[SCENE: A take-away Greek restaurant counter next to the Tottenham Court Road Tube. The guy behind the counter is waiting on a customer.]
GUY BEHIND THE COUNTER (in a heavy Greek accent): So, where are you from?
CUSTOMER (in a crisp British accent): London.
[The Guy Behind The Counter looks skeptically at the Customer, who appears to be of some non-British ethnic group.]
GUY BEHIND THE COUNTER: No, but where are you originally from?
CUSTOMER: My mother’s womb.
[The Guy Behind The Counter hasn’t heard of this country, but doesn’t wish to offend.]
GUY BEHIND THE COUNTER: Oh, very nice.
I get that all the time. Sarcasm or dry wit just doesn’t seem to work.
I get this all the time too and I’ve tried a variety of answers, and when I’m sarcastic or flippant, I end up feeling guilty even when the asker keeps prying! Keeps saying: No, really. Really. I mean, really.
I get that all the time too. I usually I try to get them to realize that they really meant “Where are your ancestors from?”, and then they usually volunteer that they are 1/4 , 1/4 , and 1/2 (for they are always some sort of European-American hybrid), as if to offer proof that they were not being racist but were really just interested in an exchange of pedigree. Mainly I think they are trying to figure out how it can be that I am both taller _and_ better at math than they are. The guilt stems from knowing that, if I were a better person, I would take the opportunity to improve race relations and widen the questioner’s world view by talking with them about why their reaction of “No, where are you really from?” was so poorly received.
But, more importantly, was the falafel good?
Lucinda, no one knows where you’re really from. No one.