"Where are you from?" Part 1

It's a complex question, even if you're 100% Northwestern European.

Originally posted on my Tumblr blog in 2020

One thing about white-European-looking people is that others don’t usually walk up to us demanding to know where we’re from. (People of color are more accustomed to this treatment. “No, I mean, where are you really from?” Whiteness is assumed; color is other.)

Some view this question as inherently racist (and, since whites almost never get it, it basically is), whereas others will see it as indicative of basic human curiosity. “Where are you really from?” may be a crass version of “I see that you have this or that feature. Is that, by chance, because you have ancestry in such-and-such place?” We’re curious about one another, and occasionally, we just want to know if our guesses are right. That doesn’t make it okay to ask, but at least there’s a possibility that the question isn’t coming from a place of hatred, mistrust, or feelings of superiority.

When white people, particularly in the U.S., ask each other “Where are you from?” there’s rarely an assumption of recent ancestry elsewhere (be that a fair assumption or no). But for any adoptee, white or POC, this is usually an incredibly complex question, often with no satisfying answers.

When I am asked “Where are you from?” the simple answer I usually give is “Ohio.” More often than not, I’m guessing that’s the answer people are looking for: “Where were you born; where did you grow up?”

I'm from Ohio.

Yes, I was born in Ohio. I grew up in a little village called Lordstown, where nearly every kid’s dad (and sometimes mom) worked at the local GM plant, building vehicles such as the GMC Van, Chevy Cavalier, or Pontiac Sunbird. (The plant was idled last year. Here’s one of hundreds of stories about it.)

The Chevrolet Cruze was made at this plant until it closed. Cruze photo by InSapphoWeTrust on Flickr

Going to college at Youngstown State was eye opening. I was one of 15,000 students (in contrast, I graduated high school in a class of 70). I lived in more than a dozen places in the Youngstown area before moving to Columbus, Ohio’s capital, for four years. Eventually, circumstances led me back to Northeastern Ohio, where I bought a house in Lordstown at age 33 and didn’t leave until I was 45.

That sounds like the life story of an Ohioan, doesn’t it? Midwest born and reared, fascinated by thunderstorms and tornadoes, accustomed to having to drive to get anywhere. All the good concerts were in Cleveland. It was a normal, working-class upbringing.

And, to be honest, I still consider myself an Ohioan, particularly here in the Northeast where telling my students I’m from Ohio is about as weird as telling them I’m from Mars.

The problem with this life story is, it’s not entirely mine.