Where Are You From?

The question hangs in the air like smoke that won’t clear, and I feel my body tense before the words even settle.

Here, they want the other answer—the one that explains my face, my name that catches on their familiar tongues. They nod when I say the distant place, satisfied they’ve solved the puzzle of me.

There, they want this answer—the one that explains my accent, my strange customs, the way I hold my fork. They smile when I name this concrete jungle, this place that raised me, but their eyes ask: Really?

I have rehearsed both responses, practiced the right emphasis, learned which story each audience wants to hear. But the truth lives in the pause before I speak, in the calculation behind my smile.

Where are you from? I am from the space between their expectations, from the moment of hesitation when I choose which homeland to offer up today.

I am from the exhaustion of translating myself, from being both too much and not enough in every room I enter.

I am from the realization that the question isn’t really about geography—it’s about who gets to belong without explanation, who gets to simply be without footnotes.

Where are you from? I am from everywhere and nowhere, from the beautiful burden of carrying multiple truths in a world that demands I choose just one.