Where Are You From?

Where are you from?

It seems like such a benign question. It's one of those questions you ask during the first uncomfortable minutes of small talk when you're trying to seem friendly but not nosey. "The weather's been [insert adjective] lately, huh?" "How do you know [insert friend/acquaintance/host of event]?" or "What do you do?" (although I think that this last one goes into dangerous territory requiring nuanced delivery as to not seem douchy or like you're trying to figure out how important they are). But "Where are you from?" is a loaded question when you're an Asian American woman. At best, it's some benign middle-aged couple who has an interest in traveling and Oriental art. On the other end of the spectrum, it's some rice chasing frat boy who has visions of school girl outfits. I'm not the first to talk about this phenomenon. Lela Lee came on the scene in 1998 with her short film "angry little asian girl, first day of school" and her blog and comic continue to be popular. Anna from Sepia Mutiny has a great post about her run-in's with other immigrants who "WAYF" her and how she bristles at the question. As for me, I think that having been in the restaurant industry for more than a decade adds a slightly different slant (pun intended) to WAYF situations.

Once, while I was a server at a trendy Pan-Asian restaurant I got the "Where are you from?" followed by "What is your name?"

"Karen."

"No, I mean your real name."

I did a double take. They were somewhere in the middle of the mal-intent spectrum. They were a group of middle-aged white folk, the men were slightly balding, their belts squeezing their middles upwards so that the crater of their belly buttons were slightly visible through their shirts. The women had their traveling clothes on, button down shirts in pastel colors, hair glued into place with aerosol hairspray.

Now, we're in an awkward situation. I could act like a human being and say "Karen" again firmly, but they're going to see how offended and appalled I am, and either be really uncomfortable for the rest of their dinner or decide that I'm rude and tip me nothing. Now, I want to own up to something here. I have another name, a Chinese name. It's on my birth certificate along with Karen. But the insinuation that "Karen" wasn't my real name, to assume that it was some sort of fictitious character made up to allow me to "blend in" with English speakers was appalling. I wasn't shaking my ass on a pole and telling them my name is "Cherry Blossom," why is "Karen" so unbelievable as a name? I couldn't force myself to give them what they wanted.

I'd like to say that I straightened my spine and asked them what the fuck their real names were, how the fuck their Winnebago handled and gave them some tips for getting rid of those extra 60 pounds, but I didn't. I smiled and with my best " I'm not a scary foreigner but just an LA Valley girl" voice and said, "Oh no, it's really just Karen."

I'm not saying that WAYF situations are always malicious or even insulting. They are mostly awkward and confusing, blended throughout with misunderstanding and feet in mouths. There's usually a little ignorance, but no purposeful inflection of pain. However, there is usually an imbalance of power (and I'm not even talking about the incendiary issue of American racial politics). I mean, when your boss, or teacher, or boyfriend's parents WAYF's you, there's power involved. You are limited in your response both by civility and by real consequences. This is true for every single customer that walks into the restaurant where you work. It's just part of the business. Not everyone gets to be satisfied with the interaction. There won't be any learning of racial sensitivity.

I've been asked "Where are you from?" dozens of times. You'd think that I'd be used to it, that I wouldn't bristle with resentment and drip indignation. Sometimes, I feel like I have grown kinder and more understanding. I even answered with sincerity when a man accosted me in Rainbow Grocery yesterday asking for advice on stir-frying. But there's this movie I play in my head, of my small fist connecting with sculpted jaw, of lips bouncing and jerking across teeth as spit flies out of mouth. I'm smiling and there is applause. I play this scene in my head whenever I remember the Marina scum frat boy who actually touched my face and asked "Where do I get a hot Asian babe like you?"