What am I?
I am a geographical oddity.
“Are you Indian?”
“Nope.”
“But you look Indian.”
“Well, I’m not.”
“Sri Lankan?”
“Nope again.”
“American?”
“Seriously?”
Ever since I moved to France four years ago, I have been subjected to this guessing game (and variations of it) so many times that it now feels like a ritual. Either prompted by meeting a new person, or when stopped in the streets by Bangladeshi rose vendors, my oriental face, western style of dress, and my unidentifiable accent generate a series of interrogations about where I come from. Experiencing this phenomenon has even made me more cautious when I meet new people; never call an Asian-looking person “Chinese,” for example, unless you are a 100% sure she does come from China.
My experience is that of many young women and men who hail from developing countries, who speak several languages, and who have grown up exposed to various cultures. But, let’s take me as an example. I was born in Bermuda, and I grew up in Mauritius. For the geographically challenged (or for those with bad eyesight), Mauritius is an island, a tiny dot really, in the middle of the Indian Ocean. We speak English, French, and a dialect called Creole. I grew up with French cable TV, attended a high school modeled after the British system, and was disciplined with the rigor of an Asian family (no going out at night, no boyfriends before eighteen and straight As — the Holy Trinity of strict parents).
This upbringing and education effectively helped me split myself into various identities and roles, parcels of which are today reflected in the way people perceive me. At first glance, I look foreign, Indian or from Sri Lanka. When I speak, people either think I am American or cannot, for the love of anything holy, place my accent.
The questions that I get, sometimes on a daily basis, have naturally prompted me to ask myself: What am I? Yes “what,” not “who.” I’m sure many young people, born in one country, raised in another (or several others), and studying in yet another go through this. Are we a mix of all the cultures we have absorbed during our formative and learning years? Or are we simply cultural chameleons, camouflaging our identities against whatever cultural backdrop we happen to be featured in? Are we richer by virtue of our various experiences or poorer because of our splintered identities?
Such is the train of thought that races through my mind while you eyeball me and try to fit me into a set category. Stop trying. We’ll both end up confused.
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