Anchor ads are not supported on this page.

4S Ranch Allied Gardens Alpine Baja Balboa Park Bankers Hill Barrio Logan Bay Ho Bay Park Black Mountain Ranch Blossom Valley Bonita Bonsall Borrego Springs Boulevard Campo Cardiff-by-the-Sea Carlsbad Carmel Mountain Carmel Valley Chollas View Chula Vista City College City Heights Clairemont College Area Coronado CSU San Marcos Cuyamaca College Del Cerro Del Mar Descanso Downtown San Diego Eastlake East Village El Cajon Emerald Hills Encanto Encinitas Escondido Fallbrook Fletcher Hills Golden Hill Grant Hill Grantville Grossmont College Guatay Harbor Island Hillcrest Imperial Beach Imperial Valley Jacumba Jamacha-Lomita Jamul Julian Kearny Mesa Kensington La Jolla Lakeside La Mesa Lemon Grove Leucadia Liberty Station Lincoln Acres Lincoln Park Linda Vista Little Italy Logan Heights Mesa College Midway District MiraCosta College Miramar Miramar College Mira Mesa Mission Beach Mission Hills Mission Valley Mountain View Mount Hope Mount Laguna National City Nestor Normal Heights North Park Oak Park Ocean Beach Oceanside Old Town Otay Mesa Pacific Beach Pala Palomar College Palomar Mountain Paradise Hills Pauma Valley Pine Valley Point Loma Point Loma Nazarene Potrero Poway Rainbow Ramona Rancho Bernardo Rancho Penasquitos Rancho San Diego Rancho Santa Fe Rolando San Carlos San Marcos San Onofre Santa Ysabel Santee San Ysidro Scripps Ranch SDSU Serra Mesa Shelltown Shelter Island Sherman Heights Skyline Solana Beach Sorrento Valley Southcrest South Park Southwestern College Spring Valley Stockton Talmadge Temecula Tierrasanta Tijuana UCSD University City University Heights USD Valencia Park Valley Center Vista Warner Springs

Fromness

Barbarella
Barbarella

To me, it seems a dreadful indignity to have a soul controlled by geography. — George Santayana

‘Where are you from?” It was a simple question. But the way Jane stared back at the guy, you’d think he’d asked her to recite Title III of the Patriot Act. I knew how she felt, though not to the extent she felt it. After all, my older sister had three cities on me — she was born in Brooklyn, attended preschool in Pensacola and Corpus Christi, Texas (where Heather was born), grade school in San Diego (where Jenny and I were born) and Adak, Alaska, junior high and high school in Newport, Rhode Island, and then back in San Diego, where she and the rest of us graduated from Bonita Vista High, near the town in which my parents chose to settle, in the county in which we all currently live. Considering the involved answer, Jane’s reticence made sense. We were at a coffee shop; the guy’s question was the kind of small talk someone makes when his own thoughts have become tedious and he happens to be sitting next to a couple of friendly looking women.

As the silence stretched to its breaking point, I jumped in to assist. “You mean do we live around here?” The guy nodded. “No, I live in Hillcrest, and Jane here lives in Allied Gardens, which is north of the College Area,” I explained in an insipid tone. There was an implicit understanding that this coffee shop chitchat was a one-off deal; the principal motive for this man’s speaking to us at all was to pass the time, so I had difficulty mustering enough energy for anything more than basic civility.

The thirtysomething fellow told us he was from Alaska (which explained the robust, ruddy, understated hunk look). Jane and I perked up at this common denominator, but the conversation reached an impasse when he revealed he hailed from a city on the mainland, whereas we had lived on one of the tiniest and farthest-flung Aleutian Islands. Uninterested in prolonging the halfhearted exchange with a random we’d never see again, Jane and I politely withdrew.

Sponsored
Sponsored

“I hate when people ask me that question,” Jane said as we were bidding each other goodbye in the parking lot. “I never know what to say.”

“Yeah, it’s a tough one,” I said. “I usually say I’m from San Diego because I’ve lived here the longest, but that doesn’t seem completely honest.”

Later that evening, I selected a bottle of wine from the cupboard while David whipped up a simple dinner of eggs, Hungarian sausage, and spicy paprika. My man is American born and bred, but both of his parents spent their initial 20 years of life in Hungary before escaping to America during the Hungarian Revolution in 1956. David may not be “from” Hungary, the way I am not “from” New York, but his Hungarian roots are unquestionable when one considers his cumulative usage of paprika.

David refilled my glass, and I set down my fork and looked at him. “Where are you from?” His expression served to remind me that he’d not been privy to the line of thinking that had led me to voice the question, so I elaborated. “I mean, when people ask you, what do you say?”

“I feel like I’m not really from anywhere, in a way,” David said. “But I usually say Boston because that’s where I went to high school.”

“Not from anywhere? Doesn’t that make you feel like you’re missing some sense of self?”

I knew David had been born in Baltimore and that his family moved to Chicago when he was a baby, and they moved to Boston when he was a sophomore in high school. Because he’s most familiar with Boston, where his parents settled for a while before permanently moving to their vacation home on Martha’s Vineyard, I’d always considered him a Bostonian.

“It would never occur to me to think about where I’m from,” David said. A smile crept at the corners of his mouth. “I’m all about where I’m going.”

“Yeah, I get it, Mr. Livin’ in the Now, but you had a point there,” I said. “Between childhood and high school, which years are the most important when determining one’s ‘fromness’?”

“There was a time when most people were born, lived, and died in the same town,” said David.

“Sometimes, I want to ask people to just tell me what it is they really want to know when they ask me where I’m from,” I said. “Are they trying to determine my family’s socioeconomic status? My ethnicity? Religion? I’m a forthright person. I wouldn’t shy away from answering. Thing is, I don’t think most people are consciously aware of what it is they’re really trying to find out by asking a seemingly innocuous question.”

“They’re just making conversation.” David refilled his own glass and topped me off.

“No, I don’t think so,” I said. “Talking about the weather, movies, books, or any other third-party thing is making conversation. When you ask someone about themselves, you’re looking for information to help you shape your opinion of them. How can you judge if you don’t know the facts? People are mentally lazy; we like to fit others into categories. What better guideline for categorization is there than the stereotypes associated with one’s origins?”

“I just don’t think it matters so much where someone’s from,” David said.

“Okay, what about manners? If someone tells you he’s from India, then you know not to use your left hand when eating in front of him. Or if the guy is from Japan, you’ll probably avoid looking him in the eye because he would likely consider it rude. And if you learn a fellow restaurant patron is from Paris, you might cut him a little slack when he doesn’t leave a tip — the first time, anyway. We make assumptions about people based on where they say they’re from; it helps us to know how to deal with them.”

The more I thought about the concept of fromness, the more convoluted it seemed. “Who we are is made up of a compilation of our origins and experiences,” I continued. “Our origins represent the parts of ourselves we can’t control, while our experiences are a by-product of our choices and circumstances. When I say I’m Irish and Italian, there are thousands of years of history and culture attached to two little words. I come from that. I am that, to an extent.”

“You are only that because you have chosen to embrace that,” said David. He had a point. My “Italian” mother is actually half Greek, but since that culture never seeped into my upbringing, it is always left unsaid when I answer the ethnicity question.

“I suppose most people take some comfort from belonging to a place or tradition,” David said. “It’s like an anchor for them. But I guess I prefer a broader worldview. Next time someone asks me where I’m from, I think I’ll just say Earth — or perhaps I’ll elaborate and say, ‘You know, the part of Earth where they eat lots of paprika.’”

The latest copy of the Reader

Here's something you might be interested in.
Submit a free classified
or view all
Previous article

San Diego Reader 2024 Holiday Guide – like none other

Candle-making, tree lighting, pajama jam
Next Article

San Diego seawalls depend on Half Moon Bay case

Casa Mira townhomes sued after losing 20 feet of bluffs in storm
Barbarella
Barbarella

To me, it seems a dreadful indignity to have a soul controlled by geography. — George Santayana

‘Where are you from?” It was a simple question. But the way Jane stared back at the guy, you’d think he’d asked her to recite Title III of the Patriot Act. I knew how she felt, though not to the extent she felt it. After all, my older sister had three cities on me — she was born in Brooklyn, attended preschool in Pensacola and Corpus Christi, Texas (where Heather was born), grade school in San Diego (where Jenny and I were born) and Adak, Alaska, junior high and high school in Newport, Rhode Island, and then back in San Diego, where she and the rest of us graduated from Bonita Vista High, near the town in which my parents chose to settle, in the county in which we all currently live. Considering the involved answer, Jane’s reticence made sense. We were at a coffee shop; the guy’s question was the kind of small talk someone makes when his own thoughts have become tedious and he happens to be sitting next to a couple of friendly looking women.

As the silence stretched to its breaking point, I jumped in to assist. “You mean do we live around here?” The guy nodded. “No, I live in Hillcrest, and Jane here lives in Allied Gardens, which is north of the College Area,” I explained in an insipid tone. There was an implicit understanding that this coffee shop chitchat was a one-off deal; the principal motive for this man’s speaking to us at all was to pass the time, so I had difficulty mustering enough energy for anything more than basic civility.

The thirtysomething fellow told us he was from Alaska (which explained the robust, ruddy, understated hunk look). Jane and I perked up at this common denominator, but the conversation reached an impasse when he revealed he hailed from a city on the mainland, whereas we had lived on one of the tiniest and farthest-flung Aleutian Islands. Uninterested in prolonging the halfhearted exchange with a random we’d never see again, Jane and I politely withdrew.

Sponsored
Sponsored

“I hate when people ask me that question,” Jane said as we were bidding each other goodbye in the parking lot. “I never know what to say.”

“Yeah, it’s a tough one,” I said. “I usually say I’m from San Diego because I’ve lived here the longest, but that doesn’t seem completely honest.”

Later that evening, I selected a bottle of wine from the cupboard while David whipped up a simple dinner of eggs, Hungarian sausage, and spicy paprika. My man is American born and bred, but both of his parents spent their initial 20 years of life in Hungary before escaping to America during the Hungarian Revolution in 1956. David may not be “from” Hungary, the way I am not “from” New York, but his Hungarian roots are unquestionable when one considers his cumulative usage of paprika.

David refilled my glass, and I set down my fork and looked at him. “Where are you from?” His expression served to remind me that he’d not been privy to the line of thinking that had led me to voice the question, so I elaborated. “I mean, when people ask you, what do you say?”

“I feel like I’m not really from anywhere, in a way,” David said. “But I usually say Boston because that’s where I went to high school.”

“Not from anywhere? Doesn’t that make you feel like you’re missing some sense of self?”

I knew David had been born in Baltimore and that his family moved to Chicago when he was a baby, and they moved to Boston when he was a sophomore in high school. Because he’s most familiar with Boston, where his parents settled for a while before permanently moving to their vacation home on Martha’s Vineyard, I’d always considered him a Bostonian.

“It would never occur to me to think about where I’m from,” David said. A smile crept at the corners of his mouth. “I’m all about where I’m going.”

“Yeah, I get it, Mr. Livin’ in the Now, but you had a point there,” I said. “Between childhood and high school, which years are the most important when determining one’s ‘fromness’?”

“There was a time when most people were born, lived, and died in the same town,” said David.

“Sometimes, I want to ask people to just tell me what it is they really want to know when they ask me where I’m from,” I said. “Are they trying to determine my family’s socioeconomic status? My ethnicity? Religion? I’m a forthright person. I wouldn’t shy away from answering. Thing is, I don’t think most people are consciously aware of what it is they’re really trying to find out by asking a seemingly innocuous question.”

“They’re just making conversation.” David refilled his own glass and topped me off.

“No, I don’t think so,” I said. “Talking about the weather, movies, books, or any other third-party thing is making conversation. When you ask someone about themselves, you’re looking for information to help you shape your opinion of them. How can you judge if you don’t know the facts? People are mentally lazy; we like to fit others into categories. What better guideline for categorization is there than the stereotypes associated with one’s origins?”

“I just don’t think it matters so much where someone’s from,” David said.

“Okay, what about manners? If someone tells you he’s from India, then you know not to use your left hand when eating in front of him. Or if the guy is from Japan, you’ll probably avoid looking him in the eye because he would likely consider it rude. And if you learn a fellow restaurant patron is from Paris, you might cut him a little slack when he doesn’t leave a tip — the first time, anyway. We make assumptions about people based on where they say they’re from; it helps us to know how to deal with them.”

The more I thought about the concept of fromness, the more convoluted it seemed. “Who we are is made up of a compilation of our origins and experiences,” I continued. “Our origins represent the parts of ourselves we can’t control, while our experiences are a by-product of our choices and circumstances. When I say I’m Irish and Italian, there are thousands of years of history and culture attached to two little words. I come from that. I am that, to an extent.”

“You are only that because you have chosen to embrace that,” said David. He had a point. My “Italian” mother is actually half Greek, but since that culture never seeped into my upbringing, it is always left unsaid when I answer the ethnicity question.

“I suppose most people take some comfort from belonging to a place or tradition,” David said. “It’s like an anchor for them. But I guess I prefer a broader worldview. Next time someone asks me where I’m from, I think I’ll just say Earth — or perhaps I’ll elaborate and say, ‘You know, the part of Earth where they eat lots of paprika.’”

Comments
Sponsored

The latest copy of the Reader

Here's something you might be interested in.
Submit a free classified
or view all
Previous article

Barrio Logan’s very good Dogg

Chicano comfort food proves plenty spicy
Next Article

City Lights: Journey Through Light & Sound, Hotel Holiday Tea Service

Events December 7-December 11, 2024
Comments
Ask a Hipster — Advice you didn't know you needed Big Screen — Movie commentary Blurt — Music's inside track Booze News — San Diego spirits Classical Music — Immortal beauty Classifieds — Free and easy Cover Stories — Front-page features Drinks All Around — Bartenders' drink recipes Excerpts — Literary and spiritual excerpts Feast! — Food & drink reviews Feature Stories — Local news & stories Fishing Report — What’s getting hooked from ship and shore From the Archives — Spotlight on the past Golden Dreams — Talk of the town The Gonzo Report — Making the musical scene, or at least reporting from it Letters — Our inbox Movies@Home — Local movie buffs share favorites Movie Reviews — Our critics' picks and pans Musician Interviews — Up close with local artists Neighborhood News from Stringers — Hyperlocal news News Ticker — News & politics Obermeyer — San Diego politics illustrated Outdoors — Weekly changes in flora and fauna Overheard in San Diego — Eavesdropping illustrated Poetry — The old and the new Reader Travel — Travel section built by travelers Reading — The hunt for intellectuals Roam-O-Rama — SoCal's best hiking/biking trails San Diego Beer — Inside San Diego suds SD on the QT — Almost factual news Sheep and Goats — Places of worship Special Issues — The best of Street Style — San Diego streets have style Surf Diego — Real stories from those braving the waves Theater — On stage in San Diego this week Tin Fork — Silver spoon alternative Under the Radar — Matt Potter's undercover work Unforgettable — Long-ago San Diego Unreal Estate — San Diego's priciest pads Your Week — Daily event picks
4S Ranch Allied Gardens Alpine Baja Balboa Park Bankers Hill Barrio Logan Bay Ho Bay Park Black Mountain Ranch Blossom Valley Bonita Bonsall Borrego Springs Boulevard Campo Cardiff-by-the-Sea Carlsbad Carmel Mountain Carmel Valley Chollas View Chula Vista City College City Heights Clairemont College Area Coronado CSU San Marcos Cuyamaca College Del Cerro Del Mar Descanso Downtown San Diego Eastlake East Village El Cajon Emerald Hills Encanto Encinitas Escondido Fallbrook Fletcher Hills Golden Hill Grant Hill Grantville Grossmont College Guatay Harbor Island Hillcrest Imperial Beach Imperial Valley Jacumba Jamacha-Lomita Jamul Julian Kearny Mesa Kensington La Jolla Lakeside La Mesa Lemon Grove Leucadia Liberty Station Lincoln Acres Lincoln Park Linda Vista Little Italy Logan Heights Mesa College Midway District MiraCosta College Miramar Miramar College Mira Mesa Mission Beach Mission Hills Mission Valley Mountain View Mount Hope Mount Laguna National City Nestor Normal Heights North Park Oak Park Ocean Beach Oceanside Old Town Otay Mesa Pacific Beach Pala Palomar College Palomar Mountain Paradise Hills Pauma Valley Pine Valley Point Loma Point Loma Nazarene Potrero Poway Rainbow Ramona Rancho Bernardo Rancho Penasquitos Rancho San Diego Rancho Santa Fe Rolando San Carlos San Marcos San Onofre Santa Ysabel Santee San Ysidro Scripps Ranch SDSU Serra Mesa Shelltown Shelter Island Sherman Heights Skyline Solana Beach Sorrento Valley Southcrest South Park Southwestern College Spring Valley Stockton Talmadge Temecula Tierrasanta Tijuana UCSD University City University Heights USD Valencia Park Valley Center Vista Warner Springs
Close

Anchor ads are not supported on this page.

This Week’s Reader This Week’s Reader