We were never “confused.” I mean, I knew who I was. I just wasn’t allowed to belong where I was, for most of my childhood.
Gogol, while that trend is true, it’s not there yet. Accents, colors, smells, and PEOPLE are still very much the definition of place. While the world is getting smaller, it’s only the boundaries that are blurring. Honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way. I like that Batesville, Mississippi is so different from Delhi, or Tokyo, or Toronto, or Washington, D.C.
Interesting comments! Here at Penn State at one of the local parking garage we have a gentleman who ALWAYS says Namaste as soon as I pull in and says Dhayavaad when I pay him. I am amazed but I am an immigrant American and my kids sometimes think it is funny and sometimes roll their eyes! He is Caucasian 🙂 and probably learnt languages somewhere!
Tell your kids not to roll their eyes; that guy is trying to be decent and kind to someone he perceives as different. That’s rare enough these days that it needs encouragement.
🙂
We each must come to terms with our comprehension of what constitutes our identity which is obviously an ongoing process. The themes however remain largely the same if one has any sense of history of the makeup of the self.
Most of us are poor at using the nourishment of personal narratives to disperse ourselves unto the meta world. It is this dialectic which people must appreciate to get beyond their own default and local narcissm.
Dhanyavad Salil! I will certainly tell them. I try to tell them that he has taken the time to learn words in a foreign language and we should appreciate it 🙂
for some reason, as a non-indian, i used to get really annoyed when people would ask “are you indian?” even more than WAYF. i think it’s because then it’s like they’re definitely asking about your race/ethnic background…and i’m biased and think people shouldn’t assume all brown people are indian 🙂
oh, and Maurice…i guess it’s hard to say. i feel “othered” when it’s like the first question that gets asked of me. once i know somebody, i don’t mind talking about my background at all.
The “trend” varies within the individual to within groups within time and space. It is a dialectic that can be at best approximately reconciled within the individual without some public showing for verification. Be mindful of exploiting the negative effects of a self diaspora when hurt and showing off the positive points when strong. They both originate from the same place.
yogi gogol
Now see that why I get scared to talk to folks in D.C..
Huh, I never really thought about this. If I ponder over WAYF questions, there are just too many intentions behind it, don’t you think?
When my neighbor asked it (after 3/4 conversations) I was glad to tell him. When the guy sitting next to me in Bears game asked the same, I was more like Eric Cartman, screaming “I’ll kick you in the nssss”. He followed it with “Do YOU GUYS watch football?”. If you give an “I’m from city blah”, few people are hell bent on getting the answer they want to hear. Just stupid! The tone in my friend’s mom question “WAYF? you speak pretty good English” is another example. Don’t they realize they are being dk ? Are they really so ignorant? Most culturally-aware Americans don’t care I guess. They never ask. It just comes up in some conversation. If it’s a foreigner, no problem!
“WAYF?” “India” “You?” “Brazil” “cool…can you make me some Cachaça?”
In FOB desi-context, you know the question is “which state/city are you from?”. ABD is more like “dude, are you from India? Cool, my father is from Delhi”.
Wow! Too many flavors to one question. I just wrote a blog on explaining Indian Identity to foreigners. Next time, if I get WAYF question, I’m gonna say “Well..my parents are from India …a state called Andhra Pradesh but I grew up in Tamilnadu, studied in Kerala and lived in Bombay and Delhi. Oh, you don’t know all that? How about Chicago for an answer?”
Mmmmm, the UCD’s COHO never fails me. And it’s fair trade. Thanks for the life-saving advice, Anna.
Tom Friedman, (yes, the Tom Friedman) once asked this bindi-wearing, curly haired, dark skinned girl wearing a sari at a formal function, which part of Pakistan she is from 🙂 Coming from Mr. Friedman, I thought that was surprising. It was 2000 and he had just published Lexus and the Olive Tree.
Ashish @11
I feel this way too. Often it is the tone because there are indeed some people who ask out of a genuine curiosity or wish to learn something about where you come from.
Oh the usual WAYF question. Being in NYC I’ve always gotten it from the ‘exoticizing’ angle. I always wonder if the next question they’d ask me would be ‘Do you know the Kamasutra?’. When I was younger I had a lot of anger about being asked where I was from. I am from India and really it’s a black and white issue but I’d get worked up about it, defensive because I somehow felt attacked. It was at a time I was really struggling with my identity, trying to figure out who I was and it just added to the stress of not knowing where and how I belonged.
It’s an entirely different thing for me today. Unless it comes from an unwanted man making sexual advances I almost always indulge people when they ask me where I’m from. The question now often comes with some sweet surprise. I was in Santa Fe NM last year, shopping for rugs. I walked into a store where the white woman after a little minor conversation asked me WAYF. I wasn’t sure where it was going so I said India. My gf with me was also Indian. She lit up like a Christmas tree and started talking to me in Hindi. She’d lived in India for decades and missed it so much I realized she was just looking for comfort in a familiar voice like so many desis that ask me where I’m from.
Last week I had dinner at Bar Americain in the city and Bobby Flay was walking around asking people how the food was. We were a table of 4 and when he came over he chatted a bit, everyone a doctor besides me so he was jesting about how he was giving business to them. Then he goes “where are you folks from” and really it was so casual. One friend said Bronx which is where he is from. I said India and he chatted a little bit and moved on. 15 minutes later we got a special Talapia dish he sent out that was made with Indian spices and it got offered to me. 🙂 Sometimes it pays to speak up when someone asks WAYF.
Sure, but sometimes it is also a way of a setting up another sub-branch of the old dominance hierarchy, in which the other ethnic (or immigrant) wants to be, or feels like he is, ‘on top of you’. Genuine WAYFs should come quite a ways into the conversation, after establishing a substantial personal comfort zone, based on other human points of contact, as a way of peeling back the first, well-probed, layer of someone’s persona. The WAYFs that are the first or second things someone asks you are rarely genuine, in my experience, and are almost always trying to set up a dominance hierarchy.
Ennis- I ask people where they are from all of the time. I ask because I think that families and culture are interesting and I (perhaps naively) assume that that’s why people ask in general. Plus, there are tons of shy and/or socially awkward people out there and asking ‘where are you from’ might just be their way of breaking the ice a little when they meet someone new. I guess what I am saying is that sometimes, when there are no obvious signs of malice, we should give people the benefit of the doubt.
Its not that we’re scary, it just feels like a loaded question, hence the (understandable) level of displeasure. You should be more afraid of driving in DC. Or tripping on the jagged sidewalks.
I can’t count the number of times that I’ve answered “Maryland” to a non-desi and “Kerala” to a desi or “India” to a thickly accented question mark. Know your audience, and occasionally be a smartass.
Whenever i get asked the WAYF question, I say India, without thinking about it. I just kind of assume that they think I’m American too, with my valley girl accent, and the way I am. Plus, I think I’m just proud, and I do consider myself an Indian first, even though i came to America when I was 4. If someone asked me who I was, I would say “indian” hands down. I guess I’m better described as “indian-american” with the american kind of gray-ish.
Friedman is the living embodiment of the expression “book smart, street stupid.” His knowledge of India and/or South Asia does not extend much beyond the yearly press junket and resulting “1ND14 $H1N3Z 4ND PWNZ J00! GL0BAL1Z4T10N 4 TEH WINZ!!1ONE!!!1ELEVEN!1!” column…
My reflex reaction is to be “chill” with anyone thats not south indian who asks. Unfortunately, thats what my experience has taught me to be. But once they’ve established I’m from the same region , its almost as if they think we’re part of some masonic cult and I should treat them like we’ve been lifelong buddies or something. And in most cases, the converstation turns to…
“Hey I found you in our work directory – you’re from %%%% right? You should join our %%%% forum..” “Do you want to make some extra money on the side? Theres many like you attending, you know…” (amway bullshit) “I/my brother/wife/uncle need a job – could you help?” “Where do you work? Do they pay you more than $xxxxx?” “Hey do you know yyyyy who works there? He’s from xxxxx too”
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t get unpleasant or offer help without them asking (this weekend two guys asked me if I was “indian” and they just had a question about the bus schedule..there were other people there too btw)
When it gets annoying I tell people I’m from Norway and that usually ends the conversation right there..
I don’t mind the WAYF question either. I mind the more ignorant questions like, “So, what’s your REAL last name? Did you change it?” Or, “How come you dont’ have a long, funny last name?” Don’t get me wrong, I dont’ mind when people are geniunely curious and want to ask me in a manner to educate themselves, in which case the question should be, “Hey, I’ve never heard of Joseph as an Indian last name? Did you change it or maybe it’s my ignorance, are there Indians with the last name Joseph?” That would be wayy better than, “What’s your Hindu name?” That just indicates to me that you’re ignorant and have no tact. And it also makes me realize that Americans have such a horrible sense of other people’s histories. You should see the shocked faces when I have to explain that I am Christian because St. Thomas came to India and converted the Christians around my area, followed by several Portugese, British and Dutch missionaries. The looks on their faces are priceless.
I also find that most Americans think all of India is exactly the same and we all speak Hindu and worship cows. It’s sad to see such stereotyping in 2007. I had a fellow PhD student tell me the other day that Africa is one country which all the same languages. It’s just sad.
When people do ask me the question in a non-offensive or just straightforward manner, I don’t get offended. In fact, I agree with some comments above, I actually like it, because it makes me feel special. I don’t answer by saying New York though, because I feel like that’s being a bit smart;) Even though they should know better to ask, “What nationality are you?”, rather than “Where are you from?…No I mean where are you really from?”
I do tend to notice that when other immigrant groups ask me about my nationality, they tend to indicate to me that they know something of the area I’m from or try to relate in some manner. For instance they will try to guess the region/language/customs I follow. Which I feel is wonderful, the way they are trying to relate to me and have a commonality. The way second or third generation Americans do it is by saying, “I went to an Indian wedding once and the bride had dots all over her eyes. The whole thing was just so colorful!”
I recall a funny incident at work, with one of my friends, Anthony Mathews, who’s family happens to be from Kerala. The irony is that when we finally met the client they were in disbelief that he hadn’t changed his name.
My exact response was “you do realize that there are Christians in India” only for the client to have a ghastly look on her face in shock. I can’t really explain the tones that were used, but it quite hilarious for the both of us.
Either way, when i get the “are you indian?” from a desi person i usually tell the truth, unless ofcourse its some hot girl in which case i’m brasilian and put on my fake portuguese accent.
I have to be honest at one whme I was more “clueless” then you average white american about india. When I went to India for 4 months from Jan to Apr of 1996[ all but a couple days in Punjab.] Before the trip I thought most people in India were sikh’s and the rest were hindu’s. You can say I was wrong about that.
This is gonna sound even worst. Only the last couple of years did even understand what a punjabi hindu was. Before I thought they were people who from other parts of India who were hindu’s that lived in India. When in fact they were punjabi’s who were hindu’s instead of sikh’s. I thought 99% of the people in punjab were sikh’s.
So about 5 years ago I had very little understanfing of my backgroud.
When I meet a desi who not punabi, I ask what part of India where there family is from one.
I guess in the last 15 months this website has probably helped me more then anyone else learn about my desi background.
I’m a first gen currently on a visit to the Desh. A couple of weeks ago, I was in a check out line of a hotel in Bangalore when I got a phone call on my Blackberry from an American coworker. As soon as I was finished with that, I was interrupted with a WAYF question by a lady who was behind me. For a moment, I was kind of surprised getting that question when I’m in India (as I know there is no way one would be confused by the way I look), I turned around only to see a Caucasian lady with a nervous look on her face. I quickly figured she wanted to know if I were from some other place outside of India (not sure what gave it away, maybe the diluted version of my accent or maybe some other specific reference which I may have used during my conversation with my coworker), so my answer immediately was “San Francisco, USA”. It turns out she was looking for some help in figuring out how to call her home town in South Africa, looks the country calling code was recently modified and the hotel staff just wouldn’t get what she was trying to say, so she was hoping that I would be able to help her out. Luckily, I could look up the latest country code and dialing instructions to south Africa using the internet on the blackberry and I even called her home from that device (its on a corporate account, a single call to south Africa wouldn’t hurt my company, would it ? ;-)). It turns out she has just arrived in Bangalore from South Africa and she was on her way to Puttaparthi Sai Baba’s Ashram the next morning (I guess its closer to Bangalore). Anyway, the point I’m trying to make is that, you never know why someone would be asking you this question, it just depends on how sincere their tone is and the look on their face would probably tell you what you want to respond with.
Anna, why you gotta hate on UCB? 😉
DDiA, that’s funny that you don’t mind people asking where in India you’re from. My Pakistani-American friends hate that question for that exact reason 🙂
I hate the WAYF question 90% of the time. What bothers me is not the race/ethnicity/citizenship of the person who asks the question, but rather how they ask it:
Example 1: Acceptable WAYF Anecdote I’m sitting in a clinic waiting room, and these two adorable girls come up to me and say, “Me gusta tu vestido!” (simultaneously). They’re about 3 and 5 years old. We proceed to have an animated conversation, in Spanish, about their ages, names, favorite colors, the animals on my skirt (and whether they are donkeys or elephant), and how guay their fashion sense is. I also introduce myself to their mother, and she asks, “De donde eres?” PERFECTLY acceptable and kind question. I tell her California by way of Arizona.
Maybe this was ok with me because we’d shared a moment, and I had already had a great conversation with her kids. It wasn’t a random, intrusive, question, but rather a curious getting to know you question.
Example 2: Unacceptable WAYF Anecdote I’ve just started at a new high school, and we have a visitor sitting in on our bio class – her parents are thinking of moving to this east bay suburb and want to see what she thinks of the local school. Sitting at my lab table, this 14 year old asks me, “Where are you from?” Used to being asked about which middle school I attended (since I’m one of 4 “out of district” students), I answer with my middle school. She laughs and says, “Oh no, where were you born?”
I furrow my brow in confusion and respond with Arizona. She asks, “Oh, are you Indian?” And I reply, “No…” Her response? “Oh… you must be Native American! You’re the first one I’ve met! Wow, you speak really good English.” I was flabbergasted. I had no idea what to say — of course I speak good English, it’s my native language!
This girl didn’t even know me! She didn’t even say hello, she just asked WAYF? I guess what bothers me about it is the expectation that there is no way I could be an American, that she doesn’t even have to engage in a real conversation with me before asking personal questions, and that there is no expectation that she would ever be asked the same thing. The only other group of people who ask me this question OFTEN with the same underlying assumption are black men trying to hit on me thinking that they can sneak in some exotic “are you flexible?” or “can you teach me the Kama Sutra?” dumbshit pickup line.
I sometimes ask a variant of the WAYF question; you folks tell me if it’s offensive.
If I meet someone who might be South Asian (appearance, accent), I’ll ask, “Um, do you happen to like Bollywood movies?” It’s because I’m not part of the small desi community in Honolulu and I can only talk movies with the Khans at their grocery/video store, or online. Sometimes I’ll meet someone who is up on the latest movies, or has memories to share of watching Dharmendra at the neigborhood cinema, growing up. Sometimes my passing acquaintance will have been too busy at IIT to watch movies 🙂 Sometimes I get a funny look that seems to say, “Just because I’m Indian, do you think I’d watch that trash?”
Usually non-South Asians don’t even know Bollywood exists, so I don’t bother to ask. The only time I’ve been surprised is at a Pacific librarians conference; turns out Bollywood is big in Fiji and the Cook Islands.
“That would be wayy better than, “What’s your Hindu name?” That just indicates to me that you’re ignorant and have no tact”.
people have asked, “do you speak hindu?”
Clueless, one of my close friends grew up in Central California. He also grew up thinking that India was a predominantly Sikh country, most people spoke Punjabi, and the basic culture everywhere was very similar to Punjabi culture. That’s because the only type of desis he met growing up were Sikhs. He also wasn’t too clear on what a Punjabi Hindu was, but he was well aware that Pakistan had a lot of Punjabi Muslims. Vaguely knew about Gujjus, and knew about Bollywood but had no context to place them in. He had absolutely no idea about southern India and its cultures/languages. It was college and medical school which introduced him to a large variety of desis and made him learn about all these things. Now he can’t believe that he never knew. Anyway now we jokingly call him a ‘sophisticated jatt’ because he’s into Sinatra and sushi and jazz and museums and what not. Whatever it takes to impress the women.