In recent years, there has been growing public awareness of a problematic question immigrants and the children of immigrants commonly receive in the West: “Where are you from?” Regardless of intent, this question can alienate others, reducing their identity to the assumptions of the person who asked. It can also emphasize unequal power dynamics: when a white person specifically asks a person of color where they are from; it implies the latter is perpetually an outsider and never quite belongs.

I have received this question countless times while at the University of Massachusetts – when speaking to a classmate for the first time, on dating apps and even when taking care of children for a family. Strangely enough what I noticed was that it was mostly people of my ethnic background asking the question. The fact that we shared demographics didn’t make my reservations or discomfort go away. I dislike the implications of the question regardless, but especially when asked by those within my cultural community.

I am South Asian. Within the Indian subcontinent, regions and/or states are both formally and socially associated with a specific language. But this does not mean every person from a specific part of the subcontinent must speak the language associated with that region. And this is exactly my families’ situation. Where they live in South Asia does not reflect the ‘expected’ languages spoken at home. When I answer the initial “Where are you from?” the response goes a little something like: “You’re from this city – then you speak [the language they expected]?” My answer tends to stump people.

There’s also the assumption that my family and I only speak one non-English language, or just our mother tongue in addition to English. This is quite ridiculous considering South Asia’s vast linguistic diversity. These assumptions overlook the fact that migration exists and is not by any means a purely modern phenomenon; people have migrated around the Indian subcontinent throughout history. I have two mother tongues and fortunately have been able to understand other South Asian languages because both my families live in cosmopolitan cities and learned the local language.

After being asked the same question repeatedly, I’ve accepted that I’m not really being asked where I or my families live, but what languages I speak and therefore what seemingly uniform culture I belong to.

When I reluctantly share my mother tongues with those of my ethnic background, I notice their enthusiasm fluctuating according to how well my answer conforms to their expectations. If they find that we share a common language, they seem more excited to continue the conversation. And of course, there are clear benefits to sharing roots with someone else. It could allow one to connect and bond over things others may not be able to easily understand. But these alone are not determinants for quality relationships. Specifically seeking out those who have demographic similarities to us places constraints on our relationships and it might even exclude people from our lives who could be wonderful friends.

And this is the heart of the problem I have with the question ‘Where are you from?’ Challenging this question matters because it is a refusal to allow our relationships to be defined by arbitrary similarities and unfounded assumptions. At its heart, this question impacts our relationships with others and ourselves. Perhaps unconsciously, we commodify and leverage our social identities hoping others will want to be our friends based on our answer. These interpersonal interactions lead to a world in which we tolerate the fragmentation of our communities because we can’t bear to see and love our differences.

There’s many philosophical concepts that reflect some part of what I’m describing, one of which is Édouard Glissant’s concept of “opacity” as discussed in his groundbreaking book, “Poetics of Relation.” Opacity refers to a lack of transparency. Essentially he argues that one does not need to grasp someone else’s entirety to be in solidarity with them; one may instead remain opaque. He writes, “This same opacity is also the force that drives every community: the thing that would bring us together forever and make us permanently distinctive.” Opacity, or not disclosing, can illuminate our uniqueness as we engage with our communities.

Imagine a world in which we applied this way of being to ourselves. These are the questions here: what if we allowed people to share parts of their culture, faith or mother tongue on their terms, rather than coaxing it out of them?

I love my mother tongues, but I don’t think they should define the strength of my relationships in this beautifully diverse world. What about you?

Medha Mankekar can be reached at [email protected].