Where are you from?
Where are you from? You ask me after I introduce myself. After you hear me speak. Because I have a slight accent. An uncommon one, that you’re not used to and that you’ve never heard. So odd that you can’t help but ask. Where are you from? You ask as you look at me and see a white woman, but not quite as white as you’re used to. With something a little off, something you can’t pin point. Is it my eyes? No, my nose? Or is it my facial structure? My mouth perhaps? It’s probably all of it. Where are you from? You ask as I laugh because this is a question I get asked all the time. A question I sometimes get tired of answering and explaining because I don’t have a real answer for you. Where are you from? You ask as I start to tell you I didn’t grow up with just one culture, one set identity. That I don’t have a one word answer for you that would be true to who I am. Where are you really from? You ask when I tell you I’m biracial and multicultural, that I grew up immersed in a culture that isn’t a part of my DNA. Where are you from? You ask when I speak to you in my native language and you hear a very slight accent that I must’ve picked up over the years, because to you, I’m not truly from here. Because I didn’t grow up here and I’m only half. In your eyes I’m not really French. Not as much as you. Where are you from? You ask when I struggle to understand what you’re saying to me because I didn’t grow up speaking Vietnamese even though I was constantly surrounded by the culture and raised with it. Where are you from? You ask as I no longer really have an answer for you, because where am I really from?