Where are you from?

I want to believe that I am a man of few words. I want to believe I choose these words carefully and mindfully. If we are strangers, I may stand next to you and not say a word; I will most likely do a head nod and acknowledge your presence, but that will be it. I want to think I am polite and considerate to others but, you see, I have a secret, and the longer I stay mum and quiet, the longer I will keep it. When I play poker, I pretend to listen to my headphones and communicate only by signs and actions, and in a way I practice this outside of the poker tables as well.

I know my secret is at risk to be found when I hear this four-word question: “Where are you from?” My stranger’s question is not derived from a bored or courteous “How are you?” but rather the result of an inquisitive and perceptive mind that picked up something they are not familiar with. They know there is something about me that is unusual, their senses are tingling, but they can’t pick up what it is yet and they go into Question Mode, much like the Great Inquisition.

While the stranger’s words are still floating around the confined space we are stuck in together, I am first searching for what gave me away, and second trying to determine how I should answer your the inquisition. Was it a murmur? A word mispronounced? Me not giving the proper expected answer? Was it my looks? Am I unconsciously broadcasting to the world my secret by my wares and wears?

I will always remember being found out after just one word and wondering if I knew this stranger already, as it was simply not possible that a single word would have given me away! In my mind, I have a perfect diction and I use the proper words all the time. I know the difference between here and there. I know the password answer for “Thank you” is “You’re welcome.”

I’ve even recorded myself speaking, but these recordings were obviously distorted due to poor technical quality obviously and can’t be me. I do not sound like this. This can only be a fake. 

You see, my deep secret is that I have not always lived in New York. Hearing the dreaded question, or someone lauding my accent, reminds me that I am not from around here, no matter how long I have been living among you. That before being an American, I was first French. 

My issue with answering where I am from is that I find it difficult to answer. Difficult first due to the Frenchness of it; it might sound inconceivable to you, but the French are not always welcome. Remember the freedom fries from 2003 when France and the USA nearly started a culinary war about not wanting to accompany Bush on a full-fledged war? I am not personally attached to french fries and would have welcomed the change in name - since after all fries are Belgian - but being French in these times was very polarizing. Being French meant being either a chain-smoking coward or a fine-art appreciating chef, all the while dunking my cheese lathered baguette in my hot café. None of these clichés ever bathe. I know it shocks a lot of people but I am not really fond of cheese, wine, baguette, or café, and I have never smoked nor worn berets and striped shirts.

Me definitely not wearing stripes…

I am as shocked as you are…

I think my Frenchiest attribute is my innate sense of sarcasm. Great! I could complain that every time I hear French in New York, it sounds like people are complaining, but that would be ironic…don’t you think? 

Even if I wanted to answer, I wouldn’t know where to start. Yes, I am from real France, and not some kind of “Belle Province.” Yes, Alsace is in France, despite going back and forth between France and Germany since the 1800s. Yes, I’m sure of that. Have you ever heard of Kingersheim? Mulhouse? Strasbourg? No? Okay, I’m from Paris. 

There was a time I would have answered that I wished to be Scottish. I had an obsession with the Highlands, Michael Flatley, Capercaillie and the Celtic culture. Before that I might have said I was Polish, because that’s where my family is originally from, or Alsatian, because it’s the culture I grew up in.

I became an American citizen last year, and since then, I enjoy saying that I am American and look for the puzzlement on my inquisitor’s face. If he pushes with an inquisitive “really…?” then I will oblige with “Oh you mean where do I come from? France…I guess.”

Where I am really from