“Where are you from?” I get this question a lot. “It’s complicated,” is what I usually say.
A few years ago, while driving through Oklahoma on an assignment for work, a toll booth clerk posed this question. My standard answer left him confused.
“What do you mean? Where did you grow up?” he asked.
“Queens. You know where the Mets play? Shea Stadium. Well, it’s called CitiField now.”
“But where are you really from?” he asked.
“Well, I was born in Manhattan.”
“But I mean, your parents, where are they from?” he asks, digging deeper.
“They’re from the Caribbean. Well, technically, they’re from a tiny country, Guyana.”
“Ghana? Like Africa?” He looks perplexed.
“Guyana. It’s a tiny country in South America. But they’re part of Caribbean culture.”
“Oh. You look Indian,” he says.
“Yes and no. My great-grandparents were from India.”
Silence. I forged ahead.
“The British brought my ancestors from India to the Caribbean to work on sugarcane plantations. In the late 1800s or early 1900s. I’m not sure when exactly.”
He handed me my change.
“Oh. Well, have a good day, now,” he says. Then I drove away.
When I was younger, the question was more inelegant. What are you? Imagine kids in a Queens schoolyard trying to decipher race, culture and religion. If the question is complicated for me, it is downright baffling for my children– their father’s family is from Pakistan and his father was born before Pakistan was even a country.
This question about origins came up for my middle child two years ago, around Flag Day. E. was four-years-old, attending a diverse nursery school in our suburb of New York City. Each day, her teacher sent pictures to us, as she did to the parents of the other kids. Usually, one picture showed the classroom’s dry erase board, which usually gauged preferences like a favorite season or ice cream flavor. But a few days before Flag Day, the board posed the dreaded question in bold, black letters. Where are you from?
Childhood photo V. Sarita Singh
The teachers were planning a unique Flag Day celebration, a potluck where parents would bring a flag and dish representing their culture. Flag Day with a twist, I thought, since the American flag would be scarce. What would be my daughter’s answer? Brooklyn, Queens, the Caribbean, India, Pakistan? I sat on our worn recliner and thought about the tossed salad of cultures that was our home. Choosing a dish was no easy task. So I did what I always do when I’m feeling uncertain. I texted my mom, asking if I should bring one of my favorite dishes, channa, or sautéed garbanzo beans.
“They can choke on channa,” she warned.
My mom, a retired pediatric nurse, has a long and comprehensive list of choking hazards. But then another text popped up. “Actually, that’s a good idea. I’ll boil it really soft,” she said.
I suddenly had a craving for the dish, which had been a childhood comfort food. “I’m going to cook channa,” I said.
S., my seven-year-old daughter, sat cross-legged on the couch that flanked the bay window. She looked up from her iPad, the late afternoon sun projecting a halo around her bobbed chestnut hair.
“I hate channa,” she said. “It tastes like broccoli. I don’t like broccoli.”
Her little sister, E., bounded into the room, wearing an oversized t-shirt that was completely soaked. I thought about asking how she had drenched herself and with what liquid, but decided against it.
“You want channa?” I asked. “Yeah!” E. exclaimed.
On the way to the kitchen, I saw my two-and-a-half-year-old son, C. “Hey. You like channa?” I asked him. He nodded, a resounding yes.
I heated a few tablespoons of oil. I drained the beans. I sautéed the diced onion for a few minutes, and then added six crushed garlic cloves. Then the garbanzo beans, salt, paprika, cumin and turmeric. I let it simmer for about 10 minutes. I heated leftover rice, then called out to C. He ran over in his signature outfit —a pull-up topped with a t-shirt, his little feet thundering against the hardwood floor. I fed him a bite. He chewed with rigor. The other kids soon followed.
A few days later, we showed up at the nursery school’s rec room for the potluck. At the front of the room, poster boards decorated with flags from more than a dozen countries lined the stage. The nursery school version of the United Nations, I thought. My mom’s channa was already parked on one of the tables that had been joined together for the spread of foods from around the world. Next to my mom’s dish sat trays filled with chicken biriyani and samosas from E.’s dad. I filled my plate– pastéis de nata from Portugal, tostones from the Dominican Republic, meatballs from Italy, rice pudding from Nepal and beef patties from Jamaica.
One by one, the parents were called to the front of the room to talk about their culture and their dish. Instead of a poster board, E. and I had decorated a wooden panel from the dollar store. It was busy, but I didn’t know how else to tell her story. At the top, an American flag. Below, the globe at Flushing Meadows Park to represent Queens, and a picture of the G train to represent Brooklyn. Under those images were the Guyanese and Pakistani flags, as well as small maps to show where they were located. Under the Guyanese map, I’d added another map that showed India.
Photo of meatballs taken at Flag Day
I looked around as I explained, worried I’d see confused faces. But what I saw was genuine interest. After the presentations, I watched as E. ran in circles with her friends. That moment in the rec room was the culmination of so many years, so many journeys, so many miles and so many hopes. This beautiful scene was E.’s normal. The persistent sense of otherness I’d felt throughout my life wasn’t there in that room, for me, or for anyone else it seemed.
And then I thought back to the dry erase board hanging in E.’s classroom. The bold, black letters with the question I dreaded but often had to answer. Where are you from?
I still didn’t have a simple answer, but maybe that was fine. Fascinating, even. That morning, the teacher had sent an image of the dry erase board to parents. I searched for E.’s name. I wondered what her answer would be. Long Island via Queens and Brooklyn? America? India? Guyana? Pakistan? South Asia? When I saw her answer, I felt a sense of calm. Other children had listed countries or cities, but next to my daughter’s name was one word, perfect in its simplicity: Home.
Guest author V. Sarita Singh is a writer and Emmy-nominated television producer based in New York. She writes about motherhood and the intersection of culture and identity. Her essays and features have been published by Time Out NY, Katie Couric Media and Romper. Three small humans and one calico cat call her mom. See more of her work at vidya-singh.com.
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