Where Are You From?

For me, this is one of the hardest questions to answer. These days, I try to make my answer as simple as possible. I’m American. 

Usually, the next question is: Where is your hometown? I usually say something like ‘Cincinnati’ or ‘My family lives in Kentucky and Ohio.’

The reason that I approach this question with caution is because it’s complicated! When my simple answers aren’t accepted, I’m forced to dive into my life story. Even though I’m American, I don’t really have any true roots or a place that still has space for me in the USA. Of course, I can always crash with family or sometimes a friend, but I have no place of my own or a hull that I can easily fit back into if I return to any of the places I’ve lived. 

My whole life I’ve moved around a lot. I have been living out of a few bags for the past 16 years of my life as I’ve lived and traveled outside of my home country. Even before that, I lived in six different places as I grew up. After being born in Adana, Turkey my father’s job moved us to Michigan, North Dakota, Texas, back to North Dakota, South Dakota, and Ohio all before I graduated high school. I attended seven different schools before university. The place I had lived the longest was Cincinnati for my four years at college and the three years following graduation. I also reached seven years for my stints in Istanbul, albeit non-consecutive. So, there is a tie for the two places I’ve lived the longest. In the grand scheme of things seven years isn’t necessarily long nor can it encompass my origins.

Along my childhood journey, I had the confidence from growing up in a white middle class family.  At some points we were struggling with money and those years formed my weird relationship with money (a concept for later). I was a good student and internalized the idea that I could be anything I wanted to be when I grew up. I worked hard in school and maintained a job since I was 14 years old. Ultimately, the white working-class mentality was instilled upon me since my youth. This identity by osmosis is still present in my life and always will be, but you wouldn’t necessarily know it by looking at me. 

For first time introductions, this is quite a mouthful to explain. Most of my first meetings will end in less than five minutes and unpacking that much of my personal history is honestly unnecessary. Additionally, most times this question is just to quench someone’s curiosity and not really attempt to understand who you are or where you come from. I’m not discrediting curiosity but most of the time it’s emotionally labor intensive. I notice that people are not satisfied with simple answers sometimes, especially when you’re brown. I’m not awarded the anonymity that others are when racial or ethnic origins are involved. By this, I mean if I were white and said that I was American it would be enough. Most white folks volunteer their own percentages of European lineage but most people aren’t interested in their ancestral journey. My melanin magnifies that otherness in my identity and most strangers aren’t satisfied with my simple answer, “I’m American.”

Growing up, I always told my friends that I’m Turkish and I’m adopted. That explanation was easy enough. Most Americans are a bit used to some forms of mixed identities and the concept of adoption is not so taboo. However, in other places, the same can’t be said. For example in the USA if I say that I’m adopted, people might respond “Oh, that’s cool.” In Turkey, if I say that I’m adopted they say, “That’s sad. Do you know your biological family? Have you ever tried to find them? You should try to find them! I’m sure they wonder about you.” My palm reflexively hits my face. Can’t it be enough for me to share a bit of my identity with someone without having their commentary or follow up raw and invasive questions? Why am I obligated to reveal the holes in my life to random people and carry their baggage on the topic too?

When I first moved to Turkey and people asked me where I was from, I would say that I’m American but originally from Turkey. I felt more compelled to assert that part of my identity in my motherland. Finally, I had a place to put that pride I’d carried as my crown of difference. The question that follows “Is your mother or your father Turkish?” I’m adopted. I grew up in the USA. “Where were you born?” Adana. “Oh, your father was a soldier.” Yes, that’s right. These questions hyphenated my identity and I felt the borders drawn at my feet before I could understand what was happening. I was negotiating and renegotiating my identity internally and externally it made these conversations more complicated. It forced me to actually split my identity markers even more and it made me feel a bit untethered. Could I even call myself Turkish not knowing Turkish enough past simple conversations, not having grown up with Turkish meals or the vague presence of Islam in my home?

I’ve always said that I’m an alien in my home country and my homeland. Luckily, I’m an adaptive alien. As aspects of my origin are rather unique, it’s isolating being the one-off/stand-alone/exception. Where do you find your community and tribe in those cases? It’s a difficult and endless journey but helps keep me grounded when I find anyone in a similar situation. This is why I don’t lament my otherness. I am unique and I have a special perspective. It is why I connect the most with others who have been marginalized. There is more moxie in interactions among us marginalized; we seem to grant more patience and agency to each other in exposing our origins.

When people look at me and ask me where I’m from, they mostly want to know why are you brown? Where is your melanin from? Shortest possible full-exposure answer: I was born in Turkey and I’m adopted. I grew up all over the states with my white American family. Is it enough?