When was the last time someone asked you where you are from?

When? It happens quite often, more since moving from New Zealand, as I don’t sound Australian. What irritates me, is that the majority of people who ask me this are white, as if their default for an Australian is white. The last time I was asked was at work, when I briefly worked in hospitality.

What happened/how did they say it?

She asked ‘where I was really from?’ She went into it by complimenting me by saying ‘I was so beautiful,’ then went on to say that her son in law was Fijian, as if we had some kind of relation like, ahhh. The kind of mentality that was like, ‘You’re Black, and my son in law is Black too!’ It was this horribly received like this ego-boost thing that inflated her as to follow the same pattern of ‘my best friend is black’. It’s all the same kind of rhetoric, whether you have some kind of relationship with a PoC, doesn’t mean that you won’t be racist or that you are suddenly an ally.

What was the person like?

Late 40s white woman with, you know, classic Eastern Suburbs aesthetic. She was dressed in a Camilla caftan and she was out on the prowl for someone to open her arms to and give the acceptance that I’ve always needed from a white woman trying to keep up appearance as wealthy, but still woke.

How did/does it make you feel?

It takes away the humanity from my existence and turns me into this like token zoo animal. She made a reasonably safe setting uncomfortable. She just could have just kept it to the compliment.

How did you respond/how would you have preferred to respond?

I awkwardly laughed because I was at work, and just kind of walked away. In my mind, in reality, you always want to call it out, but what is really is even going to get through to this middle-aged white woman? They aren’t going to get it.

What connotations do you think the question has and what do you think it says about Australia in terms of the way we understand cultural identity/ nationality?

I think it draws the parallel to her thinking it was ok, in regard to what she said and the context in which she said it. Racism is one of the things that a white person never wants to be called out on. But y’know, if it talks like a duck, it acts like a duck – it’s a fucking duck! If you want to play this woke narrative, ‘down with black people/PoC’, understand what is okay and what isn’t, then actually be down for us and be held accountable for the things that you say. In 2019, if I wasn’t at work, it would not fly with me – it would be on site! (only verbally speaking).

Where are you from? I would be lying if I said the phrase has always triggered me because it hasn’t.

When I was an early high school aged student — who hadn’t discovered that race mattered or effected her in any way — the question always referenced a geographical location. Sydney (like most places) definitely exercises the hierarchy of suburbs and at that age I was privileged enough to live in the East. A locale synonymous with affluence, wealth, resource and access. When I was asked where I was from, I always responded without hesitance and with extreme pride.

Sometime between then and now it all changed. I still have the privilege of living somewhere that’s considered ‘cool’, but these days that’s not the response people are after anymore. When I respond with the name of my suburb, they always look incredulous as if to say “no, but really?”.

Then I say Australia. Given that I was born here and my family has been here for about 30 years, it seems like a reasonable response. The same bizarre look follows. They might motion to my skin, or behave as if it’s me making a joke and taking a piss because how can someone with skin like mine be from a place like Australia.

Eventually I either get bored of trying to challenge people’s micro-aggressions or decide that I don’t have the emotional space to resource their conversion, so I say what they’ve been waiting to hear.

Ghana. The West of Africa.

Suddenly it all clicks; especially if the person who’s asking isn’t a POC, the dots connect. Balance is restored and now they can continue to view me from the one dimensional lens that they’re comfortable with.

Most people will argue that the question isn’t malicious. People just want to help put context around you, so they understand you better. That I can acknowledge but I would argue that a conversation with me would do more than asking me what my ethnicity is.

I could not count the amount of times that I have been asked this question. As a teenager I would often snap back with “I’m from Petersham” to which they would say “haha, no but where are you really from?”. So I state my nationalities and have gotten some frustrating responses like: “oh you don’t look it”, “how does that work?”, “I’ve been to India you should go, you would love it there”,“how come you don’t speak the language?”, “you're not sure? have you done ancestry.com?”

Or my favourite “Oh so you're less than a quarter then?”

Why do you carve me up into little pieces, fragments with edges and borders, like the borders that run in between countries and cities and streets and homes? I wonder what my genealogy would say, percentage wise, but does it really matter?

It is really not that simple. My mother's eyes are green, my brother’s are blue and they both have much lighter skin than me. I used to think I looked so different to them, but I see it in the way we walk, the way we smile. Maybe I’d speak Hindi if it wasn’t for the White Australia Policy during my mum’s upbringing, and her hiding the fact that she is part Indian. Maybe if there wasn’t so much stigma attached to being ‘half-caste’ my dad would have felt more comfortable and proud to speak to us in Cantonese in Australia. Shit, while we’re at it maybe if this country wasn’t founded on genocide and wasn’t so hell bent on making that history wash away I would speak one or more Aboriginal languages.

I carve a border right down the centre of my hairline now. A middle part. Where the Eastern and Western hemispheres join. I used to wear my hair like that in primary school with a bindi sometimes, but decided to do otherwise in high school – I wanted to blend in. A number of times I would hear people I called friends say “there are so many asians here”, clearly displeased. “You know that I’m asian right?”, I would say... “oh but you're a good asian”, a “good asian”, one with a bit of white and who speaks English, with an Australian accent I suppose… one who does a better job at blending in.

I think of my great grandfather, a freedom fighter in the Gandhi movement; my great grandmother, a Suffragette; my grandfather, the English seaman; my grandfather, the Hindi mathematician; and my grandmother, who taught me Chinese calligraphy – how to write my name in black ink characters – in just a few swift strokes. I think of how I’d hear the clinking of Mahjong and watch in awe as the women spoke loudly in Cantonese, none of which I could understand, but most of which I could interpret. I think of my Nanna reading me poetry while we listened to her classical cassettes. She had a certain appreciation for nature, art and words, that I admired.

That I still do.

That’s where I’m from.

My ancestry and my nurture. Beyond that there are only two other ways that I could think to answer this question. That I come from the stars… or simply that I grew up on Gadigal land of the Eora Nation, in Petersham, Sydney, Australia.

They asked me where I came from as they analysed my appearance and accent. Before I could answer, the guessing game begins… Korea, Vietnam, China – but none of them would fit in with my nationality, even though China would be the closest in terms of my cultural identity. Attempting to formulate a response in my head, my typical go-to answer would be Malaysia, but on this occasion, I decided to try something new and reply with, “I’m from here.”

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not ashamed of my place of birth, but my reasoning behind this response was because I felt that who I am today has been significantly influenced by the knowledge, experiences, and relationships I’ve been able to accumulate and process during my time in Australia.

Although I’ve only been in this country for 7 years, I feel like I’ve had the opportunity to genuinely experience growth in all aspects of my being through living on this land. However, shortly after I responded, the person frowned and seemed dissatisfied with my answer. They turn to me and asked once again, “But where are you really really from?” At this point, I started to feel slightly uncomfortable, not because the person had just asked me the same question again, but because I thought – is it that difficult to believe that a person of my complexion could really be from this country? After all, 15% of the population in Australia have identified themselves as people of Asian descent.

I wonder what the locals who aren’t white must feel when people ask them where are they from? There must be a strange sense of dissonance when people don’t believe that you belong to a place that you’ve literally grew up in. Is it wrong for me to decide and choose where I came from? Does this question always have to be tied to my origins, my family’s origins, and my ancestral origins? It’s weird to have to think of these responses to a question as simple as, “Where are you from?” – which I often feel only requires a one-word response…

As much as people in power would like to preach that Australia is a multicultural society, it is evident that from this brief interaction with this person that there’s only one true face to this society and it is white. It’s clear that there’s still a lot of work that needs to be done in terms of accepting multiculturalism rather than seeing it through tokenistic lenses. Diversity isn’t a showcase, it is something that I believe needs to be acknowledged through understanding the experience of others and learning how their experiences have shaped their present cultural identity and the national identity that they have elected.

My identity has been a bittersweet journey of discovery. Everyday I’m grateful for the vessel my ancestors have passed down, protected and guided spiritually and physically. I believe that energy and information from the beginning of human existence has been passed down through our melanin/DNA. We are people who transmute negativity by default and that’s what I know in my absolute core.

Society being where it is right now, for me, has been a maze, that I realised in my late teens and early 20’s I’d need to learn to navigate. Especially when I had those moments (moments also known as, basically existing) where I thought dang… I don’t want to think about the structures that make life essentially setup for our people to struggle.

I desire nothing more than to have the ability to move freely in any space, with no doubt in my mind as to why I didn’t get that casting call back or if the reason I’m being asked to be a part of a project is to fill the PoC quota or why I’m not taken seriously when I reply, “Oh, I’m from Sydney”, when people, who are the descendants of the same folk who literally stole and colonised Indigenous land, and who have put a system in place that is still alive, present and built on racism and white supremacy, ask me where I’m “like really, really from?”

The most recent time someone asked me where I was from was at a J Dilla tribute night a few months back. I stayed to watch my homie and producer play his DJ set of Dilla classics. I was sitting down and didn’t quite feel the need to entertain anything or anyone as I was right in the thick of a pretty heartbreaking split from my partner at the time.

So, there I am, minding my own magical black business, allowing the sound vibrations of Slum Village to mend my heartbreak. When a drunken lady sits herself right next to me and asks “Ah, where are you from?” to which I reply “Sydney”, in a voice that was not ready to deal with her ignorance and intoxication in the slightest. “No, no where are you from?”, she insists once again. “Sydney”, I replied once again. “No, no, where are your parents from?” she asks again, because at this point, she’s certain I’m not fully understanding what she’s asking me exactly and has to absolutely clarify. I reply again with “Sydney”.

Now, I had to check in with my mind, body and soul because the petty devil on my shoulder made a very noticeable appearance. What is my responsibility in this situation? I don’t feel as though it should be anyone’s responsibility to police people on their social skills, because by the time you reach adulthood I believe you should’ve worked out how to be a socially and culturally aware human being. But sometimes people who display ignorance need to know, or at least I think they need to know, when they’ve over stepped some personal boundaries. So, I asked her: “Are you asking me why I’m black?” Her response was one that I’ve seen in situations before where it’s an odd combination of black self-determination, but delivered to you by a non-black or brown person. “Yes, well I love black people and you should be proud”, she answered. “OK, thank you”, was my final response and by now the atmosphere in the air was thick and uncomfortable. She seemed a bit unsure about the interaction, so got on up and left.

The cycle is ignorance that knows no consequence or how these questions might be received on the other end. The intent may or may not be malicious but the end result is often not taken into any consideration. I feel a push and pull between not giving anyone the time of day to entertain the bullshit, and being as direct as I can about it. For me, honesty is what helps me sleep at night after encountering these sorts of situations, and if it means I gotta give a Race 101 lesson when I feel it’s necessary, and if I have the emotional, mental and physical energy to do so, then that’s what I will do.

Australia is at an interesting place because it’s so young. I think educating people at every stage of their lives is key, so that in the next few years, as Australia progresses, we have more people from different backgrounds involved in every functioning part especially politics, education, the banking sectors and so on.

Being asked where I'm from has been something I've had to answer regularly ever since I can remember. On one hand I am so proud of my heritage and I can totally understand the curiosity, as I am mixed race and have that ambiguous-brown-girl, 'lemme guess where you from' look. But when being asked by a stranger it's often invalidating and brings on a lot of insecurity about where I belong; being half black and half white.

It never really ends with just my answer of Afro-Nicaraguan and Anglo either. After that, I will generally get 'Sorry where?' or 'Oh wow really? I did not see you as black!' or the classic: 'That's SO exotic'. It's just straight up draining having to then explain where Nicaragua is, and that there are actually black people in Central America, or to have them tell me that I look like another ethnicity and that they would have never guessed. It makes me feel like I'm an object with a 'nice mix' that doesn't really fit anywhere.

It depends on the situation though. If it's relevant, someone I know or another person of colour asking, I'm generally more than happy to answer because it comes from a place of shared experience. It’s not that I don’t want anyone to know where my family is from when people ask me, it’s purely the reason for asking that bothers me the most. It really shows how we are brought up in Australia to view everyone that isn't white as the other even though we live in such a multicultural society. People judge too much from face value, so if they see a brown, black or asian person, automatically they’re seen as an outsider until proven otherwise.

Another aspect that is important to consider is answering that question with: 'Australian'. Up until very recently I used to call myself half-Australian – instead of Anglo – which isn't completely correct. I believe that saying that is a result of colonisation, and erases the fact that everyone who isn’t Indigenous is on stolen land. So I think it’s important to be aware and decolonise your response to the question 'where are you from?' because even though I am technically from Australia, being born and living here; as my mother and her parents were, my ancestry is not from here. It's (mainly) Nicaraguan, African, and European. And that's what people want to know when asking that question, right? My ethnicity, not where I live. So I make sure to hold that to all of the white ‘Australians’ that ask me because if I have to tell them where my genetics are from, so should they.

When was the last time someone asked you where you are from?
It happens all the time, but it has rarely bothered me. That being said, no one has said it to me as part of an unwanted advance – no one was trying to pick me up by saying it – so it has never felt like a violation. I can only imagine how maddening that is. For me, how annoying it is depends on who is asking. If they’re doing in a way that is exclusionary, or overly presumptuous, they can get fucked. Depending on how I’m feeling I usually say something appropriately vague, like I’m urban or I’m equatorial.

What happened/how did they say it?
The last time that was a bit annoying was an Australian diplomat who visited my studio. When he asked me I told him I was from Perth (which is true), and when he pressed and asked where I was really from, I told him I was seventh generation Australian (which is also true), and I walked away. I know he wasn’t meaning to be annoying and was trying to relate to me by telling me some story of his experience with whatever country he thought I was from, but it still pissed me off enough to stop giving a shit about who he was and what he thought.

What was the person like?
I guess he just has this vibe I didn’t like. Most politicians and ex-politicians I’ve met do.

How did/does it make you feel?
It made me feel like he should know better. He asked me a question, I gave him an answer, and when my truthful, reasonable answer didn’t fit with his narrative he essentially called me a liar. Fuck him. If he’d asked me where my parents are from, I would have told him, but he asked where I was really from – and I’m really from right here. It also has to do with my perception of him as a rich person. Like, a rich person being paternalising to someone who has grown up pretty poor. I'm happy to explain my heritage to someone I like – I'm proud of it.

What connotations do you think the question has and what do you think it says about Australia in terms of the way we understand cultural identity/ nationality?
It’s about whiteness. If I was white, the question wouldn’t be asked. My parents could be Scandinavian, but if I had an Australian accent, my identity would be assumed: I’d be “Aussie”. It’s far from the worst thing going on this country though, at least whoever asking is showing some interest. They only ask if you’ve got something they want, or if you hold some value to them. If you didn’t, imagine how little of a shit they would give – the question wouldn’t even occur to them. Take that as a consolation.

As a first generation Australian, it was challenging to feel a sense of belonging in my adolescence. I was constantly told that I wasn’t Australian, whilst simultaneously being told that Filipino wasn’t really Asian. It was very alienating. When I reached Year 10, I changed schools. I remember walking into my home room class on my first day - everyone stared. I felt uncomfortable, and took a seat somewhere to the side. A guy leaned over and asked, “Mia Besorio isn’t an Asian name. We were expecting the new girl to be European. Where are you from?”. And while the question didn’t feel malicious, it stuck with me. The passive effect of that first interaction caused me to slide into an extended period of Imposter Syndrome. I felt the need to shift my personal interests and attitude to be more “Australian” and distance myself from Asian culture in order to fit in. Asking “where are you from” may feel innocent enough in context, but the internal erasure of my cultural identity that resulted from the day remained with me for almost a decade after.

Dear Sabina,
I have been thinking. I have been thinking a lot about the many times I’ve been asked this question, but even more so what my answer has been, and reflecting on this has made me wonder if my experience resonates with the project that you’ve created, a project which I love and respect so much… You see I was not born here, nor was mi mamá or abuelos and or any of my ancestors. I didn’t grow up here, although the years I have spent here to some may seem like many, but to me it does not seem like long at all… I think about the future and where I might be and of course my deep desire to feel the earth under my feet in the place where I was born, again, a place I’m not allowed to return to for the time being… And so when people ask me where I’m from, I always say that I’m Venezolana, Merideña, gocha…mestiza…etc…that is who I’ve always been… an inability to return home has made my identity something I hold on to like a pillow in the night… full body wrapped around it… but how could that happen? The phrase “tener arraigo” comes to mind… which translates to “have roots”. And that’s what I try to do, to care for those roots, to water those roots every single day by remembering, learning, resisting and staying connected to the home I hope to return to one day…

“Where are you from?” is a question that people ask me all the time. Not just white people. All people.

The other day an Indian man scanned my bag at the airport and asked me where I was from. I didn’t know how to reply, just like every other time this question is asked.

Do I say I’m Australian because I have an Australian passport? Do I say I’m Malay because that is the culture I’ve been brought up in? Do I say I’m Singaporean because that’s where I was born? Or do I say that my heritage is half Javanese and quarter Indian and Chinese?

If I say I’m Malay, people think that means I’m Malaysian. If I say I’m Australian people think I’m a wannabe white person who is rejecting my heritage. If I say I’m Singaporean, people don’t get how someone can be ‘Singaporean’ and ‘Malay’ so I end up explaining Singapore’s history and split from Malaysia. If I say my heritage is Javanese/ Indian/ Chinese people say, “oh Java, how exotic! So you’re Indonesian?”

On the one hand, I’m incredibly privileged to have such a diverse background. I have lived in multiple countries and I speak three languages. On the other hand, it creates an internal identity conflict – I genuinely don’t know where I’m from. And I’m reminded of this every time I’m asked the question.

I know that often, people are just genuinely interested and they mean well. But underlying the question there seems to be an assumption that if you’re not white, Australia is not your home. Or that you haven’t been here very long. Yesterday a woman asked me: “Where are you from? Are you Indonesian?” I said “No, I was born in Singapore,” and she said: “Oh I have a friend that has been living in Singapore for 16 years! Welcome to Australia!” She had a friendly tone, but it felt patronising.

This is an example of how, in Australia, we are trained to think that whiteness is “original” and everything else is new or foreign. During the years when I was growing up in Australia, I felt ashamed that I didn’t look like everyone else. At school I would always hear racist jokes about Asians. It made me embarrassed about where I was from. When I was growing up in Singapore, white people were always put on a pedestal. Even in 2019, when I walk down the street with my partner, who is white, people treat me differently compared to when I walk alone. They call me “ma’am” and they are much more polite.

Today I feel absolutely proud of who I am. The world is changing but there’s still a lot of work to do in order to shift perceptions. I want to get to the stage where I don’t actually have to explain or justify my identity anymore. Australia is not white. It never has been and it never will be.

“You’re not Italian!”

“Why do you say that?”

“You don’t look Italian.”

“See that woman there behind the counter, that’s my mother. The woman in the kitchen cooking your meal, that’s my Nonna”.

The look of shock floods their faces.

I walk away to the back of the kitchen to take a breather… “Stronzo”, I huff under my breath.

This was the most recent incident. But this is a constant recurrence for me, every time I step foot into that restaurant.

Yes, melanin pumps through my skin, and my textured curls bounce with grace, but not every conversation has to start with race.

I am Gianna Christella Hayes.

I contain a blend of two strong cultures.

I am African-American. I am Italian.

I am equally both.

I am equally proud.

Some context for you…

_______

My mother and Nonna have a small family-run Italian restaurant in a predominantly white beach town in Sydney. I work there as a waitress a few times a week. That is where the story took place.

My mother’s side of the family migrated to Sydney from Naples in the 1980s, to pursue a venture as restauranteurs in Australia.

I grew up in Los Angeles and moved to Sydney 9 years ago, at the age of 14.

Major culture shock? Major shock from the lack of culture seems more fitting.

I went out of my way to blend into my surroundings, to fit in with all the other white kids. Regardless, I copped the microaggressions, derogatory comments, exotification and of course people touching my hair... from kids in high school, to random people on the street; to university professors and bosses in my workplace.

I know most people aren’t coming from a bad place when they act this way… white people are curious, I get it. However, their judgments and ignorance are damaging. There’s a way to word things and there is a time and place to ask questions or to touch people’s hair. Simple.

“Where are you from?” Hmm.... quite a contradicting question coming from a white person right? Maybe they should ask themselves this question.

The truth is we are all immigrants unless you are an Indigenous owner of this land.

“What do you mean?” That’s what I wish I could say to the question Where are you from? Or better, there’d be no question to answer at all.

In a mostly white town, I made up one third of the brown people at primary school. The other two thirds were my siblings. In high school, this was only marginally better – I’d say I was one fifth of the lot. I conveniently have the Welsh surname ‘Pugh’ which ironically was mispronounced and used to make brown skin ‘Pooooooooooooo’ jokes.

the brown

it makes sense

when suspended by rope

pushed onto a bed

palm trees, waves, sand

begs your pardon

we’ll take you again

As is the way with white supremacy, any brown or black person must deal with manifestations of the condition in some form during their time. It hides in the tiniest forms, beginning with indifference and unwillingness to ‘get involved’ and moving to the more overt, damaging and violent manifestations of supremacy.  A white person asking, “Where are you from?” is a form of this – it is their sense of entitlement based on their whiteness. And more, it normalises white supremacy by masking it in this ‘curiosity’.

What else is asking “Where are you from?” if it is not white supremacy?

Once upon a time and after years of being one of the few brown people at the regional Victorian primary school I attended, I liked the question. Rather than being bullied for being brown, I was now getting attention because of it. I do not feel this way anymore. The ignorance in the question, particularly when it comes at me without relevance to anything in the conversation I am having – if I am having a conversation with the questioner at all – angers me. Entitlement. Privilege. Tokenism. These are words that come to my mind.

an ‘other’

other

not quite brown

they would never enjoy

not white

a full view

Navigating the “Where are you from?” question is hard. My well-articulated responses often don’t come until after the encounter. One time, in a workplace where I had to maintain professionalism a male client was pushing me. “Oh, but where though?” My next best option: “I grew up in Gippsland.” “Yeah, but what about your parents?”. In the moment, I didn’t know how to diffuse the situation without causing myself more hurt, so I responded: “My mother is Indian”. His next harmful and tasteless move was a combination of white supremacy, fetishisation and toxic masculinity: “I knew this wasn’t an Australian arse,” as his hand cupped to slap my bum.

In the context of so-called Australia, the “Where are you from?” question has deeper problematic undertones. The people who are truly ‘from here’ are people whose history and culture have continually been denied and erased by the wrongly entitled and understood ‘from here’ people. To the people asking, the settler colonial state condition foregrounds ‘otherness’, but criticising this is pertinent. So, I recognise that in cases in the past (and likely in the future) when to disarm I respond, “I am from here”, I am not entitled to say this. As a settler, ‘from here’ is not mine to claim.

A few days ago Mum and I were standing in an i-SITE in Whakatāne, Aotearoa. i-SITEs are small information centres scattered across the country, that provide information to visitors, and Whakatāne is a town in the North Island’s Bay of Plenty region, about an hour South-ish of the ever popular Rotorua. We were after recommendations for a leisurely, scenic drive. Something that would take us along the East Cape for an hour while my Aunty (whom we were staying with) finished her day as the local school’s librarian.

Hine, the woman working at the i-SITE was brown like us. She was friendly and patient as she tried to find out more about us and why we were here, to match us with the perfect route.

‘We want to see more of the ocean’, I explained, ‘we’re staying inland at the moment’.

‘Oh, where are you staying?’

‘Rūatoki.’

‘Oh, are you from there?!’

After that, the way she looked at us changed. The whole conversation changed. Instead of politely suggesting scenic look outs we could pass by, Hine boldly told us: ‘you’ve gotta go up to Te Kaha. See here – yeah, my cousin works there, he’s the manager actually, drive up there, and LOOK at this view!’

Despite our difference in appearance; our different shades of brown, our Australian accents, ‘Rūatoki’ meant that we were the same; that we are a part of here, that we belong and our history ties us to this place and, in one way or another, ties us to her, to each other. Hine didn’t need to ask us any more questions – though if she wanted to, I would’ve happily answered. We could’ve talked about our Whakapapa/heritage, undertaken a Mihimihi – a Māori greeting process – and determined whether or not our ancestors came on the same Waka (canoe). But we didn’t. It wasn’t the right time, and that was okay too. Instead, we recognised each other’s Mana and moved on knowing we could go back to our respective Whanaus and to see what we could find out about the other if we chose to.

That’s the kind of ‘Where are you from?’ that I’m about. The kind that serves as a form of positive recognition, a discovery of similarity in difference. One that doesn’t pull at your identity to simply serve someone else’s curiosity. I’m done with that. If you are white and you ask me where I’m from I’m going to say Brisbane, and that’s all you’re getting. That should be enough. And if you think that I’m answering unfairly, that you’re not asking the same way as every white person before you, that the ‘Where are you REALLY from?’ is an innocent way to get to know me, or any other Person of Colour – I’m here to tell you that a) I’m not, b) you are and c) it isn’t. You’re not entitled to know everything about my heritage. Some things are not for you. Some things are just for us.

My physical being landed in the Central Coast of NSW 21 years ago. A proud descendant of Māori (Ngāpuhi/Tainui) and Samoan lineage – Hāwhe-kāehe with European-English blood thrown in the mix. Spiritually entwined with Hokianga and Waikato in the Motherland of Aotearoa, whilst walking the land of the Gadigal people, I often do receive the question of “Where are you from?”. My glowing olive skin, rippled with island melanin must present confusing to some in Australia. Perhaps it’s the infusion of brown skin and gender fluidity, that stands out to them. Perhaps it’s because my head is always held high.

I proudly respond with by telling them about my upbringing of an Australian (Eora/Sydney) lifestyle, with a solid foundation of Māori culture riveting through our Whanau. We were raised to know where we come from, no matter where we are. This was implemented to sustain the importance of grounding the mind when life’s paths inevitably try to take control. Remembering the spiritual awakening every aspect of myself experiences when in Aotearoa.

Progression has somewhat been present within Australia’s understanding and acceptance for culturally ethnic and LGBTQI+ identifying people, but the room for improvement is still large… The last time I was asked “Where Are You From?”, it  was in referral to where I live in Sydney – of course with confusion, trying to guess the belonging of my creative expression in my outfit and where that would be acceptable. This was delivered through a basic, restricted mind set – making it evident in the difference of understanding.

I experience a daily difference between the cis-normative perspective and myself. The difference is also the joy of being unique. Diversity remains alive when belief is imminent. And beliefs are the seeds that were planted in the palms of my hands by my Tūpuna. Intentionally used to guide me. Intentionally used for survival, strength and love.

I have and will always hold my head proud and focused. I carry the powerful roots of my culture every moment through every life experience. I flow with the Moana through my bones and identity, I am the Moana.

I am Jamaica Moana.

I’m a Rapper • Artist • Writer

I’m a proud Māori-Samoan-English Hāwhe-kāehe, physically experiencing life in Australia while culturally replenishing my being in Aotearoa. 

This question can be troublesome, but it doesn’t have to be.

I’ll be the first to admit that in the past, it has made me question the insecurities I held about my identity.

When the blonde kid down the street told me to go back to where I came from, 5 year old Leah wondered if he meant Auburn, as that’s where I was born.

I grappled with being an Australian born Filipina who didn’t look Aussie, but wasn’t traditionally Filo.

At uni I was a Westie amongst a sea of private school inner city kids from more affluent suburbs, dreading revealing that I was from Campbelltown.

As an adult I’ve been told that I’m too tall to be Asian, and that I must be half something else.

Having said all that, I’m totally guilty of asking others this same question, and I can genuinely say it was out of interest and curiosity. I’ve learnt that it can open a dialogue and encourage an exchange of stories about hometowns, cultures, values, communities and societies. It can lead to a better understanding of differences as well as our similarities.

These days I claim all aspects of my heritage, my culture, and my Westieness with full pride. And if you’re asking me where I’m from, I’m more than happy to chat – but it's a two-way discussion.

Where the bloody hell are you from?

Seeing that I tend to be around the same group of humans most of the time, I don’t get asked this question often, but when I do venture out; be it to events, to go shopping or while on public transport; I am blessed with the opportunity to answer this question and usually it’s asked by non-black people – and yes this includes People of Colour.

At first young Massy was more than happy to play along, it would be a guessing game and I’d go back and forth with them for a shy minute, but I quickly grew tired of that. It got to a point where I would just say “oh my gosh, how’d you know”, perhaps for my own amusement, to make up for the annoyance of being asked this question for the umpteenth time. I did find it hilarious after I say yes and then they go off on some tangent about “where I’m from” or how “blessed” I must feel to be Down Under, MXM.

I think the boredom of being asked this question comes from the fact that it’s loaded. They ask so that they can make sense of me, because it always comes back to how you behave and how it doesn’t make sense to them, so now I must come and explain my whole life to a complete stranger *sigh* – just ask and accept the answer you get. Because yes, Ripley's Believe It Or Not, some of us don’t want to talk about the political climate of our “home” country, what our parents do for a living, why we moved, how we got here, if we plan on moving back, the “Apex Gang”, or how different Australia is compared to where we come from, because most of the time were are being told and not asked, and sometimes, just sometimes, I’m just trying to get to Parramatta to buy a packet of Flaming’ Hot Cheetos and make my way home, so please don’t come stress me now.

I actually don't remember the last time someone asked me 'Where are you from?' I remember being asked this a lot when I was younger. I faced some racism in my youth, but over time it has gotten less frequent and it hasn't affected me as much. I grew up in South Maroubra, there weren't too many Asians here back in the 90s, but now there's plenty and nearby suburbs like Kingsford are saturated with Asian businesses and eateries. I guess the follow-up comment to that question is usually about my last name – 'Au' – which is a really common Asian last name. People usually think that 'Christopher Kevin' is my full name, and that 'Au' stands for 'Australia.' I think it's pretty funny.

I guess that I have never really taken too much offence to the question, it's all about the context in which it is asked – I can see how it can be used to create a feeling of alienation or not belonging. But in my experience, some people who ask this question are genuinely curious about my background and want to learn more. Over time, we've seen Asian cultures infiltrate popular culture, film, hip-hop and media generally – so naturally, people are going to be more inquisitive in order to understand a culture that they may not be familiar with. With that being said, there definitely is an idea of White Australia being the cultural norm down here – and anybody in Sydney knows that for the most part, that just isn't factual. You can drive through entire suburbs and regions which are rich in ethnic and minority cultures.

Australia has a long way to go in order to understand and recognise its true cultural identity, purely because we are made up of so many different peoples. That, and the fact that Australia still hasn't properly addressed issues faced by the Indigenous population. Still, I would like to believe that sometimes, when someone questions me 'Where are you from?' – it isn't coming from a hurtful or negative place.

I remember last time I was asked, where I was from, it was a peculiar situation given I had known the person for a little while. I used to talk to the person over the phone, she was a someone I worked with. We had never met face to face. When we spoke it was for work, and I believe she had a vision of me in her head, and I guess I did of her too.

When we finally met, I think she was taken back. I told her I was from Papua New Guinea, yet, she was surprised to see that I would be a person of colour. She was a professional woman (Australian Non-PoC, mid 50s). Her very backhanded compliment was, "Oh you look Papua New Guinean, and your English is very good". It was a moment of Colonial Master and Native. As a third culture child, these moments, reinforced the necessity of representation of POC around Australia and the Pacific Islands. We need to update the colonial narrative through accurate media representations of PoC. Representation helps alleviate the ignorant rhetoric that suppresses the identity of PoC and renders without a voice or a platform.

I'm a Highlands woman from Papua New Guinea and my ancestors would be proud.

“Where are you from?”

Is a question directed to me on the school playground. It’s the curious stare of a gaggle of girls, seated in a circle at recess. The question makes me squirm, like a shrink under a microscope. It’s a clear statement about my otherness; an indication that I am somebody who will never quite belong no matter how hard I try to assimilate. Sandwiches instead of sticky rice, I tell Mum whenever she prepares my lunch. My friends don’t like how my food smells.

“Where are you from?”

Again, at a high school party nestled within Sydney’s north. You don’t seem Chinese, is a popular response. She’s a whitewashed Asian! Someone throws an arm around me laughing, and for a moment, my spirits will lift at the hint of acceptance and approval. Say something in Chinese! That makes me immediately flush; anger starting to seep in. I’m not a circus monkey who can spit out languages at anyone’s command. The question is alienating, whether or not that was the intention. An ever-present reminder that no matter how hard I try to assimilate to whiteness, my ethnicity will always have me categorised as ‘other’.

“Where are you from?”

My grandmother’s accusing tone at the dinner table, reminding me of my heritage. She is berating my mother for allowing me to give up on my Chinese lessons. She is losing her culture. I can hear her mutters; see the slight shake of her head whenever she asks me a question in our mother tongue, and is met with a blank stare. I’ll retire to my bedroom with my hands balled into fists, and wonder whether my mission to assimilate into Western society is really worth the sacrifice of no longer being able to converse with my elders.

“Where are you from?”

This time, the guy at the bar is standing precariously close. A cis-white man showering me with attention, throwing statements like a game of ring toss. You’re so pretty, for an Asian. Or, you look so exotic, it’s sexy. Again, singling out my heritage in a thinly-veiled attempt at flattery. Instead of attractive, I feel alien. My stomach churns at the thought of this man, or anyone, fetishizing women of Asian descent based on the colour of their skin. I leave the bar, alone.

“Where are you from?”

Is a question I ask myself, during an introspective moment before bed. I’m Australian, as per my passport and birth certificate. But I’m also undeniably Chinese, with a family tree that is rich in history and culture. All these years trying to fit in to white Australia, yearning for the stamp of approval from my Western friends while disregarding my native heritage altogether. “Where are you from?” is more than a question; it’s a reminder to not forgo my other identity in the search for a pretense of belonging and acceptance. So, ask me again, and this time I’ll no longer be made to feel ashamed of my cultural ties and background.

When was the last time someone asked you where you are from?

I can't even remember because it happens a lot. Majority of the time they ask without really thinking of the connotations behind it. It’s a harmless question in their eyes and I take it as such, but I have been asked if “I was an import – you know like an immigrant?”, I was really young and wasn't sure how to respond. I remember at that point I felt really othered. Like yes, I know I am an immigrant but I'd never been confronted with someone saying it in such a derogatory way.

How did it make you feel?

I never really know how to respond when I get asked. I still get really confused even though I've had to explain this time and time again. I'm like – Do they mean where I'm from in Sydney?; My nationality? I've answered it ‘wrong’ before and then the conversation becomes about me having to explain, then it just takes longer and I’m like sooo... it's a little draining when I think about it.

Usually it’s about my nationality because you know I don't look "Australian" and then we go into… “Well how long have you been here?”, because I was born in Peru and I came to Australia when I was 18 months old. My sisters were 9 and 2.5 and my parents were in their 30s. Once they hear that I've lived here for that long they 9 times out of 10 say "Ohhhh well you're practically Australian then", and that really annoys me tbh! Because why should I have to explain myself to you and how come I only qualify to being "Australian" once I've explained myself – It's weird.

Where are you from?

Sydney.

No, but like where are you really from?

I grew up in Bondi.

No, I mean what's your background?

Well, at the moment it's a Rick and Morty meme.

shows phone

But, I change backgrounds pretty regularly.

Lol!

No, but srsly.

What's your ethnicity?

…

…

How many times do I need to deflect this question?

Read the room, guy.

Do you want my blood type too?

Woah, woah, woah lol.

Relax!

I’m just curious cos you look so exotic.

You really need to chill.

Until only recently, conversations that began with "where are you from?" were pretty brief, and one-sided. Less so conversations and more so passing comments or fact checks, almost always white peers or strangers, curious, confused, just looking to validate their own game of 'lemme guess'—or in the case of this one man on an overnight bus, just eager to share his plans to mail himself to China in a shipping container. (!!??)

I think the racism I internalised as a teen and young adult didn't allow me to identify these kinds of microaggressions when they occurred, and writing this, I'm realising the immense amount of privilege I experience in not having too many of the kind of interactions that jolt you into confronting your other-ness. I'm really grateful to find myself now surrounded by people of colour who shape my experience of being asked "where are you from?" as rich and interesting conversations about heritage, migration and reclaiming culture. I feel lucky to have these questions open up conversations between my friends, family and own understanding of how the answer to this question can grow more nuanced over time.

Recently, my mum has taken to a new hobby: compiling her family tree. It’s a dynamic document, regularly updated with annotations about siblings of great-great grandparents. It lives on the kitchen bench, I suspect so that it can be easily accessed in the event that some new tidbit about a distant relative materialises without warning.

Much of the hype is lost on me: because I’m adopted, I don't have a great deal of personal investment in the family tree. Nevertheless, I continue to entertain my mum’s fascination—it's evidently important to her.

For her, "where are you from?" means exploring the family tree to discern just how Irish she is and pinpointing the point in history where her Dutch heritage was introduced (even though she's a fifth-generation Australian).

When I'm asked the same question, the process of answering it is much more convoluted.

I've given up on performing conversational gymnastics and answering "where are you from?" by saying Western Sydney or explaining that I've grown up in Australia. There's little point in trying to manoeuvre my way out of the real question.

When I'm asked "where are you from?", it really means "why are you black?". I've learned that people feel so entitled to this knowledge that their persistence becomes shameless.

When someone asks me, I’ll respond to the question by telling them I was born in Colombia. They’ll protest, explaining that people in Colombia are lighter skinned. Sometimes they’ll even embellish their explanation, describing Colombians as a caramel colour, like Sofia Vergara. I’ll sigh, and begrudgingly remind them that the transatlantic slave trade happened.

Awkward silence ensues.

"But what about before that?"

"Where are you from?" means different things to me and my mum (and, more broadly, white people and people of colour), but our ability to answer the question thoroughly is also pretty disparate.

The systematic destruction of documents, histories, and families is a symptom of colonialism that plagues most communities of colour. It might mean that people of colour aren't able to create elaborate family trees or perform an ethnic breakdown by percentage and present it in a tidy pie chart. It might mean we aren't able to answer "where are you from?" in a way that satisfactorily explains to overly curious, white, wannabe genealogists why we look the way we do.

But the fact that we are here to answer it means that each of us is from a place that resisted and survived colonialism and imperialism.

And I think that's more revealing than any other answer to the dreaded question.

I’m lucky if I go a week without being asked this question. Every encounter, depending on how exhausted I am, is an opportunity to make life considerably difficult for the person asking; to thread together a character hell-bent on denying any opportunity to satiate their curiosity.

Hugged by the questionably warm air of Town Hall station, I peered over the ledge watching families of rats on their home commute, weaving in, out and under tracks and old coffee cups. Transfixed by this cocktail of disgust and awe I didn’t see the figure approach until it’s—his— shadow replaced the glaring translucent light.

I could hear it in the way his phlegm parted, in the way his eyes scrunched, pulling is eyebrows into the mystery, how his body lacked all signs of discomfort or sense of imposition.

With a blink, the decision was made, I would become the round peg for the square hole he hoped to slot me into.

“Where are you from?” His mouth flexed and stretched to fit his Irish accent.

Told ya—Bingo! Snap! UNO!

Whatever the game was—I’d won... where did I collect my prize?

“I was born here” (lie #1)

“Really?”

“Yeah”

Already thrown off course, what happens now?

A brown body... that was born here... 404 Error/ Page Not Found.

Then…

“… are you Aboriginal?”

“What? No”.

Was this 20 questions?

He had 17 left. You could see Ethnic Guess Who ™️ whirring in his mind, tossing up what questions would give him the answers he wanted—light bulb!

“So where’s your ancestry from”

“My parents were born here” (lie #2)

“What about BEFORE that?”

“Well… The UK” (lie #3)

15 left. At this point I started questioning whether he was THE Bureau of Statistics—the census is the only thing with this much assumed right to my genealogy!

He was stumped. I didn’t think I was throwing substantial spanners into his machinery—these were largely documented realities, not mine, but nevertheless valid.

Concerned, he bored into my eyes, holding space for the revelation he was about to impart:

“Do you know about your African heritage?”

14 left. It took everything within me not to burst out laughing.

Where the fuck was my train? Delayed City Rail was enabling this behaviour.

“What do you mean African Heritage? I thought, *insert Soulja Boy meme* Me, African?!”

All these and many other responses circled my mind. I dug deep and tapped into my inner Meryl Streep/ Bono/ Book of Mormon missionary:

“Well I guess we all are, aren’t we.”

He then generously shared his Blumenbach-era observations of archetypal African phenotypes

“They have

wide foreheads,

long heads,

long necks

The way their noses *abstract gesture over face*, their hair

I try and guess with Taxi drivers—it keeps my mind nimble…”

Does it?

My delayed train was now 2 minutes away— it was now my chance.

“So, where are you from?”

“Oh, I’ve been here for 5 years!”

…

The train, finally.

Standing inside the carriage wishing the rats to crawl back up and chew his face off, I was reminded that even with three times the amount of years clocked on this country, no matter how diligently I ironed out my accent and erased my mother tongue, he would always have more right to tell me who or what I was, than I ever would.

Doors closing, please stand clear.

‘Where are you from?’ is a red flag. A warning sign. It prepares me for a conversation I would rather not have. It tells me that white is the default. It tells me that I’m not Australian. It tells me that my presence requires an explanation.

‘Where are you from?’ isn’t really a question at all. It is a statement, heavy with the weight of assumption. It is dripping with confusion. It has the ability to alienate, whether or not the desire is to degrade me. It is othering and tiring. Fuck you. I know what you mean when you ask me that.

‘Where are you from?’ isn’t interested in my answers. ‘No, no, no’, it insists, ‘where are you really from?’ And when I explain that my father is from County Kerry in the South of Ireland, it has the audacity to tell me: ‘You can’t be Irish.’ Fuck you. My grandfather fought in the IRA against Britain's tyrannical rule. I am Irish, despite your preconceived notion of what that should look like.

‘Where are you from?’ is an underhanded opening for heavy-handed men to tell me I’m exotic. For them to tell me I’m pretty - but I don’t look Indian. At least, ‘not that kind of Indian’. Fuck you. I am that kind of Indian. My face is the face of my grandmother, Rukumani. I look like my mother, my aunties and my sisters of South India.

‘Where are you from?’ denotes that I am wrong. That I disrupt the normalcy of whiteness in this country. What it really means is: ‘Why are you here?’ and ‘Why don’t you look the way I expect you to?’ Fuck you. I refuse to make you comfortable with my response. I will not validate your ignorance. You should know better. And if you didn’t know, I’m telling you now. You have no excuses.

Perhaps you should ask yourself why you’re asking that question.

I still remember this like it was yesterday. Three-years ago I was at work wearing a 90s, chunky knitted sweatshirt, that was pastel purple, pink and yellow, and tucked into some high waisted jeans (obviously).  When a middle-aged white man came up to me and said: 'I love your colour’. At that moment, I kind of came out of my body and was staring at myself next to this man, with my fingers crossed, thinking: 'please be about my sweatshirt, please be about my sweatshirt.' When I didn't respond, he followed with: '...where are you from?'

So many things were running through my head… like: Umm why is this happening? I really don’t want to have to uppercut a stranger right now... I just got my nails done... I couldn’t wince hard enough—I bluntly replied: 'I’m from New Zealand...'

The man: 'New Zealand?!'

Me: '…New Zealand'.

At this point my face held the biggest eye-roll expression you could imagine. And then he continued: ‘oh geez. Did ya get culture shock growing up there?’

I really, really slowly and sternly said to him: ‘Noooooo! Because I - GREW - UP - THERE’ *does head tilt* My body language said ‘we’re done here’, and finally he got the picture and awkwardly scuttled away.

When this was happening I knew it wasn’t necessarily coming from a malicious place, but it was incredibly frustrating and so awkward. At the end of the day (or the start of the conversation) for PoC, being asked ‘Where are you from?’ serves as a constant: ‘just in case you forgot you aren’t white—do you care to comment?’ The question, most of the time, is immediately alienating and is a power play. It makes me wonder why it matters? Does it matter? This country is in a state of flux and yet is completely unable to grasp what will unite us. Dealing with these microaggressions only makes me think twice before I use my voice - just to preserve myself.

Australia is a country with no inclusivity and only the barest recognition of our indigenous people. Our shared history since 1788 seems to be shared with one side a lot more than the other. There is a separation between colonial history and Indigenous history. This hugely affects how our nation sees itself. It breeds a culture that isn’t the Australia I identify with. It creates a divided nation with a divided history. It’s really sad because we have so much to learn from each other.

My two brothers and I were sharing a cigarette in the smoking area of a largely forgettable bar in the CBD. With us was our childhood friend, who was born in Kenya and adopted by an Australian woman. Growing up the 4 of us formed about 80% of the African population of Bendigo in the 90s. The other 20% being our father. So our upbringing (in Australia) was largely white AF.

As we are passing a cigarette back and forth between us a Caucasian male, maybe late 20s, rounds the corner. As we lock eyes an expression of wonder comes over his face. Like that scene in the Wizard of Oz when Dorothy first steps onto the yellow brick road. We never exchanged names, so I'll use a rotating roster of typical white names to avoid overloading on pronouns. Wide-eyed, Todd stops dead in his tracks before nervously retreating back around the corner. Think Homer Simpson into that hedge or Ginny Weasley in Chamber of Secrets. A few seconds pass, Ryan walks back around the corner, this time he is composed, pretending as if we all hadn't seen his first ‘Not in Kansas anymore’ moment. Time slows, Spencer begins to approach us with the confidence and demeanor of a person that couldn't/shouldn't actually exist in the real world. It’s a cartoonish level of confidence. Gone is the wide-eyed Dorothy, now Donald's body language is relaxed and he's walking with swagger, a little too much actually. He's trying way too hard, it almost looks like he has a limp. His face is contorted in an attempt to look gangster, he's trying to be Ice Cube but looks a little more like that meme of Conceited.

At this point watching Adam slowly strut over to us, arms moving side to side like he's swimming through water; body slightly leaned back like he's about to limbo, we realise what this is. Jeremy is about to ask us where we're from. More accurately what's going to happen is Trent is going to make small talk for 3-5 minutes, until he feels comfortable enough to ask us where we're from. For some reason needing to have this knowledge factors into his day, and Ben has selfishly placed his unwarranted desire for the personal information of strangers over common courtesy. If we refuse to answer because of the sheer insensitivity of it, Alec will reply with a ‘What's your problem? It's just a question.’ If we continue to defend ourselves we'll be labelled as ‘aggressive black men’, if it escalates ACA have another unsubstantiated ‘African gang’ story to report on Monday, media scrutiny intensifies and our whole community suffers. We're judged as a whole, and if you're not a POC you should know that most people of colour consciously and consistently consider this when making daily decisions.

Our best play is to swallow our pride, and answer. But we know Zack won't accept our answer. We'll say Bendigo and Todd will ask, ‘Where are you really from?’ We'll say that we were partially raised in Singapore and he will ask, ‘Where are you REALLY from?’ Andrew will continue to pursue this line of enquiry like an insensitive and involuntary ancestry.com until he gets the answer to the question he really means to ask which is: ‘Why are you black?’ Clearly Aaron hasn't seen Mean Girls.

It has been about 14 seconds since Kyle made his first trip around the corner and so far this is what has been running through my head: (over analyzing things in real time is my forte). As he continues to waddle over I wonder if maybe I'm wrong about Erik, maybe my past experiences have made me jaded and suspicious. As Travis gets closer and I think about all the times my life have been made harder for challenging people's prejudices, class rooms I've been removed from, jobs I've been forced to leave, because of Tom, Dick, Harry, Jack, Michael, Jason, Peter. I think about how my own mother's advice to me about dealing with racism used to be, and sadly still is to keep quiet, and soldier on, because she grew up in a time where she didn't have the luxury of having a voice, or a sympathetic ear. I look into Ethan's smiling face and think about how I carry this with me. I carry it in interactions like this one and it makes me resentful and quick to judge. It pushes me toward the stereotype I have continually fought against.

Because sometimes it will be small, like the reason why people assume I listen to certain music, why they shake my hand differently, why they curate a different vernacular while talking to me. Other times it's larger like why I get bag searched leaving stores, why police will stop me when I'm walking home at night, why I get ‘random’ checks at the airports, why some people are afraid of me on public transport, why bosses don't trust me, why when dating I have to consider whether I'm a ‘type’ to somebody or if they're actually interested in my personality. But things are changing, and Melbourne is a very progressive city, maybe I am wrong about Chad.

Jesse smiles at me, I smile back, then: ‘SUP HOMIES!’ slithers out of his mouth with a simultaneous hands thrown back gesture. I realise that I wasn't wrong, my suspicions about Micky are dead on, and our night it about to be ruined.

My mother is Singaporean and my father is Zambian. If you read up to here wondering what my background is and felt some sort of relief/contentment at that information, you truly need to reassess your values.

I got into a chat with a lifeguard at my local pool a while back and he asked me where I was from. I was in a cheeky mood so I said I was from Carlton (that’s why I’m at the Carlton Baths - duh). But I knew what he really meant, I have get question plenty of times; from total strangers who reckon they deserve to know. Still, I was adamant to stick with my  ‘ignorant’ response - it was my New Year’s Resolution. He asked me again and I said, ‘Okay fine, I’m from Melbourne, but my parents live in Canberra’. Then he asked me again, but this time, he pointed at his face, as if to say: ‘You saying you’re Australian, but your features say otherwise’. I was so shocked but at the same time felt like laughing. Eventually I buckled because while I was eager to keep resisting, I realised then that this guy really wasn’t going anywhere, and I didn’t have it in me to turn my daily swim into a full-blown political conference. So I told him: ‘I’m Indonesian-Australian’.

He was white, and I just find it so annoying that if I asked him the same question, with the same amount of intensity, that he just wouldn’t get it and he’d probably end up trying to explain which rural town or suburb his grandparents lived in, back in the 50’s. I hate that my PoC friends get pestered by random strangers, as if we owe it to them to tell them why we aren’t white. That when my white friends are asked the same question they only have to say ‘Aw yeah my family is from Queensland originally’, and that’s legitimate enough.

Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely love myself and where I come from. It’s just that when these strangers, who feel like they have the right to ask you a question as personal as ‘Where are you from?’ - usually out of nowhere - it feels less like Where are you from? And more like ‘Why aren’t you white?

I think Australia is still very white-centric culturally. So many of my mates overseas think ‘Aussies’ look like the tanned, blonde and caucasian archetype and wouldn’t immediately think there are Australians who are PoC  - let alone First Nations people - It’s ridiculous. Why does our nation project this conservative-white identity? That’s not who we are.

First Nations people are the only people who are truly from this land and as soon as we can all accept and celebrate that (I’m looking at you white people) the sooner we can accept the fact that the contemporary Australian identity is complex; it’s layered and it’s not homogenous.

The most recent time I got asked ‘Where are you from?’ by a stranger it was a much nicer interaction and it came from an unlikely candidate too. I was eating in the dining area out the front of an Ethiopian restaurant with my older-sister and Dad when two teenage girls walked past. One of them looked at us and excitedly blurted out, ‘You guys are eating Ethiopian food? That’s the food of my people!’ We started chatting about how stoked we all were on the food,  and the girl told us about how her background is Ethiopian. Then she looked at the three of us (including my white dad!) and casually asked: ‘so anyway, where are you guys from?’ I looked at my dad and my sister and we said we were Australian-Indonesian. She didn’t bat an eyelid—her friend said she was Filipino-Aussie. Then they said bye, and kept walking; we kept eating. It was one of the few ‘Where are you from? moments’ that I was happy to answer. She was acknowledging that none of us, including my white Dad, are originally from here. And yet we all live on this land and call it home.

I vowed to myself at the start of this year that next time someone asked me where I was from that I would ask them where they were from in return. It’s sad that when a PoC Aussie asks me that, I find it easy to return the question, but when a white person asks me that, I suddenly feel a little uneasy and it becomes something political for me to ask them where they’re from. They get that unspoken privilege. To acknowledge that they’re not from here would be to acknowledge that this nation was founded on colonialism and white supremacy. But for us, whether you’re just in line at Aldi to buy some milk, or meeting your white friend’s otherwise lovely Mum (who just loves your exotic look) or doing your daily swim at your local swimming pool  -  it’s always an awkward interaction.

But I have started asking more white people where they’re from when they ask me. It’s important for them to be reminded that their heritage is also foreign, and important for us all to acknowledge that none of us are really ‘from here’ except First Nations. In fact, if ‘Where are you from?’ wasn’t just a weird rephrasing of ‘why aren’t you white?’ or ‘why are you different?’, it would be quite a beautiful and important question to ask - an opportunity for us to remember our histories together. I want to remind white people that they aren’t from here either, but either way, that we are here now, and it’s our responsibility to work together with First Nations Australians to dismantle structures that still allow this weird-white-world to reign supreme.

Growing up in Australia with a single mother who has three girls, including me and a half-brother, who all have curly hair, and skin that isn’t white. My siblings and I spent a lot of time explaining ourselves and trying to justify our appearance to strangers. Our mum was constantly questioned, as to others it was somewhat impossible for us to be considered a family. People are still shocked when they meet my mum, they fail to see that our resemblance may be deeper than our skin colour.

Luckily, growing up I was always content and confident with who I was. But as I grew, I also became more aware of people's perceptions of the Australian identity. I didn’t match up to people’s expectations of a typical ‘Aussie’, which defaulted me to ‘question mark’. The more I was questioned, the more it became apparent to me that people didn't believe I fit in as I am.

Up until then, I was unaware that I was anywhere more different than the rest of my classmates. At least once a week I’m asked ‘where are you from?’ to which I respond: Hi, how are you? I was born in Australia. I’m Australian. (as it’s usually one of the first things they ask) And then they say: No, but where are you FROM? As if they’re entitled to know. When they’re not satisfied with that answer I say: my dad is Jamaican.

My response to this sometimes challenges the way they think about identity. Because I try to emphasise that someone’s background doesn’t always determine who they are and to where they belong. I can appreciate people's interest in my ethnicity, and most people are probably unaware of the way they can make me feel by asking about it. Some people think that because they are complimenting me and admiring my hair, or saying how lucky I am to have my ‘beautiful’ skin, that it’s ok. But most of the time it's very confronting to have someone comment on your appearance that way, especially when it’s brought up mid-conversation or even more so, when it is the thing that starts the conversation. I also believe that  being ‘different’ doesn't necessarily make you ‘beautiful’ and therefore being told you are beautiful because you are different is kind of condescending. I would prefer to be called beautiful based on my qualities, rather than my appearance.

As much as I love being Australian, it is incredibly frustrating and insulting to be continuously made to feel that I don’t belong because of my appearance. I have curly hair, brown skin and parents with of mixed heritage but I have formed my sense of self and identity in Australia, as it's where I call home. This sentiment is particularly significant for when we acknowledge First Nations peoples and their struggles. I celebrate being Australian by believing we live or are working towards becoming an inclusive community who are accepting and welcoming of each of our individual differences. Because no matter where we are from, we are all entitled to feel like we belong.

Blood rising to the surface of my cheeks as I’ve felt the burning pain of this question. Strangely I hope my brownness would mask my shame and hurt in those moments. Because if I could be too brown to blush, the sharp knife that is those careless words could penetrate but not give away that it’s entered my soul and shattered it.

The answer to that question would never come easily, and would seldom come in words. It’s the churning sensation in my stomach; the bad butterflies, when my otherness is so callously pointed out to me. Your mother is white, are you adopted? Why don’t you look like her? Why is your dad so black? Why don’t you look like him?

Trying to find home in people who didn’t have the capacity to love me, who could never truly hold me for who I am, because maybe if my white partners could love me or see me as beautiful, I’d be enough. Or I was passing well enough? I didn’t want to be brown; I tried to crush it with everything at my disposal.

‘I can’t be racist, my girlfriend is black.’ Yes, yes you can, and the damage you do in your complacency is unforgivable and far-reaching.

Displacement runs deeper than this question - where are you from? I don’t know. It isn’t here. But I know that half of me is in Ghana, and these feelings of being unable to sit still or exhale won’t subside until my feet touch the earth there.

Yt (white) people seem to have a misconception that PoC enjoy being the centre of attention because their ‘unique’ heritage. They think we are privileged to be the topic of conversation when someone asks ‘ Where are you from?’ They, of course, have probably never been asked. Being told you are a ‘unique combination’ makes you feel a dish at a fusion restaurant—not a human being. The colour of my skin and the curls in my hair are not invitation for you to comment, touch or play a guessing game. These parts of my identity should not be the things you are focusing on. I am so much more.

I work at a hair and makeup salon in Canterbury, where all of my clients are middle to upper class white people, who think my hair the 8th wonder of the world. They just have to know:

‘Where are you from?’

‘Where does this curly hair and brown skin come from?’

‘Do you curl it?’

‘You’re so exotic!’ (Ew)

‘You are so lucky!’

I think the last one gets to me the most—how exactly am I lucky? Because I look different? Because when I walk down this very-white street people stare? Do these people know the history of my culture? Do they realise that in a different time, me and my people were definitely not lucky.

‘Where are you from?’ is a question that I stopped trying to avoid, hearing it every week in my workplace has desensitised me to the the probing of white people. But it shouldn’t be this way. Why do they need to know?

Why is it so important to them? These people preach diversity but as soon as you are different to them they’re suddenly confused.

I am Australian, and the way I look or where my family come from will never change that.

The last time someone asked me where I was from, I was at work. I work in a bar and it tends to be the hotspot for enquiries of such qualms… People with question marks walk through these spaces, I guess we both are looking for answers. A middle aged man approached me while I was behind the bar, and as any employee, I did the same. Asked the regular, ‘hi, how are you? Would you like a drink?’ he replied by asking for a beer, and I did so. Our small talk extended to the day’s activities, followed by an abrupt eagerness to know—‘Where are you from?’

I usually don’t mind the question. I’ve build up a wall against my anger at such ignorance. Plus, white folk are curious as fuck - heck - humans are. But the way this man kept insisting even after I told him, was unacceptable.

I told him: ‘here, Australia?’

He replied with ‘No! But really—where?’ I stated this three times to his face and he still searched for more as if it was his sole agenda for the night: the pursuit of knowing the true origins of a stranger, without

knowing their name, who they are, what they like/dislike, what they’re like.

I must be my blackness?

It took my supervisor coming up to us both to defuse the situation. I am the question mark. That’s all I am… I know barely as much as you. Who am I? Who am I to you, another UFC player, a black sis that looks like a basketball player? Will Smith or the next up-and-coming black rapper… I must not be me then?

This idea of me not being me because of this mask placed on my face—my identity. To further heighten this, I go out the front to pick up a few glasses and smoke a cigarette on my break. He decides to come back, fired-up and ready for more probing. Right in my face, five-centimetres away, he asks again… insisting to know WHERE?

I truly hated people for a while, but more or less, myself. Why can’t you blend in? Dilute the shades. Perfect hue.

I was lucky enough to have lovely people around to witness and lend a hand with what I wasn’t able to release within myself. I let this happen. Again. I bit my tongue again. It’s swelling. I’m drinking more of my own blood than water. My skin festers in repulse of flourishing only to be sustained in place. The rules I never agreed to, but my passport holds my face, so the captain fires his bullets, aimed at my skin, aimed at me. Shots are fired.

But my skin is made of vibranium.

I can’t be mad; I’ll get misinterpreted.

I can’t be sad; I’ll be walked all over.

I want to be strong, but I fear the blood-knife nears to my heart.

I can educate? But I am tired after the twentieth person today…

So I NEED to be patient.

Haiku

Knives are let loose here
Bread is mistaken for skin
We share or slice you

Opinion

'Where are you from?' A knife in the form of a question that can either slice bread or skin depending on the sender’s intent and delivery, and the receiver’s level of awareness and compassion. For me, bread’s been sliced and shared more than blood, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have a few scars.

I’m sure what confuses people the most is the colour of my skin, a bit too brown to be white; the broadness of my nose, a bit too wide to be 'white' and my dance moves *Begins to dance*—I mean ain’t no white person dancin’ like me.

And if you noticed, in that joke lay the problem: over time we begin to learn to associate particular attributes and abilities with particular objects or, in this case, people. And these attributes and abilities become self-fulfilling prophecies for us. In the same way an archetypal white person could never comprehend a time when they would be able to move like Mike or me, an archetypal young Aboriginal teenager or black person could never comprehend a time when they could live like you. You.

Me? I’ve been discriminated against a couple of times. What often hurts the most is knowing that my Play-Doh like identity is much more than the colour of my skin or my place of birth, but not being able, or invited to communicate this, and as a result I end up reciting the same story:

'Born in Australia. Mother’s Australian. Father’s Maori. That’s where I get my colour from, I guess'

Now I know, intellectually, this story makes it easier for myself and the receiver. I know, intellectually, that physical characteristics are shortcuts for us to determine whether or not a person is in or out of our group. I even know, intellectually, that we tend to favour those who are in our group over those who aren’t. And this knowing often manifests into empathy for the other.

You see, I understand why someone would resort to asking that question rather than a more interesting one. And I understand why I might be looked at differently for not holding the necessary characteristics to be considered one of them, whoever they might be at the time. But the problem with empathy, in this case, is that it’s often passive and, to be honest, a bit lazy.

By defaulting to telling this story to avoid small talk and it’s associated social angst, am I not contributing to the problem? By asking others where they’re from am I not contributing to the problem?

What we need to do is to encourage ourselves and others to ask better questions rather than expecting others to not ask the questions we don’t want to answer:

Where does your style come from, Josh?
My style is currently influenced by Japanese menswear

Where does your taste in music come from, Josh?
Right now, my music taste is currently influenced by Chicago Soul

Where do your favourite cuisines reside, Josh?
Italy and Japan.

And just like a knife, the words that form our questions and answers have never told us what to do with them. It is for us to decide. So choose your words wisely, my brothers and sisters.

‘Where are you from?’

This question always feels so loaded to me.

I’m never sure what answer the person asking wants. I was born in Perth, spent my childhood in Bali and my adolescence back in Perth. I’ve lived in Canada and currently live in Melbourne. So where am I from? Saying I’m from Perth with a thick Australian accent never seems to satisfy anyone, though I’ve learnt that what the question really means is: ‘why are you brown?’

Once I avoided the ‘where are you from’ question for so long a woman just flat out asked me why I was brown out of sheer frustration. As though the secret of my ethnic ambiguity was slowly filling the room, like a gas leak and no one could relax until I explained my heritage to them. I almost expect collective sigh of relief from the people around when I clarify that my father is Balinese and my mother is white.

The worst experience I’ve had with the question was, surprisingly, at university last year. My tutor asked, me in front of my classmates: ‘Now, Tara; where are you actually from?’ He explained that he had been trying to work it out all semester, and that my surname wasn’t giving away any clues. He said it annoyed him while he was marking my assignment.

Usually I respond by side stepping the question, but when it comes from people in a position of power, It makes me feel helpless. I answered his question about the brownness of my appearance: I’m Balinese.

What followed was a five-minute pantomime of Balinese stereotypes: did I want to sell him a dodgy watch? Did I want to take him to the beach? Did I want to pester him to come into my shop? Did I want to give him a massage? Did I want to eat his dog?

Before that incident Academia had always been some kind of safe-haven for me. I found solace in  that my intelligence made me equal, but that day it all came tumbling down and all I saw was the colour of my skin in a sea of white. I wanted very much to leave, or speak back, but I couldn’t and it continued until another student spoke out on my behalf—it was horrible. My grades plummeted that semester, and I became incredibly depressed.

Assimilation was my form of survival; my attempt to reconcile my existence within white Australia. I have spent so much energy approximating myself to whiteness by covering up the traces that give away my ethnicity. Frequently finding myself on the receiving end of the question: ‘Where are you from?’ reminds me of the failed efforts I have made to integrate into a society that was never made for me.

By the time I was able to understand how othering this question is, I was already fed up with answering it. When I look at myself, the only type of ‘other’ that I see is the ‘settler’. My interrogators correct me: ‘Oh, well, if you were born in Australia, you can’t be Afghan’; ‘Your parents are

Afghan, then so are you’; ‘Well which is it? Afghan or Australian?’. I have stopped entertaining these conversations. For me, an eye roll is often the most satisfying answer to this question. Sometimes it’s just white-curiosity wanting to spark up a conversation; maybe to add some entertainment to their day, maybe to categorise me for their own sense of safety, or maybe to exercise some sort of power play.

I have grown resistant to this question when it comes from someone who is caucasian. Their entitlement works as a gatekeeper to a warped ideal of ‘normal’. Years of being inundated with questions about my origin have brought me to the conclusion that belonging within this ideal is absurd. I have been trying to find acceptance into a normal that is maintained by exclusion.

The effects of this question have the greatest weight and meaning when it is posed by another Afghan, especially from within the diaspora. From within the third culture, ‘Where are you from?’ feels loaded with layers of judgement and jealousy: ‘You look more *insert the name of another country*’; ‘You don’t act Afghan’; ‘Can you even speak Farsi?’. With only a few words I am erased from my watan (homeland), my reference is point removed, and my hopes to return threatened.

This question stems from an attempt to protect their own sense of identity, a homogenised identity formed by holding on tightly to what has been lost through generations of war and decades of restricted freedom. This protection ostracises those of us who make sense of our history and identity through individual expression.

My adolescent efforts to assimilate were a direct by-product of conditioning, which has indirectly ousted me from the two communities that make up my identity. ‘Where are you from?’ is a reminder that my hybrid of Afghan-Australian has allowed me to navigate cross-cultural borders, while at the same time preventing me from being recognised as belonging to either.

The last time I was asked ‘Where are you from?’ was recently at my local milk bar. I'd gone there to get some icy poles and use the ATM; It was one of those crazy hot summer days.

When I got there the lady serving me behind the counter was admiring my hair. She asked me where I was from. I told her I was from Ethiopia.

It's a question I get a lot, and one that I am not fazed by these days. I was happy to feed her curiosity. She went on to tell me about how some 30 years ago she had a perm and would rock the big hair. She was much older and took a moment to work out how old she was then responded with: ‘Oh shit, I'm 60 years old!’.  It made me laugh.

She was funny and I felt comfortable having a dialogue about my hair with her.

Growing up as the most ‘white-passing’ member of my family meant that I have always struggled to place myself within my culture. Internalised racism and lack of knowing my language meant that often, I was doing everything I could to appear as white as possible. I have many memories from my teens of being described as ‘exotic’, being asked where I’m from, and of people assuming my race. I felt awkward about myself and my culture, and it was always strange men asking or prying, so I never responded with any confidence, or at all. In New Zealand, I feel like people were able to place me/my features or, when they asked about my background, it came from a place of humility and knowing. These days I always respond with confidence that I am Māori.

Moving to Australia has been challenging in this aspect, a lot of people don’t hear me when I pronounce Māori correctly, they ask: ‘What?! Mouldy?!’ And snigger under their breath. What makes them think that is appropriate or funny? I’ve even had friends do it. You think mispronouncing the name of my blood, my spirit, my tīpuna and whanaungatanga is funny? It’s a form of erasure and its disrespectful as hell.

Working on Smith Street for years has provided a few interesting encounters. I had a drunk old man tell me one day that I was Vietnamese. I kept trying to ignore him, but he persisted:

‘I’m Māori’, I told him. ‘No your not! I know Māori people, they are big and fat! Tell me what you are!’ I ended up telling him to go fuck himself. I had another old man approach me at Woolies, and follow me around, telling me how much he loved Māori people. I was hungover; he had no concept of personal space, and I found it very creepy. These experiences are of course not unusual or unique and are part of living in a patriarchal white supremacist society.

On the flip side, I was having a cigarette one day outside work, when an older Māori lady who worked at the offices down the road asked me for a lighter. ‘Where are you from girl?’ She said.

Her voice sounded like the voices of my aunties from the far north, it felt like a warm hug, a fresh piece of fried bread covered with butter and jam and a cup of blend 43 at the Marae. From that day on we would check in on each other, share a smoke, talk about how much we missed our families. It was the same question, but it was coming from a place of recognition and solidarity, of knowing and acceptance. It was a breath of new life into the otherwise tiresome question: ‘Where are you from?’

For people of color, including myself, the ‘where are you from?’ question gets really exhausting. It often disguises curiosity about the ethnic-background of the person being asked. They are actually not enquiring about me, the human being.
It is quite annoying that people in this day and age can be so presumptuous. In fact that question (although not always) comes with a lot of historical baggage attached.  This question actually disgusts me a little and I find myself getting so frustrated every time I get asked. I find myself getting asked this question specifically by ‘white’ communities, as my accent (another issue) does not give any clues of my origin. So, that question about my ‘foreignness is irritating! It questions my authenticity and alienates me with an implication that my looks don't make me Kiwi or Australian.

When the question ‘where are you from?’ has happened to me, I have always felt like it was just that: happening to me. On the surface the question seems innocuous. And for many of those who ask it is often out of  genuine curiosity; in an effort to connect and for a chance to converse.

‘No but where are you from originally?’

My body remembers each time it’s happened and that everytime shrinking becomes unavoidable. It is the same - every time. I stand, machine-like still, and touch my face a lot while the words fumble out of my mouth, embarrassed and meek. Words that I say too often. Words that need to stop.

Sometimes, I’m ashamed of the way I have answered this question in the past. And I ask myself why my involuntary reaction is to renounce and relinquish parts of me that I am at peace with in solitude. Above me there are two steel brackets, suspended over my head, ready to envelope my answer in a last-ditch effort to other me further.

I am queer already - I find this part funny because I’ve never had to explain that to anyone, further than simply saying: I am queer. When I explain that I have a partner who is a woman, or that I identify as non-binary, sometimes people ask how I came around to it but I’m never pressed. It’s something I’ve learnt by knowing and having other QTIPOC in my life. White people here, in so-called Australia, will most probably know more queer people than people of colour -  that’s just facts. And that is why I hate being asked this question. I perceive it as exclusionary, and in a white-dominated society it is asked because I’m visibly non-white.

Second, the assumption of the question: that one is not ‘from here’ constructs an ‘other’, whose identity is fixed and tied only to a faraway place; thereby erasing the hyphenated identities that define me and my everyday lived reality.

I love my skin and I think black people are the most beautiful, innovative and exciting people in the world. I love that my Fijian mother is so much more than a ‘pacific paradise’, and that my Brooklyn native dad is a building that touches the sky. But being a third-culture kid, that question has always shaken up things inside of me. It’s not painful, but it’s not harmless.

Last time someone asked me ‘where are you from’ was only a couple of days ago at work. It makes it so much harder as you’re there to do your job and be polite to people but it’s not a polite question and it’s really presumptuous and personal to feel so entitled to ask a person of colour that question as they’re putting us in a box. Judging us just by the colour of our skin and thinking “oh they look different they’re surely not from Australia with those curls and brown skin!”. It was a white man in his 50s, he caught me by surprise as I was dropping off some food to his table he asked me “where are you from” shocked I said “Australia” he said “no where are you REALLY from like what’s your nationality?” I regretfully huffed and puffed and sighed making it really obvious that I didn’t want to answer that question and went the long way around “my mum has a european background but is born and raised in Australia and my dad is from Jamaica but grew up in England.. but I am 100% Australian” he was very intrigued and felt like he deserved to know such a personal question. He said something like “that’s different” and I said “yeah well the whole world is very multicultural and mixed now isn’t it?” and walked off pissed off that he’d asked that question as most caucasian people unfortunately do and felt angered that I answered it but I didn’t have the energy to actually educate this ignorant man at the time. I wish I had of replied “oh that’s a very personal question!” giggled and walked off, which is probably the nicest way I could shut this conversation down in a work environment. If i wasn’t at work I would have just responded “Australia” very bluntly or not say a thing and walk off. Every time I get that question it still shocks me and can be confusing as to how to react as I know a lot of people are generally interested but it is still a very personal question that we shouldn’t have to answer. The other side of me gets annoyed as I am born and raised in Australia and have only been to Jamaica once and when I went there they called me ‘white gal’ and knew I wasn’t from there. It makes you feel like you don’t actually belong anywhere, in your own home that’s very disheartening and frustrating!

When was the last time someone asked you where you are from?

The last time someone asked me that was just a few days ago, it happens quite regularly for me now.

What happened/how did they say it?

It was a woman who asked me, she asked very poliety and seemed genuinely interested. I hate to sound sexist, but the energy a woman has asking, versus a man, is very different.

What was the person like?

She was lovely, she really seemed to be amazed by my ethnicity and was very kind in the way she approached asking.

How did/does it make you feel?

I don't mind it, people ask me all the time so I am very used to it. I understand why, it is always interesting finding out which ethnicities create what.

How did you respond/how would you have preferred to respond?

I responded the way I always do: with a smile, I try to see it as a compliment. I don't think it's offensive if asked in the right context.

What connotations do you think the question has and what do you think it says about Australia in terms of the way we understand cultural identity/ nationality?

I don't think Australians have any type of look that you can pick. I think First Nations have the look that is our identity and everyone else is yes still Australian but also partly whatever other background they are.

Where am I from? This is a loaded question, one that I am asked daily. My father left Jamaica for Australia in 1987. My mother was born in Australia, however, my grandparents migrated from Sri Lanka in 1971. I was born and raised in Melbourne, but I am firmly entrenched in my parent’s cultures.

As soon as I open my mouth, my Australian accent is painfully strong, but when I am asked where I’m from I habitually refer to myself as Jamaican/Sri Lankan. My reason for this is because I know that this question is intrinsically tied to my race, rather than the place I was born. I suppose this can depend on who’s asking the question. When ‘Aussies’ ask me, it’s because they want to know why my skin is brown, why my hair is curly, and how I ended up here. That’s the bottom line.

I know many people of color who would understandably be offended by such a question. The question itself is a form of micro-aggression, defined as the casual and commonplace degradation of a minority group. This question is one that every person of color faces. In my own world, I encounter this question daily. When I am asked this question by entitled dudes, I know it’s the beginning of a pathetic pick-up line, drenched in misogynoir. However, it is important for me to note that it’s often asked innocently,

Benevolently. In every sense, unless I am feeling particularly sarcastic, I am far more comfortable signifying my culture rather than my birthplace as my origin. I feel a certain discomfort surrounding calling myself ‘Australian,’ and this stems from an acute awareness of Australia’s inherent racism, as well as the horrific treatment of First Nations peoples and asylum seekers.

Australia’s very foundation is genocidal, and I am often ashamed to associate with this. I have, in the past, struggled to explain that I am more proud of my Jamaican and Sri Lankan heritage than my birthplace. I find that, as a black woman, I am becoming more and more proud of my skin, my hair; my heritage; my roots. This can be confronting to those that label themselves ‘colorblind,’ or believe that we

live in a post-racial society. I have been accused of furthering the divide, choosing the label myself as ‘other,’ or it’s insinuated that I somehow victimize myself. I have friends that are confused or offended by my reluctance to state that I am Australian when asked where I am from.

I am grateful for my base - Melbourne. When I think of what it means to be Australian, I automatically think ‘Anglo.’ Perhaps I could look at myself as an indication of Australia’s diversity and multiculturalism.

Melbourne is almost like its own hub – separate from the rest of Australia. I am committed to speaking out about my experiences with racism, and living in Melbourne has enabled me to do so. I consider Melbourne to be a haven (at least in comparison to other places in Australia – the Gold Coast, for example), despite mainstream media’s stereotyping of our African community, numerous encounters with the ‘hipster’ brand of racism and the ignorance of white feminists. I feel that this is a place where I can speak passionately and without consequence, and for this I am grateful.

When was the last time someone asked you where you are from?

When? Everyday at work! And up to three times during an 8 hour shift, if I'm lucky enough to get stuck on the cash desk or fitting rooms. The perks of working retail is the oh-so-wonderful customer service part, which requires you to interact with the them in order to sell merchandise and with that comes the part where strangers feel this unspoken, but totally non-existent, right to address and ask you whatever the fuck their heart desires!️ Shit’s even more exciting when you're black with a shaved head dyed blonde.

What happened/how did they say it?

It always starts with a compliment! And is followed by questions like: ‘what foundation do you use?’ and ‘it must be so difficult to find one!’; where you born here or are you an immigrant (of course they wouldn't use the word immigrant because that would be totally inappropriate) Then I usually say something like: ‘Nah I came here as a nine-year old.’ Then the white lady goes: ‘oh realllly you're English is so good!’ I'll be honest, my favourite ones are the people who cut the bullshit small talk and get straight to it.

What was the person like?

Predominantly white middle-aged Australian women. The type who'd most likely throw a tantrum and write a complaint on the David Jones Facebook page about using a black model for a campaign cause she couldn't relate or wear the same colour foundation.

How did/does it make you feel?

Pretty shit; very uncomfortable. It feels like I'm not supposed to be here for some reason

How did you respond/how would you have preferred to respond?

I'm at work so always very polite, although I'll sometimes give short answers to indicate my disinterest in the conversation.

What connotations do you think the question has and what do you think it says about Australia in terms of the way we understand cultural identity/ nationality?

Ignorance is the first thing that comes to mind! White Australia only understands what is beneficial for them.

Where are you from? is such a triggering question for me. As I was born in Australia and definitely feel most connected to this country out of anywhere else in the world, when someone asks me that question I feel it is implied that I am not from ‘here’ as in Australia, but from somewhere else.  

The last time I was asked the question I was riding my bike home and was stopped a traffic light. I made eye contact with the lolly-pop man that was waiting to escort people across the crossing and he looked at me a bit strangely. Out of nowhere he asked: ‘Where are you from?’

I replied: ‘What do you mean?’

He then said: ‘Like you know…where are you from?’

At this point he was a little uncomfortable—which I wanted him to be. Hoping that he would understand the assumptions he was making about me. I responded again: ‘I’m from here.’ And rode off.

I felt that the man’s question wasn’t malicious, but definitely ignorant of the fact Australians come in many colours/descriptions etc. Clearly, I didn’t fit his stereotype. The question does make me a bit angry because coming from a mixed-race background, I have always felt a bit displaced. And this question is always a stark reminder of how I’ve never quite fit in. I could have been a little bit more compassionate but to be honest I do hope the guy thinks a little more before nextime assuming where someone is from.

The negative connotation is definitely the assumption that you are from somewhere else. Sometimes I do feel it is asked in a respectful manner, but often when it is worded differently such as: what is your background? The way in which the question is asked makes a massive difference.

When it comes the Australian-cultural-identity, I feel that the dominating accepted identity is pretty whitewashed, as you can see by looking at the cast of a show like Neighbours or Home and Away. I  don’t think I have seen a PoC on either show, ever. Which is pretty reflective of how mainstream Australia sees itself. Also, often the person fielding the question is a ‘white’ Australian. This has a pretty negative connotation to me as it seems so exclusive of many Australian people. The question itself is pretty problematic, as to be honest, we are all immigrants unless you are First Nation. Which is something that seems to be forgotten all the time...

I don't remember the last time someone asked me where I'm from but they all feel the same. It's usually in a work setting or when I'm at a party / out.

A lot of the time they ask me what my nationality is, to which I calmly say back: Australian. Obviously that isn't the ‘right’ answer, but they aren't asking the right question, and it's clear what they want out of it.

It's clear they just see me for my skin colour and being exotic. It used to make me feel isolated and seen for the wrong reasons. But because of how repeatedly I get asked this my response is automated and comfortable.

If they ask respectfully about what my ethnic-background is, I'll give them the proper answer that ‘my parents were born in Sri Lanka but then moved New Zealand where I was born but I moved to Australia when I was five and grew up in a regional town in North Queensland.

‘Where are you from?’ Is this a question of geography or identity? Shit, I don't know. I'm from here I guess, but why would someone ask me this unless it was obvious that I'm not from here? Am I not from here? No, surely they don't think that. I reckon I act like I'm from here. Do I look like I'm not from here?

I guess I was born overseas and my parents lived their entire lives overseas until we moved to Australia, but that's where my parents are from. Not me. What's the context behind this question again? I mean, I am a racial minority, so maybe they want to know what my ethnic makeup is? Half-Chinese. Half-Indonesian.

I don't really feel connected to the geographic China and I also don't really know much of Chinese culture to have it influence my identity. Indonesia:  I haven't lived there much and I only visit for Ramadan. I'm not Muslim though, only some of my family are; I feel like such an outsider. How am I supposed to explain this simply but with nuance? I just want to drink and socialise without having my identity being questioned like this. I'm from here but also not from here? This is so stressful.

‘Where are you from?’ My house.

When was the last time someone asked you where you are from?

The other week.

What happened/how did they say it?

Him: So where’d you come from?

Me: Prahran.

Him: Oh nah I mean where are you REALLY from?

Me: Melbourne?

Him: Nah like you weren’t born here, what country mate?

Me: ‘I was born and raised here.

Him: Oh yeah but your nationality.

Me: Lol, Polynesian and European.

Him (getting a little frustrated with my answers): Oh yeah you looked like one of them Islanders, are you Maori or Samoan?

Me: I’m Indo-Fijian.

Him: Oh so you’re not even Fijian?

He didn’t drop it and we ended up talking for a couple more minutes, he was quite persistent trying to get to the bottom of what my heritage is; it was quite invalidating and unsettling.

What was the person like?

Uncomfortably curious, caucasian.

How did/does it make you feel?

I understand that people are genuinely curious and most don’t mean any harm by asking, but sometimes when they ask in an off-tone like that it makes me feel like I don’t belong anywhere. Being mixed is tricky because whichever motherland I visit I feel either to white or too brown, I’m fortunate to live in multicultural Melbourne, and for the most part I feel a sense of belonging, but when those questions are raised I can’t help but feel a little alien.

What connotations do you think the question has and what do you think it says about Australia in terms of the way we understand cultural identity/ nationality?

It can go both ways. I’ve had positive experiences with this question, some relating to me being from the same motherland, but on the more negative side - usually when Caucasians ask - when I’m subjected to this question, on many occasions, I’ve been met with almost their disapproval/disappointment. They tend to reword the same question: ‘where are your parents from’; ‘what is your nationality’, and so on. Because it seems like most cannot fathom the idea that I am from here. Melbourne is such a rich-multicultural collective of people and I understand that some are curious but when the question is targeted directly at me, It’s hard not to feel different.

I hate that it’s this way, but of course the last time I was asked ‘where are you from’ wasn’t too long ago, because if you’ve ever been to a bar, party or any event ever and looked not yt (white), people will go out of their way to approach you and ask that question.

Without any introduction - which isn’t unusual - this girl approached me from behind, interrupting me mid-conversation to ask where I was from. I know what these people mean by the question, but have lately felt defiant in letting anyone ‘out me’ as an ‘outsider’,and so refuse to give up the answer they want.

But no matter how many times I say ‘I’m from Queensland’ or ‘I used to move around between a heap of rural towns growing up’ they will only reword the question again and again until they‘ve no choice but to resign and remark upon my appearance. By this point, feeling exhausted, disappointed and defeated I give out my mixed heritage, and am almost immediately hit with the response I dread the most:

She tells me about South Africa.

Her holiday, her opinions, her knowledge. She questions me about the culture and she questions me about the people, and when I don’t have very much to say she tells me how I should really visit South Africa myself. This is what I dread most about being asked where I’m from.  Not just because of the feeling of being suddenly exposed and ‘othered’ in a social situation that doesn’t recognise these micro-aggressions (nor legitimise any negative response), but because now I’m also being made out to be an ignorant imposter among my ancestry, leaving me to feel alienated, and as though I’ve been stripped of the right to my own heritage.

I am asked variations of ‘where are you from?’ constantly.

Last week I stopped a passerby on the street to ask the time, they said: ‘4.45 and where are you from?’ Days before that I was meeting some friends of friends who asked ‘How's your day been? Oh so Mei, where are you from?’

I've become desensitised to the question  -  it's tiring. It's frustrating that someone needs to place me in a box to engage with me. Their question denotes their understanding of me as an 'other'.

Is being non-caucasian something that causes strangers discomfort? To the extent they need to know my ethnic heritage from the get go? What's the purpose of approaching me in this way? I'd rather ask those questions as a response to ‘where are you from?’

I want white people to learn to question their microaggressions and look into the history and doctrines that has instigated their behaviours. I want them to identify that their entitlement comes from being the default of individualism.

I want whiteness to see how they position people of colour as the opposite to their assumed white identity; whiteness as the one who belongs (as opposed to the one who is from somewhere else); the one who is natural (instead of alien, other, foreign, different).

My preferred answer and my preferred outcome exist in the realm of a daydream, wherein I am not jaded by this weekly event.

In a daydream dealing with this question could be simple. They would ask: ‘where are you from?’ and I could answer ‘why?’ They would be prompted by my question to consider their behaviour and would see how they were positioning non-white people in their social interactions. IRL ‘why?’ only prompts them to become defensive and position me as antagonistic and unlikeable for challenging them.

So at this point my political act is to disengage with their question, to not give them the answer they want and to be literal: ‘I am from Narrm/Melbourne.’

I have not been asked where I’m from in a long time. Not even the milder versions like ‘Where’s that accent from?’ or ‘What’s your background?’ It means my strategy is working. If you check out my Instagram, you’ll find an assortment of photos of me wearing colourful cosplay wigs, authentic vintage Australian clothes, and Australian-made yoga wear – as a daily practise, not just something to do in selfies and photo shoots. These days, the first thing people tend to ask me instead of ‘Where are you from?’ is ‘Is your hair real?’ or ‘Do you go to art school?’

I used to be asked ‘Where are you from?’ a lot. I came to Melbourne from the Philippines as an international student doing a PhD on a scholarship. I’m on the lighter shade of dark and I’ve had long black hair for most of my life. Many people saw me as ‘Asian’, but not always ‘Filipino’. Several people thought I was Russian or South-American.

Because I speak good English but do not have a stereotypical Australian accent. A lot of people presumed I went to an international school, or that I grew up in America. The idea that someone who grew up in an Asian country could speak excellent English was obviously not popular in Australia. Sometimes I say, ‘I’m Spanish on my mother’s side’, which is true. It seems like it should matter, because it mattered enough for my mum to tell me about it. But people tend to obsess over my Asian-ness, especially when they find out I do apparently non-Asian things, like cook pasta, speak English well, pursue acting and modelling and photography, write poetry and do academic research.

‘Where are you from?’ seems like such an innocent question. But it can be confronting, especially for someone who gets asked so frequently. I hate it the most when it’s coming from white men I have never met before. When they give me a long sticky once-over and pop the question, it feels like they’re comparing me to other Asian or dark-skinned girls they’ve had sex with. It feels like they’re trying to figure out if I’m going to be an easy conquest.

To them, Asian girls like me are supposed to be so unambitious that the most exciting thing in our lives is the prospect of sleeping with a mediocre white man who will put in minimal work. Then the minute after I reject their projected fantasies of my availability – they treat me with an iceberg coldness that could bisect a whole fleet of Titanics. Sure, it’s natural to be curious about people you’ve never met but if you’re more interested in where you think or hope I’m from, than who I am and what I’ve done with my life, it’s obvious that you’re more interested in what I can do for your ego than what actually makes me special: the choices I’ve made, the things I’ve done, the dreams I am passionate about, the way I relate to people.

I started wearing wigs last year. I had tried colouring my hair but bleaching my thick black hair took ages, cost heaps, gave me a nasty peroxide burn. I do a lot of high-intensity yoga and shower afterward so I lost the hair colour after a week. Not worth it, I reckoned, and wigs meant I could have any hair length and colour I wanted for so much cheaper. I started wearing Australian vintage clothes after learning that op shops could yield affordable and beautiful finds that look fabulous on my Mediterranean body shape. I didn’t start all of this as an identity project but I soon noticed that people reacted to me differently when they saw my colourful hair and unusual outfits.

These days, conversations no longer start and end with interrogations about my identity. I feel freer to talk about things that mean more to me than birth circumstances I did not choose. I ceased to be just another Asian girl and became a mermaid princess. I still stood out as a visibly different person in the crowd so I still end up in trouble sometimes. But at least this way I don’t have to improvise stories about being a mixed-ancestry person from Hawaii and testing my acting skills on unimaginative people obsessed with race.

I had come to visit my Ma in Newcastle, my home of 12 years before I moved to Sydney. We ordered what was her first Uber and shortly after, a Toyota Camry (of course) arrives. She’s excited. Before you know it, like a typical Nanay, she’d already found an opportunity to tell tales of our family and tedious migration process. I find myself tuning out until I hear him say, “So are you guys from China? Where are you from?”.

I could feel my face burning. I’ve heard this so many times before, this assumption that ‘Asia’ is just some hazy place full of identical people. Somehow it still feels like I’m stuck in time every time I go back.

Being asked where you’re from is othering dressed up as curiosity. A performative interest in your person, to later be met with ifs and buts justifying the contrived version of you they had in their mind. 

Being asked where you’re from is to ask you to take a stance on your in-betweens; an ignorance to the intricacies and complexities of belonging. 

Being asked where you’re from is not about you at all. It’s about them asserting themselves, their privilege, and taking up space that is usually not theirs.