“I am an American. I was born and raised here,” says a vendor at a health food store in Evanston, IL. “Now, where is your home?”
I looked at the man who had been kind enough to search through the entire store for some biodegradable products for me. His question jolted me out of my familiar environment. I have barely been back home a month and already the irritating question, “You have a cute accent. Where are you from?”
Yes I have an unusual accent; not quite Midwest American, not quite British, mixed with strong French intonations. But then again, everybody has a peculiar accent; whether you’re from New England or Georgia.
The United States is my home. It’s annoying to have to remind fellow Americans about it. It seems that the only Americans who get it right are the immigration officers at the airport. They say, “Welcome home!” when I present my green card. I love hearing it, because, after hours of traveling, I am exhausted and look forward to getting home and putting my feet up.
I look at the nice vendor in Evanston. He is still waiting for me to tell him. Today, I am in no mood to be playful and turn his question into a geography game. Maybe I should just tell him the truth…
My Dad is Canadian, my mother is dead and my siblings’ nationalities run the gamut across the world. I have been living in the Chicagoland area all my adult life. Having sought asylum in the U.S., I technically have no citizenship.
In a couple of years, I will apply for a new citizenship. Maybe it will make things easier to reply to the nice vendor:
“I am an American like you. Born and raised in the Democratic Republic of Congo.”
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