Where are you from, from? One of the most triggering questions ever asked. The reason why it’s triggering is because when you say these words, you are instantly implying to the person who hears them that they are an ‘other’ and that as an ‘other’ they can’t possibly be part of the fabric of the society you are part of. This is an assumption which is quite excluding.
Get it?
Best to just stick to saying where in [insert country / city / town / district you are in at the time] are you from? This, I think, will help stop a lot of triggering situations from happening and may start new friendships. It’s also a lot more inclusive and a good way to use one’s privilege.
As an immigrant from Jamaica, when I’m asked where I’m from this is where my mind often goes to…me walking up to an orange tree, picking the warm ripe fruit off the branch, peeling the skin back with my fingers and eating it. I was only about seven or eight at the time. I lived in a small blue house on the hill in St. Ann, Jamaica, surrounded by countless fruit trees including grapefruit, tangerine, oranges, cherries, limes, coconuts, and avocados.
The view from our home was of tropical greenery for miles, dotted with a few similar houses with their own kitchen veg gardens. Larger fields were also carved out by local farmers who tended to their yams, bananas, sweet potatoes and sensimilla-filled plots looked on by cows, goats or donkeys.
Us kids were in paradise, although we didn’t know it at the time. We would go foraging in the woods for hours, after finishing our daily home-life duties. This sometimes meant killing a chicken and prepping it for the night’s dinner. We would follow the path set before by farmers, picking and eating fruit along the way. All we would take was a cooking pot and our slingshots.
We’d always end at the local river where we would spend hours jumping off mini waterfalls, into the deep below, surrounded by large bulging rocks! To this day, I still can’t believe we didn’t bust-up our heads on those rocks. I think the only health-and-safety advice given by our parents then was “don’t go into the caves and watch out for sinkholes.” Not sure there were any sinkholes nearby, but the thought of falling into one kept us on our toes, as did running into the odd snake!
After hours at the river, and once we were soaked to our bones, we would catch the last of the evening sun to dry our clothes as we walked home. This was a journey we made every evening, especially in the summer, and sometimes after school. The next day we did it all over again. It was glor-i-ous!
Yes, I do realize that I have just shared what I believe is a very privileged early-years-childhood. What is your real privilege?
Is Jamaica still glor-i-ous? Yes, it is.
Where in the world are you from? I’m curious to know.
Best wishes,
Sherry Collins
