With youthful dreams and a hopeful heart, I migrated to the United States as a teenager, envisioning a brighter future. As time trickled by, my longing for my birthplace started to fade, replaced by a growing sense of belonging in this newfound land, America. Yet, a single question often shatters this comfortable illusion: “Where are you from?”
In response, a maelstrom of conflicted emotions invariably sweeps over me. Whenever I venture outside of Utah, my present sanctuary, I find myself automatically answering, “Utah,” when interrogated about my origins. This place has imprinted its essence onto my identity, morphing me in unforeseen ways. However, this wasn’t always the case. In my early years of American life spent in Baltimore, the word “Baltimore” would instinctively tumble from my lips upon being posed the same question.
Yet, often, this simplistic answer doesn’t satiate the curiosity of some. The query gets rephrased: “No, where are you ‘really’ from?” That adverb, “really,” comes loaded with implications that are difficult to digest. It insinuates that my initial response was inadequate, that the enquirer anticipates something more. A hushed racial undertone veils the inquiry, suggesting that I am an alien in their sight, that I don’t truly belong.
Such experiences tend to make me feel like an eternal outsider. As a Nepalese immigrant, I find myself not entirely conforming to the norms of the Nepalese diaspora that perpetuates a firm grip on our heritage. I’ve morphed, matured, and perhaps, my emotional connection to Nepal isn’t as entrenched as some might expect. Simultaneously, within the American context, I am an immigrant, a foreigner, an outsider. Striving to assimilate into both worlds, I frequently question whether I genuinely fit into either.
This results in an ongoing internal dialogue, probing my self-identity and sense of belonging. Have I morphed into an American aspirant, disconnected from my Nepalese lineage? Or am I doomed to perpetual foreigner status, never fully integrated in this adopted land? The deeper I delve, the more I recognize my identity as a convoluted mosaic, interlaced with cultural facets, experiences, and sentiments. I don’t precisely conform to any single label, and perhaps, that’s the beauty of it.
My existence, it seems, is an unending dance of shifting identities, a continuous journey of navigating the labyrinth of immigrant existence. Hence, the next time I’m asked, “Where are you ‘really’ from?” I’ll draw a deep breath, offer a serene smile, and say, “I am a product of everywhere and nowhere simultaneously. It’s this tapestry of experiences that defines me.”