“Where are you from?” is a question I hear often.
When I am in California, the state where I have lived since I was 13, went to high school, college, and graduate school, worked for my entire career, owned property, and have been raising my kids, the answer goes one of two ways.
Sometimes, I pause to consider what to say. This makes people visibly uncomfortable, because they realize the question is either difficult or inappropriate.
Other times, without missing a beat I say, “I am from here. I am Californian. I grew up in San Francisco.” This leads to either awkward silence, or further inquiry about where I am “really” from and attempts to learn my precise heritage.
After all, my name is Olga. While I was in Ukraine, I was a proverbial plain Jane. I was one of seven Olgas in a class of 28. In the United States, I am either the only Olga or one of the few Olgas people have met in person. And from what I hear from others, I have a distinct non-American accent. This combination makes people believe there’s no way I could possibly be from here — from San Francisco, from California, from the United States. And so they inquire, unsatisfied until they hear an answer that fits their assumptions.
After witnessing this awkward exchange a few times, usually at parties, my American husband explained that the “Where are you from?” question is merely an innocent curiosity, part of polite small talk. It is meant to be a prompt for me to share who I am. According to him, there is no need to stop being my articulate self and create needless awkwardness.
He told me that the answer is simple: “I was born in Ukraine.”
But it’s not that simple. And I’m honestly not trying to be awkward. I just can’t control this reaction. It is naturally there, especially now that I can anticipate the natural awkwardness that follows.
And although it may be asked innocently, the question itself implies that I am not from here, whatever “here” means. It implies that I am a foreigner — a very integrated one, but still foreign. The question implies that I don’t belong, at least to some extent.
That’s a really difficult reality for someone who spent her formative years in California to grasp. After all, I was an American teenager in an inner city school. I grew up with the American teen culture of the nineties, with baggy clothes, bare midriffs, and boy bands.
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