“Where are you from?” you asked. It was one of the first questions you posed Whether you first met me while crossing the street, in our first university class, at a party, sitting next to me on the tram Sometimes we both knew we would never meet again and yet, you thought, it was the most important question to ask me. “Where are you from?” you asked. And I told you. Every detail. I thought everyone was asked this question. I was used to it from international school. But then I started to realise you didn’t ask everyone. You didn’t ask whites. Also, you didn’t care to listen, You only wanted to confirm that I had migration background. You didn’t care about the where, why or who. So then I started to say, which city I was born in. You hated this answer. But there was a simple solution for your dilemma. More creative questions. “Where are your parents from?” most of you asked. “Where are your grandparents from?” a very bold one of you asked. You thought it wasn’t fair that I wouldn’t tell you. You thought you were entitled to know. And when I asked you in turn you laughed as though it was the funniest question ever. It’s not like I didn’t tell some people. I’d tell POC if they asked. Because I knew they in turn would tell me. And otherwise, I wouldn’t tell you immediately unless it’s important for the event. Because I’ve realised that what you’re doing is othering me. I’m not embarrassed about it. My identity is something that I’m proud of. And I share it with those I deem worthy.
1 Comment
Kim Paluch
12/12/2017 01:42:21 pm
You are so right, here. I don’t know if I ever ask you where you were from, but I would gladly tell you where I’m from first. The answer doesn’t matter, except that I get to know you a little better. I’m sorry, though, that you had to experience this enough to write this penetrating and responsive poem.
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