"Why are you asking?" he said with suspicion.

“Where are you from?”

That’s what started this encounter. And now we were staring at each other, him suspicious of my motives, and me looking for a way to create safety for him. It was intense, and not what I was anticipating.

But it was familiar.

I started to feel this way when people asked me where I was from, starting at 17, when I came back to the U.S., alone, to finish off high-school in Houston. It was 1985 and I got my first taste of bigotry and hate, Southern style, where they ask you “where are you from?” after hearing your name, not out of curiosity but from a need to “other” and validate their hatred of things unfamiliar.

Growing up in New York and attending UNIS, “where are you from” was a way of making someone feel safe, seen, special. We delighted in exploring new names, cultures, languages, foods, and rituals. But that changed after the Iranian Revolution of 1979, and my world turned into a game of defense, or defense through strong offense. In my 20’s, if someone asked me where I was from (after hearing my name), I would say Iran, and flash “don’t fuck with me” energy, just to be safe. The armistice had long been declared, and I was “safe”, but PTSD kept in me a state of perpetual warfare, with enemies real and imagined.

So when I walked onto the soccer pitch to see my friend’s game, I found myself entering the field with the referee. Given my own history around intramural sports, I figured he was from a country that had football (the proper name) in its DNA, so once we smiled and said hello, I followed up with “where are you from?”

“Why are you asking?” he immediately snapped back.

And in that moment I saw his eyes.

I saw the feeling of being asked this question not from a place of curiosity, but from a need to label and oppress. I saw my own eyes, and my heart sank. Far from making conversation and creating safety, I had triggered the same fight or flight muscle that stays dormant deep within myself. And he was giving me a little offense as defense, just as I had done so many times over the past 30 years.

In that moment, I imagined a young foreign exchange student, long removed from his family and surroundings. I imagined how he had first encountered this question, perhaps made fun of for his name and religion, his accent. I saw the young man within the 50+ year old standing next to me. And I got a glimpse into his trauma.

“Oh! I’m from Iran, and I always meet people who are not originally from the U.S. when I come to a football match.”

He was still suspicious, but dropped his guard. “Nigeria” he finally said. Not so much to continue the conversation but to signal a détente. “My favorite professional athlete is Hakeem Olajuwon!” I stammered back, sounding like I was now trying too hard. He feigned a smile back, and we moved our separate ways.

I didn’t have the right to ask him that question, but I did. He didn’t deserve to be dragged back down memory lane. He was showing up to work, to referee a weekend game that would make him a few bucks while reliving the sport of his youth. “Where are you from” has been weaponized by Trump and people before him, and that is the world we find ourselves in today.

I need to create safety first, and sometimes that means not assuming someone wants to talk to me.