Grace Notes @ Snarkattack

I’ve lived in Australia for most of my life but the question still gets asked and it still irritates me:

What nationality are you?

I look the person dead in the eye and say “British.”

The next question:

Where are you really from?

My mind answers: Fuck off, that’s none of your business. My mouth answers “Oh, my mum is from X and my dad is from Y and they met in Z and had me and my brother. The interrogator at this point looks confused and their interest starts to wane.

One day, I’ll learn to actually verbally tell such nosy parkers to fuck off. Till then, I’ll derive comfort from poems with stanzas like this:

One time I was
At a party. Some guy asked me: What are you, anyway?
I downed my beer. Mexican I said. Really he said, Do You play soccer? No I said but I drink Tequila. He smiled
At me, That's cool. I smiled back So what are you? What do you think I am he said. An asshole I said. People
Hate you when you're right. Especially if you're Mexican.

(an excerpt from Benjamin Alire Saenz’s Confessions: My Father, Hummingbirds, and Franz Fanon)

I like words. They help us hide who we really are (if we choose).