The punctuation that is nestled peacefully between the string of letters in my last name seem to only wreak havoc in the calm sea of Smiths, Wilsons, Davises, and Millers.
I want to reach for my arsenal of responses when you ask me, “So where is your last name from?”
Because chances are you’ve prematurely checked off a choice on your mental self-identification card coupled with a handful of predetermined personality traits...
Her name must mean she’s really good at math.
Her name must mean that she speaks Chinese.
But her look might mean she’s part Filipino.
And her body type might mean she’s part Latina.
So while you exotify me, I politely respond that my parents are from Guyana and my very Asian sounding last name is almost a misnomer.
It is not meant to threaten but it is intended it to illuminate the mural of a complex and colorful heritage.
Because the truth is that I speak not Chinese nor Hindi.
My parents hail from a country where broken English swirls in the same mouths that devour seven curry on holy days.
But still, you will try to convince me,
“Oh I’ve tried your food once at an Indian restaurant” but not quite. Not quite.
My parents hail from an area of the world where the term ‘melting pot’ existed much before the American phenomenon did.
Because visiting my staunch Hindu grandmother in Guyana also meant waking up to the lyrical
ahd -dhan from the nearby mosque every morning as we rubbed the sleep out of our eyes.
And if we listened really closely, we would hear the cars speed by whose speakers sputtered Christian hymns, Patsy Cline love songs, soca, and chutney alike.
My parents hail from a village where the locals’ lips curl into mischievous smiles as they “gyaf” and “talk story” on lazy afternoons by the seawall, or in rum shops, or swinging in hammocks after toiling in a stand at Stabroek market.
And when those same villagers immigrate to Richmond Hill or Toronto and elsewhere, they will speak of “back home” with affection and long for that easy Caribbean lifestyle, free of worries especially because their children, have taken root in a system of capitalism and westernized ideals.
They are being raised in a country where they are constantly asked....
“If Guyana sounds like Ghana, why aren’t you black?”
My mouth shelters the words I want to spill on this canvas of conversation as you almost restrain our identity to nothingness,
but the only thing worse than your tone deaf questions ...is no question at all.
So I respond every time.
I want to comfort your dismay,
your alarm,
your fear of these daunting hyphens.
I want to reach for my arsenal of responses when you ask me, “So where is your last name from?”
Because chances are you’ve prematurely checked off a choice on your mental self-identification card coupled with a handful of predetermined personality traits...
Her name must mean she’s really good at math.
Her name must mean that she speaks Chinese.
But her look might mean she’s part Filipino.
And her body type might mean she’s part Latina.
So while you exotify me, I politely respond that my parents are from Guyana and my very Asian sounding last name is almost a misnomer.
It is not meant to threaten but it is intended it to illuminate the mural of a complex and colorful heritage.
Because the truth is that I speak not Chinese nor Hindi.
My parents hail from a country where broken English swirls in the same mouths that devour seven curry on holy days.
But still, you will try to convince me,
“Oh I’ve tried your food once at an Indian restaurant” but not quite. Not quite.
My parents hail from an area of the world where the term ‘melting pot’ existed much before the American phenomenon did.
Because visiting my staunch Hindu grandmother in Guyana also meant waking up to the lyrical
ahd -dhan from the nearby mosque every morning as we rubbed the sleep out of our eyes.
And if we listened really closely, we would hear the cars speed by whose speakers sputtered Christian hymns, Patsy Cline love songs, soca, and chutney alike.
My parents hail from a village where the locals’ lips curl into mischievous smiles as they “gyaf” and “talk story” on lazy afternoons by the seawall, or in rum shops, or swinging in hammocks after toiling in a stand at Stabroek market.
And when those same villagers immigrate to Richmond Hill or Toronto and elsewhere, they will speak of “back home” with affection and long for that easy Caribbean lifestyle, free of worries especially because their children, have taken root in a system of capitalism and westernized ideals.
They are being raised in a country where they are constantly asked....
“If Guyana sounds like Ghana, why aren’t you black?”
My mouth shelters the words I want to spill on this canvas of conversation as you almost restrain our identity to nothingness,
but the only thing worse than your tone deaf questions ...is no question at all.
So I respond every time.
I want to comfort your dismay,
your alarm,
your fear of these daunting hyphens.