“No, where are you really from?”
In his Netflix comedy special, “Homecoming King,” The Daily Show correspondent Hasan Minhaj talks about what it’s like to be a brown first generation immigrant in the United States of America. Specifically, he talks about how, “As immigrants, we always have to put on these press releases to prove our patriotism. We’re auditioning, ‘We love this country, please believe me.’ Nobody loves this country more than [immigrants].”
Like Minhaj, I’m a first-generation immigrant in this country. My parents emigrated from India in the mid-eighties/early-nineties, and I was born here, in Rex Hospital off of Blue Ridge Road in Raleigh, North Carolina. I am just as American as everyone else, including my parents and other immigrants who have been and continue to be working hard to establish themselves as a part of this country, whether or not they’re welcomed here.
I can’t pinpoint the exact timestamp for when American became synonymous with White, but we all know that this is an ideal that firmly exists today. It’s proven to me at least once a day, when a supposedly well-meaning individual comes up to me and asks, “So, where are you from,” and I usually reply with “Oh, I’m from Cary,” and the individual goes for the killer shot when they counter my response with, “No, I mean, where are you really, originally from,” to which I reply, “Oh, my family is from India.” Sometimes, if the individual is really intent on pushing all kinds of boundaries, they’ll follow up with, “Wow, your English is really good!”
When I’m asked the first question — “So, where are you from?” — I reply with “Cary” in hopes that they were just asking because NC State has students from all over North Carolina, and all over the country (and yes, also all over the world, but let’s not assume people’s heritages and identities by the way they look). Nine times out of ten, my hopes are dashed. Like Minhaj said, existing while brown is about the same as existing in a constant audition for the role of American in this badly written play we call Our Country (emphasis on OUR).
My relationship with this country is tinged with mixed feelings. Although I was born here, I spent the majority of my formative years in Switzerland when my dad got a job transfer there (sometimes, to mess with people who ask me where I’m really from, I tell them Switzerland and watch that cognitive dissonance manifest). My family moved back to the States just before I started fourth grade, which was a whole new level of culture shock when I not only had to deal with speaking and spelling a new way, but also with being one of the only people of color in my class (not that I consciously recognized that as being problematic at the time).
My passport says that I’m American. My accent and grasp of English says that I’ve at least lived here long enough to assimilate. My skin color, my name, the food I used to bring in my lunch box to elementary school, all say without speaking that I can’t possibly be originally from here — not like Kyle or Leigh or Catherine with their Lunchables and Fair and Lovely skin.
Until the day comes where I don’t have to use my appearance, my language, my accent to prove that I am from this country just as much as the next person, I supposed I’m just going to have to keep answering questions like, “Where are you really from,” with a polite smile and gracious attitude toward people who think they’re being so accepting when asking about my heritage.
