Do not ask me where I am from because I will only disappoint you. You will look at my brown skin and imagine that I am from a far off dusty region of the world where women dress in jangly clothing and speak in exotic tongues.
Do not ask me where I am from because when I tell you I was born in a suburban town to suburban parents in one of the richest neighborhoods of the country, you will ask me where I am “really” from. As though I am not from my soccer mom and hockey dad and Halloween-loving neighborhood.
Do not ask me where I am from because you will get angry when I tell you that I went to a classic American Prep school where I played lacrosse against Kennedys. I studied Latin and French and learned how the American elite act.
Do not ask me where I am from because I am from a New England falls with indecisive trees and New York City winters with dressed up windows. I am from the sharp smell of incoming snow storms and an absolute distrust of any warm weather. I am from American sports and Manhattan accents.
Do not ask me where I am from because I am as American as one can be, even though my parents are not from here. Even though I worship a god who has an elephant head and my comfort food is a dosa. Even though I will always love Bollywood over Hollywood and curry over casserole, I am eligible to be President of the United States.
I am the daughter of immigrants and I come from a history of hard work. No one can send me back to where I came from because I came from the sand lands which gave us our founding fathers and mothers and gender non-binary bad-ass revolutionaries.
Ask me where I am from and I will answer with where I am going.