The Arrogant Rudeness of Asking Me Where I’m From
Let’s call it what it is: Your constant interrogation about my origins is racist
There’s one particular racial microaggression that really gets to me. I’d say it gets under my skin, but it’s all about my skin. It simmers exactly at skin level:
“Where are you from?”
I secretly delight in seeing discomfort on the asker’s face when I tell them that my mom is from L.A. and my dad is from Texas. But I wish that I didn’t have to deal with this question at all.
I get it. You’re not racist. I’m just interesting to you. The thing is, when White people talk about their ancestry in front of me, other White people in the conversation will say, “Oh, cool, that’s interesting,” and move on. But when the discussion comes around to me, everyone leans in close to get a good look and listen. If they didn’t already say it with words, their body language says, “He’s about to tell his story!”
All the Spanish I know is from my required high school language courses, where my Brown friends would call me ‘coco,’ meaning coconut: Brown on the outside, White on the inside.
