Unde es?

Ex Terra

You see, understanding English and speaking it are two completely different beasts. At five, I didn’t quite grasp that distinction, and I kept claiming I spoke English when, in reality, I was just sitting there nodding and picking up fragments here and there. I’d say, “I’m so tired of speaking English,” when, in fact, I wasn’t speaking it at all. I was just quietly absorbing the endless chatter around me.

It was especially draining when it came to Miss Allspecklesandfreckles. She’d talk, I’d zone out. Eventually, I decided it was safer to just keep quiet whenever she asked me anything.

“Whereareyoufrom?” she asked one day, as if she were about to unveil some cosmic truth. The rest of the class dutifully shouted, “imfromlondon!” At this point, what did Miss Allspecklesandfreckles expect? That I was about to deliver a keynote address on geographical diversity? She turned to me with eager anticipation. Me? Diverse? On my own? Krishna—who usually carried the burden of diversity—was mysteriously absent that day, which left me to exemplify the concept solo.

She asked for diversity, but got a monstrosity. “Whereareyoufrom, Larry?” she repeated, looking down at me from the pinnacle of her geographical expertise. The thing is, I had already gone through this routine with Mum, Dad, and most of our guests, so I knew exactly what was coming. But this time I decided to experiment. I would keep quiet and let them figure it out. I would not cast pearls before freckles.

We lived in Naughty Hill.—or so I said. And that’s when the absurdities began. Someone would always call me a “naughty boy.” And, not fully grasping the linguistic mechanics behind it, I took it—gratefully—as a compliment. After all, I was Dad’s son, wasn’t I?

In class, however, I chose a different strategy. This was clearly not the right time, the right place, or the right audience (namely Miss Allspecklesandfreckles) for my sense of humour. So I withdrew.

I did that thing where you tuck your head into your shoulders and try to see the tip of your nose with both eyes. Mum found it charming at home, but gently suggested I develop a less conspicuous method of retreat for public use. Miss Allspecklesandfreckles, however, did not appreciate the subtlety.

At pickup, she informed Mum: “This child doesn’t know where he’s from, where he was born, or where his roots are! As you Russians say—Ivan who has lost his family tree—is a disgrace to his family and a burden to society!”

This kept me awake at night. How does one lose a tree? With roots and trunk and apples and everything? I simply couldn’t wrap my head around it. The only conclusion I reached was that she probably wanted me to say, “imfrommoscow,” though she never actually said so.

Mum, of course, later enjoyed recounting all the brilliant things she could have said in response—if only she had thought of them at the time. The thing about clever comebacks, as she always says, is that they arrive late, like uninvited but brilliant guests.

These days, when people ask me “whereareyoufrom?”—usually right after hearing my accent—I like to say:

“Planet Earth.”

And they fall silent, as though they’ve never heard of such a planet.

Where are you from, really?

And what do you say when you don’t feel like explaining?

How many times have you changed the answer, anyway?