Where are you from?

There’s a funny video floating around on social media that’s getting a lot of attention. It shows a young woman of Asian descent preparing for a jog. A white man starts a conversation with her with the dreaded, “Where are you from?” For a lot of people, this is an innocuous enough question. If you say, “Maine,” or “California,” or “Florida,” that’s usually the end of the conversation. But if you look like I do, the series of questions won’t stop until your lineage is traced back to ancient fill-in-the-blank.

My mother’s shoes

Every year, I go to the Coach store and buy my mother a scarf, or a handbag, or a wallet, or a hat, or a pair of shoes — things she likes, but would never buy for herself. She tells me often that the only nice clothes she owns are the ones I bought for her. This isn’t entirely true. My siblings have given her some lovely things or gifted her with money to buy whatever she wants. But it is true that the two of us have gone shopping together the most.