Why I’m not offended when people ask me where I’m ‘really’ from...

We’ve been trained to think that simple expressions of interest have a secret hidden motive, writes Giorgia Ambo. But in the real world, that isn’t always true...

I find it a great deal more exhausting when people don’t ask, and make incorrect assumptions as a result (Getty Images/iStockphoto)

While waitressing in Covent Garden, my first and last customers of the day had one thing in common. Not their love of London, or fine cuisine, but their burning curiosity about where I’m from… originally.

“I just love your whole…”, trailing off, a young mother began waving her hands in circles around me at the till. “You’re just beautiful!” Flattery gets you far. “So, where is your family from?”

I’ve consumed endless media that tells me this question is outrageous. Recently, Forbes deemed it “not-so-subtle racism” and Glamour Magazine nicknamed it the “where are you from bomb”, even likening it to harassment. As one of the only people of colour in my school classrooms, in a predominately white neighbourhood, I understand that the constant explanation of your identity can feel othering, even exhausting at times.

However, I find it a great deal more exhausting when people don’t ask, and make incorrect assumptions as a result; like expecting me to be able to explain the ingredients of jollof rice, a West African dish that I have never made or eaten.

My father’s family is from the Caribbean, my mother’s family is Middle Eastern-Italian, and I was born and raised in Berkshire.

As I moved away from the till and back into the kitchen, my colleague tentatively tried the question again, “I know you’re probably from London, but where are you from originally?” The belief that this query must be prefaced with some sort of disclaimer reveals just how successfully we have manufactured something completely normal and natural into a touchy subject.

Intentions ought to be considered, as painting everyone who asks this with the same broad brush can be deeply harmful. The assumption that this question always comes from xenophobic “Karens”, who feel perplexed and perturbed at the sight of a brown person is simply mythology. Perhaps to the surprise of those fed that tired, recycled narrative, everyone who asked me that day actually came from foreign backgrounds themselves: the mother explained she was visiting the UK from Saudi Arabia, my colleague is originally from Poland, and finally an elderly Swiss man said: “I have to ask before I leave – what is your heritage?” He was direct, funny, and utterly refreshing. When I explained it was the third time I’d been asked that day, he added, “And it won’t be the last!”

The idea that heritage and ethnicity shouldn’t be spoken about (or at least, only on the down-low) seems to be a distinctly English mentality. It’s about as English as Miranda Hart and her on-screen mother cautiously mouthing the word “sex” for fear of being overheard. Sex, heritage, ethnicity – all terribly awkward, aren’t they?

But, after being asked, my reaction was a mixture of surprise and huge relief – relief primarily at these individuals presenting me the chance to have a normal conversation about my heritage, and in turn learn about theirs (a refreshing alternative to the well-meaning, but unhelpful, “I don’t see colour” remarks).

Upon learning I had roots in Dominica, the Swiss gentleman said, “Oh, with the little parrot on the flag.” The bird that bonded us was the Imperial Amazon, Dominica’s national bird, with a dark purple plumage, which is sadly now a critically endangered species. The island’s national flag is one of only four to contain purple, alongside El Salvador, Spain, and Nicaragua’s barely noticeable hints. Most get it confused with the Dominican Republic, an island in the Caribbean’s Greater Antilles, over 60 times as big. “No, I’m not uncultured like them!” came his defence, with a chuckle and a wink. Finding these points of connection with strangers in unexpected settings across races, ages, genders, and circumstances is one of the things that delights me most about being human.

Conversations like this shouldn’t be exceptional. Unfortunately, most aren’t as well-informed as our Swiss friend, but perhaps more could be if they had these kinds of discussions regularly. Imagine a world, if you dare, where multiculturalism isn’t a skeleton in the closet, immigration is a topic that needn’t be nervously skirted around, and we stopped kidding ourselves that Britain is homogeneous.

Then, perhaps we’d really be on to something – something as rare and as lovely as a little purple parrot, encircled in stars.