Over the past few days, several people have brought up my ethnicity in ways that reminded me of a question I have encountered throughout my life: Where are you from, and what are you?
On Friday, a new coworker repeatedly referred to me as Korean after I taught her how to pronounce my name. The conversation seemed to revolve around Korea and being Korean, and she even asked me about my Korean husband. I explained that my husband is White and from Hawaii, but the assumptions continued until I finally became frustrated enough to clarify, “I'm American, born and raised. My mom is from Korea and has been in the United States for almost 60 years. My dad was American.”
On Saturday, a client lingered after his appointment, even though I had only five minutes to prepare my treatment room for the next person. During the conversation, he remarked that I spoke English very well. I responded, “Yes, it's my first and only language.” It was a simple statement, but one that reflected a much larger frustration I have carried for years.
Then, on Sunday, while I was getting a pedicure, the woman attending to me asked where I was from. I answered, “California.” She followed up by saying, “I'm Vietnamese, and you are?” I understood what she was really asking, so I answered honestly: “Filipino, French Canadian, and Korean.”
Three days, three different interactions, and the same underlying experience: being asked to explain my identity to people who seem to assume that my appearance must tell them where I belong.
This has been a recurring part of my life. People want to know what I am, where I come from, and why I speak English so well. Sometimes, they seem surprised when I explain that I was born and raised in California and that English is my only language. Other times, they assume that because my mother is Korean, I must speak Korean or identify primarily with Korean culture.
My frustration is not with people being curious about my heritage. I understand that cultural backgrounds can be interesting, and I am not ashamed of my ancestry. The problem arises when curiosity becomes an assumption, particularly when someone seems unable to accept that I am simply American without needing to qualify it.
We do not routinely ask Black Americans why they do not speak Swahili or expect White Americans to speak German because of their ancestry. Yet people with Asian heritage are often expected to speak an ancestral language, explain their ethnic background, or justify their American identity. Being asked where I am from can feel less like a genuine question about my background and more like an insistence that I must have come from somewhere else.
I was born and raised in California, in the United States. My heritage includes Filipino, French Canadian, and Korean ancestry, but those roots do not change where I was born or the language I grew up speaking. My background is part of my identity, but it is not the only thing that defines me.
And that brings me to a question I have asked myself for years: Are we supposed to have a specific look to be considered American?
There is no single appearance, ethnicity, or cultural background that defines an American. The United States is home to people with countless histories and ancestries, and being American does not require looking a certain way, speaking a particular language, or proving that you belong.
I should not have to repeatedly explain my nationality or defend my language skills because my appearance does not fit someone else's expectations. I can be proud of my Korean and Filipino heritage, acknowledge my French Canadian roots, and still be entirely American.
Perhaps the better question is not where I am really from, but why some people find it so difficult to accept that the answer can simply be California.
No comments:
Post a Comment