“The whole [birther] thing was crazy and mean-spirited, of course, its underlying bigotry and xenophobia hardly concealed. But it was also dangerous, deliberately meant to stir up the wingnuts and kooks. – Michelle Obama, Becoming

I remember clearly when Donald Trump, then a private citizen, began questioning the legitimacy of President Barack Obama’s U.S. citizenship, and birth certificate. The subtext of Trump’s “investigation” (and of the birther movement in general) was clear: Obama’s not one of us, and he doesn’t belong here. It sparked great fear in me, and led me to dig out and examine my own birth certificate, and those of my family members.

**

I was born in Indianapolis, Indiana, in 1966. In the race box on my birth certificate it says “Negro”.

My mother was born in Jerome, Arkansas, in 1940. In the race box on her birth certificate it says, “Colored”. On my father’s birth certificate (he was born in 1939 in South Bend, Indiana), same thing: “Colored”.

At the time I was born, and in that part of the country, when two “Colored” people reproduced they had a “Negro” baby.

Three years later, in 1969, my brother was born in Boston, Massachusetts. In the race box on his birth certificate it says “Black”. In New England, at the time he was born, when two “Colored” people reproduced they had a “Black” baby.

**

I cannot remember a time when people did not ask me “what I was”, when my racial make-up was not a subject of intense scrutiny.

Long before sexual harassment became a separate, though related lifelong issue, kids I went to school with, their parents and grandparents, schoolteachers, wait-staff in restaurants, dance and swim teachers, babysitters, camp counselors, and later step aerobics instructors, professors, co-workers, in-laws and others, questioned me about my racial background.

Regardless of the context, age, race, national origin, religion, class background or gender preference of the person asking, the conversations were nearly identical. With little, if any variation, they almost always went something like this:

So, Where Are You From?

Initially I responded by saying where I grew up. I had heard my white peers respond to the Where Are You From question by saying where they grew up. I had noted that they weren’t asked this question with nearly the frequency I was but their response seemed sufficient, and so my much younger self figured (naively) that it would be for me as well.

I quickly learned that this was not actually what was being asked of me however, because it was almost invariably followed by another question:

Where Are You From Originally?

For a while I answered by saying, rightly so, that originally I was from Indianapolis, Indiana. Unfortunately, this too was almost always followed by another question, often with barely disguised frustration (raised eyebrows, looking closely into my face to try and gauge whether or not I was being intentionally evasive) that I hadn’t intuited the real question and filled in the gaps without their having to ask:

Where Are Your Parents From?

Almost all had enough – what to call it? Manners? – not to come right out and ask me directly what my racial make-up was. But they weren’t able to help themselves from asking in a roundabout way. And because the questions were so frequent, and so often asked with a laser-like intensity worthy of the Stasi, they didn’t feelroundabout at all. On the contrary, they felt quite intentional, as did the not-so-subtle subtext: I wasn’t one of them, and I didn’t belong there.

**

After I figured out that in my case Where Are You From was code for What Are You, which was code for What’s Your Racial/Genetic Background, and in an effort to avoid this uncomfortable topic, I began telling people I was black when they asked where I was from. I figured if I answered the unasked/indirect/passive-aggressive question directly that this would end the conversation, and we could move on to less complicated topics.

Much to my dismay, this did not work at all. On the contrary, as often as not, eyebrows were raised further, and frustration turned to outright disbelief. Occasionally I got looks of pity from people who clearly didn’t believe I was black, and thought I was confused.

Though these questions increased in frequency when I reached puberty (mid-70s), they were most intense during the 80s and 90s as the neo-con backlash against the Civil Rights and Women’s movements was shifting into high gear. At that time, neo-cons often accused black people of playing “the race card”. But without fail, it was always white people who initiated the Where Are You From/What Are You/What is Your Racial Background question, who “played the race card” so to speak, with me.

**

Most of these inquiries happened in controlled settings: hair salons, gym classes, sleep-overs, grocery store lines, department store make-up counters, dorm rooms, weddings, cocktail parties, work events, baby and bridal showers. In less controlled situations, say, on the street, things were quite different. For example, while walking across the street with a friend in SOHO (we had the right of way) a speeding SUV cut us off. Adrenalin coursing through me, and enraged, I shouted Fuck You to the driver. In response, the white woman in the passenger seat leaned out of her window practically to her waist and shouted You Fucking Nigger back. It was an extraordinary moment for a number of reasons, including that given how fast they were driving she could only have caught a passing glimpse of me. And yet, unlike members of the mostly white community I lived in, she seemed to know EXACTLY “what” I was. No twenty questions needed! How to reconcile these wildly different experiences? Was the woman in the SUV very observant, or were the people I interacted with more regularly uniquely obtuse? Or, was asking me where I was from all the time a way for members of the community I lived in to do exactly what the woman in SOHO did, namely to call me a nigger?

**

Naively, I thought that when I reached a certain age, racial and sexual harassment and interrogation would stop. Both continue to happen with disturbing frequency. Recently, during a job interview at an Ivy League medical school I was asked where I was born and where I grew up by a Dean. I didn’t answer the question, and turned to my professional experience. He asked the question again. I again redirected the conversation to my resume, at which point his white female colleague asked Where Exactly in Brookline I lived. Sexual harassment persists, too, and it continues to take my breath away, even at 52, with its intrusiveness, and how different it is in each case, which makes it feel nearly impossible for me to respond to coherently in the moment.

Thankfully, the question Where Are You From/What Are You has remained consistent. Persistent and systemic, but consistent enough for me to develop, after many years, a response:

In the race box on my birth certificate it says Negro. Please don’t ask me what Negro means. We didn’t make up the categories. And no, I’m not confused. This is what black America looks like: everything. Two centuries of mass rape including after the slave trade was abolished to continue creating a workforce means we are, and look like everything. The rape culture everyone’s talking about these days is not new. It predates #MeToo, and it’s central to the country’s vast wealth, military power and global influence. Now, please if you could finish cleaning my teeth or cutting my hair or asking your interview questions (at least some of which I hope will relate to my resume)? I’ll go home and wash your intrusions off in the shower or work them out at the gym, and maybe you can ask yourselfsome questions: Why am I more curious about some people’s racial make-up than others? Why do I feel entitled to ask people I don’t know personal questions about their racial background? How would I feel if strangers asked me similarly personal questions about my race, religion, socio-economic background or gender preference?