Where Are You From?

Having lived in America for almost 17 years, I pretty much got used to the idea that I am an American.  Mind you, it wasn't easy.  For the first two years I absolutely hated and despised everything and everyone American and sorely missed my home country, which made my existence extremely miserable, since America was all around me. Nevertheless, I gradually managed to acculturate and notice my UN-Americanness less and less.

After 9/11, I found in my soul true roots of American patriotism, which for me was a new feeling, since I never actually experienced it while living in Russia, because technically I never considered myself Russian, but first and foremost Jewish. (I know, I know, you are going to tell me that Jewish is a religion, not a culture, but I can argue with you about that the whole evening, especially if I'm accompanied by a nice Kosher bottle of Israeli Cabernet Sauvignon.)

The blow to the Twin Towers was like a blow to my heart; my insides hurt to see New York City (which I consider my soul mate city, if such a concept may exist) suffer and grieve.  That was the first time when I truly felt that I was a full-blooded American, the same as those who were born here, or whose roots went back to the Mayflower.

So. That brings me to the point I'm trying to make.  Most days I don't give a second thought to my ethnicity, or nationality, or country of origin.  I just go about my business teaching, wine tasting, belly dancing, and occasionally writing long-winded boring blogs.  But it always sneaks up on me - that million-dollar question, thrown at me at the most inconvenient moments, catching me completely unprepared, and leaving me momentarily stunned.

And the question is - the drum roll please -

WHERE ARE YOU FROM?

Oh, yes, I remember those first couple of years in the US, when my white average face was unnoticeable in the American crowd, but my accent was my betrayer.  At times I dreaded to even talk to some cashier at Tops for the fear of being assaulted with the usual WHERE ARE YOU FROM? Meant as a friendly matter-of-fact small talk, when asked for a hundred times, it became my nightmare.

This is how the usual conversation would go:

Me: Paper and plastic please.
Cashier (hopefully a cute guy, but at Tops not likely): Oh, you speak with an accent! Where are you from?
Me: Russia.  Oh, could you pack the bags lightly please.
Cashier (excited): Sure.  Russia?! Wow, cool! Which part of Russia?
Me (annoyed, because how the heck s/he would know the parts of Russia?!) Ummm... South.  Near Ukraine.
Cashier (perplexed): Bonus card?  Ukraine?...  Wow...
Me: Yeah, about 8 hours away from Moscow, kinda like Buffalo from New York.
Cashier: That will be $37.14 please. Cash? Awesome.  What is your hometown's name?
Me (SERIOUSLY?????): It's Belgorod.
Cashier: Belgrade? Out of $40?
Me: No, Bel-gO-rOd. It's on the border with Ukraine.  A small city.
Cashier: Here's your change.  Have a nice day.
Me (silently bemoaning): WHY?????

Why? Why ask all these questions, if s/he probably never saw a map of Russia and is too young to even know that once Russia was the Number One Enemy Of The US.  Why care about the part of Russia I am from, or the name of my hometown, which is not very famous, even in Russia itself?  At least most of the time I got out easy, without being questioned about the snow (which will definitely come up in my next blog installment), or "humorously" called a Commie.

After being subjected to this torturous humiliation for several years, I started teaching English and improved my accent enough not to be noticed anymore.  Occasionally the Question strikes again, but now I found a perfect weapon. A case in point:

Stranger/Cashier/Clerk/Policeman/Guy At A Bar: Where are you from?
Me (smile): Amherst.
Stranger/Cashier/Clerk/Policeman/Guy At A Bar (stunned):........... Khmm. Which part of Amherst?
Me: Between Eggert and Bailey. Near North Campus UB.
Stranger/Cashier/Clerk/Policeman/Guy At A Bar (deflated): Cool.

And that leaves absolutely no room for them to speculate on my ethical background, unless they have the guts to pursue the matter further and inquire about my accent and try to guess where I am from in three tries, one of which is invariably that I'm from France.

Thankfully, I have learned to parry the oncoming Question, except when its in disguise.  At a social function:

Colleague (squealing): Oh, Lu, good to see you!
Me: Hi! How are you?
Colleague (gushing): Lu, this is my husband. This is Lu, we work together, she is from Russia!
Me: .................................................... Nice to meet you.
Husband (bored): Hi, nice to meet you too.
Me (silently): RUN!!!!!!!

As you can see, life keeps throwing the mighty Question at me all the time, and I have suffered aplenty because of that.  So my dear friends, colleagues, and readers, please remember, it's an insult, or at least a social faux pas, to ask someone who has lived in America for half of their life about their country of origin, unless it's essential for the immediately following anthropological or sociological comparison of his/her native and host cultures.

I am an American, and I am from Amherst. The rest is not important.