“No. Where are you really from?”
It’s in the “no.”
Or it’s in the really.
Or it’s in the emphasis on from.
It’s in the asking the question the second time.
It’s in the way they mean to say my first answer wasn’t correct.
As if to say, “You don’t know yourself.”
As if to say, “I do.”
As if to say, “Nobody is where you’re from.”
As if to say, “You have to have come from someplace else.”
As if to say, “Being born here isn’t enough. How many generations back can you go?”
As if to say, “Ooooooh. So exotic.”
As if to say, “Ching chong ling long. Do a little dance. Sing a little song. You know kung fu? Pad Thai? Hoochie coochie? Ho-chi-minh?”
What do you know about skipping stones in the Rock Creek?
What do you know about the smell of warm track grease inside a windy underground tunnel?
What do you know about working the walls in a hot high school gym under cowbells and congas?
Because even without these bona fides…
…if you know…
…you know…
where I’m from.
Rhena Writes 