Where are you from?

Ah, the perennial question that has haunted me since I could remember: “Where are you from?” It’s a seemingly innocuous inquiry, innocently tossed into conversations like a gentle grenade, waiting to explode into a hot mess of confusion and awkwardness, which I always experienced as a child.

Picture this: Nairobi, Kenya, a bustling city of vibrant colors and eclectic cultures. That’s where I drew my first breath, where the rhythm of life pulsed through the streets. But hold on, don’t slap that “Made in Kenya” sticker on me just yet. My story’s got more twists than a Bollywood plot.

You see, my lineage traces back to Zoroastrian roots, those ‘ancient fire-worshippers of Iran’. But wait, there’s more! My folks, bless their adventurous souls, hailed from Zanzibar, yes, that’s right, the spice-laden island of dreams, floating off the coast of East Africa. And before that? Well, the city of Bombay, where chaos is as much a part of life as the dabbawalas, where a sense of humor and an unwavering faith in the power of chai is all you need. And further back, if we delve deeper, we hit Navsari in Gujarat, India, the ancestral homeland where our Zoroastrian ancestors landed after leaving Iran.

Fate had other plans for me, and at the tender age of ten, I found myself leaving Africa for London. I imagined a thatched cottage with a rose garden and Daisy the cow in the meadow out back. Now, let me tell you, landing in a “proper British” working class neighborhood with my exotic-sounding name was like stepping into the lion’s den wearing a suit made of sausages. Here I encountered racism for the first time.

So, what did I do? Well, like any good survivor, I adapted. I learned to say “wa’a” instead of water and swapped out my “r’s” for something closer to a guttural growl. But the real challenge came when faced with that dreaded question: “Where are you from?” I found as I grew up, that my response depended on whom i was talking to when this question came up.

Am I African? Technically, yes. I mean, I was born in Nairobi, it was home for a good chunk of my formative years — 10 years to be precise — but let’s be real, I am about as African as a penguin in the Sahara. Then there’s the Iranian card. Sure, my ancestors hailed from there, but I’ve never set foot on Persian soil, so, do I really get to claim that identity? And India? Then what about being Parsi? Zoroastrian? You might as well ask me to explain quantum physics while juggling flaming swords on a tight rope. “Zorro-what?” is usually the response I get, followed by a quizzical look that says, “Is that like a new Netflix series?”

Ah, but wait, there’s more to this convoluted saga of mine! After my stint in London, where I perfected the art of queuing and complaining about the weather, I embarked on a whirlwind tour of the globe. Two years in India and Nepal, where I learned to love extra spicy food and bargaining as a competitive sport. Then, I traded solid ground for the rolling waves, spending three years living on the sea as a diver, where my address was somewhere between “Nowhere” and “Everywhere.”

But the adventure didn’t stop there! Santa Fe, New Mexico, where the chili peppers are hotter than the desert sun and so tasty, and the art scene is as vibrant as a Jackson Pollock painting. Four years in the Land of Enchantment, where I learned to appreciate what dry eyes and nose means, and I learnt how to pronounce chipotle.

And now? Well, for the past 23 years, I’ve called Puerto Rico home sweet home. But hold your mofongo, am I about to slap on a “Boricua” label and break out the reggaeton moves? Not so fast! I tread carefully, mindful not to appropriate cultures like a clumsy tourist.

But wait, there’s a twist in this tale of tangled nationalities! Amidst the chaos of cultural crossroads, there’s a small but significant detail: my trusty British passport. Yes, despite the linguistic acrobatics and global gallivanting, I’ve always held onto that little booklet like a security blanket, and for the last twenty years a US issued Green card as well. However now it gets even more amusing — cue the drumroll — I’ve recently added a new passport to my collection: the coveted blue of the good ol’ U.S. of A. That’s right, folks, I’ve officially become a citizen of the land of the free and the home of the brave.

Dual nationality, double the confusion, and twice the fun! So now, when people ask me where I’m from, I can proudly declare, I’m an East African British-American Indian Parsi Zoroastrian IraniRican. Coming at you with a side of Nairobi nostalgia, a sprinkle of Santa Fe sass, a dash of Puerto Rican pique, and the London rave and East African beats pulsating through my veins, I am transcending boundaries and celebrating the diverse flavors of my life.

3t Vakil