My face lit up with a big smile. I closed my eyes to enjoy breathing in and breathing out the fresh humid morning air of a sunny day in a large meadow close to my house in Seattle. Everything felt happy and exuberant.
A cute middle-aged couple was walking in my direction. “It is a very beautiful day to be out and about,” the woman with bright silver hair said. “Yes, indeed,” I replied. “It’s such a beautiful day to be out. I would say that it is a capital sin to stay indoors,” I said with my non-native English accent. “May I ask where you are from?” the woman asked. “From here, the United States,” I replied.
Where are you originally from?
Sensing what was coming next, I started walking away, trying to avoid further conversation. I already regretted adding extra flavor to the short comment that the woman said. As I expected, she asked the question that I was allergic to. “I mean, where are you originally from,” she asked.
As long as we consume the stories of people like me, with unfamiliar accents, whose stories have been told by white Europeans, we don’t leave a space to question our basis, do we?
“With all due respect,” I said calmly and kindly, “I’ve never liked the kind of question you just asked. When someone hears me and insists on knowing where I’m “originally” from,” (I raised both of my hands now, curled fingers around my head to indicate a quotation mark) “I get upset. I have never had my Chinese, Indian, or Hispanic friends ask me the same question. Only people with white privilege ask the question. The question makes me feel alienated. Make me feel that I do not belong here in this space.” I said.
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” she said. “I know hon,” I replied. “You just asked a simple, curious question. It’s me. I’m allergic to the questions you just asked.” I said. “May I suggest what to say next time, when you hear a non-native speaker talking with you?” I said. “Yes,” she said. “Please try to sit with your discomfort. You can talk about yourself if you really would like to open a conversation. You can say that there is a very nice coffee shop up the hill, we are going to go there. By the way, there is a nice coffee shop up the hill in the North direction,” I said, trying to lighten up the conversation. “Oh, OK, I’ll try,” she said.
We said goodbyes and departed.
As I continued walking in that gorgeous meadow, I kept wondering about the white privilege. Everything seemed alright in our initial interaction when we stayed with the weather and general ideas. As soon as she entered my space, I felt defensive. But, did I react aggressively? Is she upset now, or has she forgotten about our conversation? Why am I still thinking about the conversation? Am I angry?
Marco Polo and Ibn Battuta
In a way, I am under the influence of a book I’m reading. I’m planning to interview Shahnaz Habib, author of Airplane Mode: An Irreverent History of Travel. In this gorgeous and timely book, Habib keeps reminding us about the body of written travel narratives created by white travelers. She tells us about Marco Polo’s adventure when he, along with his dad and uncle, narrowly escaped “highway brigands and taking advantage of the caravanserai network established by Muslim kings” …. Their names are household names, not because this is a major achievement, but because of the European investment in the idea of the first European to reach “other places.” (page 143).
Then, Habib talks about Inb Battuta, beloved Muslim travel writer and historian. “He survives brigands, kidnapping, wars, shipwrecks, pirates, starvation and disease.” (page 159). Ibn Battuta’s travel book includes 29 years of traveling through 40 countries on the modern map, covering 75,000 miles and getting as far east as China and as far south as Tanzania.
Yet, how much have we heard about Ibn Battuta?
As long as we consume the stories of people like me, with unfamiliar accents, whose stories have been told by the people like white European Marco Polo, we don’t leave a space to question our basis, do we?
Deep inside, I was happy to have a nice and civil conversation with a stranger. I knew I might have irritated the silver-haired woman a little. But at least I explained my point of view. I felt grateful for her attention.
Please Pledge to Our Peace Journalism.
Goltune is editorially independent. We set our agenda. No one edits our editors. No one steers our opinion. This is important as it enables us to stay true to our values.
Every contribution we receive from readers like you, big or small, goes directly into funding our journalism. Please support Goltune, large or small.
Send your contributions to our PayPal account: [email protected]
Or, Click the link to pledge your support.
Thank you,
Goltune Editorial Team