nobody expects the spanish inquisition. except me.
there’s a certain question that always strikes fear in my heart. it’s innocuous enough for other people. they get together at parties, they’re introduced to other people, and the same question invevitably comes up:
“so, where are you from?”
the envy i feel for you people who can simply answer, without missing a beat – people from simple places like indiana or california. at worst, you have to explain, oh, i was born in ___ but i grew up in _____. the questioner will then nod, satisfied, and the conversation will move on. this is normal.
this is usually how it goes for me.
random person [saunters up to me at a party, leans against the wall and sips a beer]: so, le petit hiboux, where are you from?
le petit hiboux [flustered, spills a little wine, then looks around for nearest escape route. at this point, she's got two options. she sizes up the questioner - he/she doesn't look like they really want the whole story, so... ]: oh, rhode island.
rp: really? i’m from boston! where’d you go to school?
ph: well, actually, my parents just moved there two years ago. i didn’t go to school there.
rp: oh, right. where’d you live before that.
ph [hoping against hope that this simple lie will hold water]: oh, texas.
rp: really? you don’t have an accent.
ph [damn, damn, damn!]: okay, yeah, that’s true. we didn’t live there long enough, i guess.
rp [no matter how daft they are, at this point they realize i'm being evasive. it starts to get ugly...]: wait, so where did you actually grow up?
ph [slamming down drink, pushing random person up against the wall]: okay, buster. i tried to make this easy for you. you could have just nodded when i said “rhode island”. clearly, we’ve got nothing else to talk about, so you’ve decided to hold on to this topic like a terrier with a chew toy. you want the real story? huh? you want the truth? you think you can handle it? huh?
rp: *gurgle, gasp*
ph: fine. you ready? my mother? she’s the daughter of an irish man and a belgian girl who’d both immigrated to brasil during the great war. her and nine siblings were all raised in brasil, but they weren’t brasilian. my father? his parents were greek immigrants to cairo, egypt, where he was born and raised until he was eighteen, then the whole family moved to brasil. he met my mother when they were in their thirties, after the messy dissolution of my mother’s first marriage. my father then came to america to get an education and turned into the classic self-made man. he brought my mother and her two sons here to america. they were very poor. then they went overseas to brasil, on the first of many assignments for a big oil company.
so i was concieved in brasil and born in argentina. nine months later, we moved to aruba [4 yrs]. then morocco [1 yr]. then new jersey [2 yrs]. then cote d’ivoire [3 yrs]. then tunisia [1 yr]. then houston [3 yrs]. then kenya [2 yrs]. then houston again [1 yr]. then i went to college in new york and my parents went to the french congo [1 yr] and egypt [2 yrs] then houston again [6 mo.] and rhode island [retired].
okay? okay? smarty pants, how about you tell me where i’m bloody well from? hmm? the international-american daughter of an irish-belgian brasilian and an egyptian-greek? huh?
are you satisfied now?
rp [rubbing his neck and backing away slowly]: sheesh, lady, i was just trying to get laid.
…..
one of these days i’m just going to make a tee shirt with all the possible answers, and wear it to parties. it’ll be multiple choice:
1. rhode island.
2. inner mongolia*.
3. america, by way of brasil, ireland, belgium, greece, egypt, and argentina.
4. shut the fuck up and leave me alone unless you have something less asinine to discuss.
how does that sound?
* my father actually tells people “inner mongolia” when they ask. that, or “why, are you writing a book?”. once, i told a friend “mongolia”, completely kidding, and he believed me for months. sheesh.

Advertisement