"Yes, But What Are You?"

Ethnicities are in aisle four next to the socks.

“Are you from Lebanon?”

The old man and his wife, behind me in line at the dollar store, asked me this question with no provocation.

He hadn’t heard my Arabic first name or my vaguely Mexican last name, a combination that normally causes the listener to tilt their head, squint, and ponder my ethnic background.

He hadn’t caught a view of my license.

I was in leggings and a track jacket on my way to yoga so there was nothing in my dress to indicate I wasn’t just a...woman in clothes on her way to somewhere.

I cheerfully replied, “Oh no! I’m from here! I’m American: born and raised!”

Then it happened. The thing that always happens when I say, “I’m American!” (or Mexican-American depending on how into this I want to get) - he didn’t believe me.


The old man proceeded to rattle off every European and Mediterranean country he could think and I declined each one. He asked about Greece, Italy, and Algeria (he must have been watching a lot of World Cup). Plus a few more countries I tuned out. His wife began to chime in - perhaps she was tired of the exchange and wanted to be on her way.

After a bit I told him he would never guess and revealed I was ethnically Mexican. I bid them a good day and left the store: just another day as an EAG- Ethnically Ambiguous Girl.

My ethnicity has been called into question more times than I can count. It was being questioned even before I could answer for myself or had an awareness of race or nationality.

My mother likes to tell this story (I may have told it already on the blog but you can read it again!): One day we were at a store. I must have been about four or five years old. There were a few traditionally dressed Indian women in the same aisle as us. My mom called my name and she noticed their heads snap up and they began to look around for a “Samina.” She said they stared at me as I walked by: a pale child, with brown hair, brown eyes, and enormous glasses.

There is nothing remarkable about my features. I’m not ethnically ambiguous in a hip, exotic way as described in this NY Times article from 2003.  I look like Daria Morgendorffer and like Daria if it wasn’t for my loud mouth I’d blend into the wallpaper.

At dinner I relayed the event to David. While David chose to ponder why it always seems to be the Baby Boomer generation and older who bluntly question others about their ethnicity I laughed it off as another mark for my bingo card. I’ve already filled the squares for Jewish, Japanese, and even a bonus square for New York City. Now, thanks to the old man, I think I’ve almost filled my card!

I guess once the card is filled I’ll scream “Bingo!” into the great void and I will never have another existential crisis.  I’ll never pause when asked: “What are you?”