No, Really, Where Are You From?

In my second year of uni, I got to attend a summer field school in Europe, fully paid by the Canadian government. This was also my first trip to Europe, so I was thrilled beyond imagination. I arrived in Paris with a humongous backpack, a red notebook, and my curiosity. The experience of walking in a foreign land took me back to my childhood, when I was six years old and took my first train ride, I’ll never forget that feeling, it was the best thing in the entire world.

We were in Europe to learn about the Mediterranean geography and culture. I went around and introduced myself to everyone, and every time I found someone’s name hard to remember or pronounce, I asked them to repeat. I still remember I was so confused when one of the girls said to me that her name was Yvonne, not Yu-wan. I wanted to say my name was Afzal, not Azafal, but I smiled, and wrote her name in my red note book. Funny thing was that no one asked my name twice, they must be linguists, I thought.

When we got to our hotel, our prof called out my name, there were a few giggles, I pretended nothing happened, walked up to the front, smiled, and took my room keys. “How do you say your name again?” our Prof asked. “Af- zal Huda,” I said. “Oh yeah, Azfall,” the Prof took off his glasses, puffed on them, and wiped it with his t-shirt, “exotic eh,” he said, “where ya from?”

Where am I from? I have dreaded that question like it was an infested rat. I was born in Canada. Yeah but really, where are you from? People can’t assent to believe that I’m calling myself a Canadian. How do you define Canadian? No, please tell me. Only Canadians know what Canadian means. Many people think that American or Canadian means white people, and if you happen to live there, you must have come from somewhere else. Well, yeah, everyone came from somewhere, even white people. The native land only belongs to the native people. But for many white people, telling them you’re Canadian is not enough, they wanna know your whole fucking history to prove to you that you’re really an outsider.

On day two, I made a few friends, and we went out exploring together. “Can I call you Fez?” One girl said. Do I look like fucking Fez to you? I didn’t understand why she couldn’t put an effort to learn my name. It’s not like we met at a party, she came home with me, and the next morning she was gone, in that case who gives a fuck what she call me. But we met on a two-month field school. This is what I hate about TV shows that stereotype people, put labels on them, and call it their sense of humor to justify their actions. I loved That 70s Show, it was hilarious, but I never realized how the show had created a stereotypical persona of someone fresh off the boat, until I went to Paris. It affected me, and it affected thousands of other people. And the worst thing was that it didn’t matter how you saw yourself, the label was always there, in your face, where ever you went.

Image inspired by Alex Azabache’s photograph of a girl with llama.

My dilemma was that I felt invisible, as if I was not worth to be remembered. What I really wanted was to be accepted by everyone, especially the girls in my class.

So I let them call me whatever they wanted. Azfall, Axel, Azul, Abdul, Avsole. I stopped correcting them. Most of the time I was Fez, but when people got drunk, they refused to call me Fez, they wanted to call me by my real name. Two weeks before the end of our field school, I noticed a change, my classmates started calling me by my real name. The variations of my name were now reduced from 10 to 2, miraculous if you ask me. It takes time for someone to really connect with you, you have to give, in order to get. If you genuinely care about the other person regardless of their color, race, gender, class, sexuality, or faith, they will see you; the true you. Before, I used to get mad about these things, fighting for my right to be called by my proper name, but when I started traveling more, my mindset changed because I also struggled with other people’s names, and I saw the humor in it.

I vividly remember, we were on a ferry to Italy, we had too much red wine, and the girl I met on day two of our field school came up to me, kissed me on my lips, and said, “If anyone calls you Fez again, I’ll kick their ass. I love you, Azhole.”

I don’t think I have ever laughed that hard in my entire life. The girl who declared her love to me, also called me an asshole! Life is funny that way.

And guess what? Six years later, I ran into her at a party. She introduced me to her husband, and when he couldn’t pronounce my name, we looked at each other, and laughed like we were on the roof of a Greek ferry heading to Rome.

P.S. I really believe that there are people out there who once felt exactly what I felt in this story. One of the reasons I started this blog is to bring all of us together, so we can share our stories, make each other laugh, and in the process embrace our true identity.

Please share your story, or tell me how you relate to my story in the comments below. I’m ready to talk.