“Where are you from?”
“I’m British.”
“No, but where are you from?”
He looks at me as if I should know a secret code.
“I’m British,” I repeat.
Perhaps he didn’t hear me.
“I’m a creator, always seeking...
Weaving stories... chasing dreams...”
Oh, man... did I just liken myself to Willy Wonka? That “We are the dreamers of dreams” quote springs to mind.
“No, where are you REALLY from?”
I see the frustration building,
Bubbling over.
He needs a box
To fit me in,
A label to ease his doubts.
Born in London,
Childhood in Mississippi,
Pascagoula’s Blues in my veins,
Back to the Union Jack as I grew.
“I’m British,” I insist.
How long must this game
Of waltz and sidestep drag on?
The tune is flat, repetitive.
I know these lyrics,
I know this music coda,
This song of otherness.
“Aaah, fair enough, so what’s your faith?”
“From my father’s side: Egyptian Muslims.
Mother’s side: Church of England Christians.
A Swedish grandmother, born in Jerusalem,
My American Hawaiian family: Catholic.
Mississippi kin, stepdad, born-again Christian,”
DNA unveils strands of Ashkenazi Jewish heritage,
A rich mosaic of history, silent stories embedded deep within.
Younger Southern Black school, charismatic songs soared,
Dr MLK Jr morning assemblies, on video repeat.
An Egyptian Muslim father, whom I met later in life,
Confessing he prefers Jewish friends, Temple Fortune his chosen refuge from strife.
It feels like a robot, repeating the same script,
Answering pre-ordained questions that never evolve.
The man looks overwhelmed, regretting his inquiry.
“And my mother’s grandmother, Scottish by birth,
Though her lineage doesn’t appear in my DNA,
Her Celtic legacy still courses through my story,
A reminder of rugged highlands and ancestral pride.”
“I believe we all see the same art through different eyes,
Each interpretation unique,
A kaleidoscope of perspectives,
Shaped by our histories, our souls’ lenses.”
“Soooo, you don’t believe in anything? You’re confused?”
“No… I do.”
“Okay... So, how do you like identify your ethnicity?”
He thinks I don’t know myself, like a child struggling to choose a single sweet from a shop- why must it be just one?
I should feel privileged they even ask; others don’t have that luxury, but it doesn’t feel that way. It feels as if my identity must be confined and simplified for their comfort.
“Mixed,” I reply.
My mind wanders.. I mean, aren’t we all though? Go ask Mitochondrial Eve- why is he asking me?
My DNA reveals Swedish, Italian,North African, Middle Eastern,
Kenyan Maasai, Nigerian, Ashkenazi Jewish,
A blend of cultures, histories intertwined,
A testament to the world’s vast diversity.
In me flows the legacy of many lands,
A story of migrations and unions,
Of ancient foes and allies,
Of faiths and traditions,
Each strand a part of who I am,
A complex atonal symphony,
Harmonising the past and present in my veins.
Yet, on diversity forms, I tick "Mixed Other,"
A box that confines my essence.
How can such a box capture my full identity?
I yearn for an Alien box- an E.T. other, that’s a good ‘other’, (he was cool).
A chameleon, changing colours, mixed blends, a shapeshifter with solid roots.
I’m so immersed in my otherness I wouldn’t know how to be anything else. I wouldn’t know how to act without being an ‘other’ now.
Why must an artist be limited to just one colour in his palette? What a curious question, I think.
Flowers and animals do not ask these questions to each other I ponder. Only humans.
Reducing rich histories to mere squares on a page,
The stories that make us whole, fragmented and questioning.
I am a tapestry: Though not Filipino by blood, my Hawaiian family is,
And their love and heritage are woven into me- am I Filipino through love as well?
I have English family, Arab family, North African family, American family
A blend of islands and continents, histories and cultures-
In the end, I am British, yes, but so much more:
A living testament to humanity’s shared story,
A mosaic of experiences, a bridge between worlds.
So when you ask, “Where are you really from?”
Know that the answer is as intricate as it is simple:
I am from here,
there, and
everywhere,
A global citizen, shaped by countless hands,
Yet standing 'British' on British soil.
You can't take that away from me. You can't erase my 'Britishness'.
I know the value of a Tesco Meal Deal.
Forgive me if my identity defies simple categorisation,
You will have to tolerate the richness of diversity,
A celebration of the complexity of human experience.
“Where am I really from?” I ask.
“I am from the tapestry of humanity,” I say,
Woven with threads from across the globe,
A unique pattern
In the grand design of our shared story.”
He looks at me, trying to discern if I am sane or on something.
I know what's next.
Out of courtesy, I know the next question is bound by strict manners to follow with:
“Now, where are YOU from and what do you believe?” I ask.
“Me?" He says, acting genuinely surprised.
"I’m from Scarborough, name’s James, agnostic.”
“Awesome, nice to meet you, James.” I reply
And like that we start talking about how awful the weather is.
The cycle continues.
~X.Helmi
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