“Where Are You From?”

It's a muggy August afternoon in the middle of nowhere Pennsylvania. I am on campus early to participate in a pre-orientation program. Having never visited the university before, I thought this would be a great way to explore the campus and build friendships before the semester starts.

My family is unable to be here, though they all want to be. Most of them live in other states and a few are still abroad. For my Mom traveling to the east coast would mean purchasing roundtrip tickets, which are too expensive. And for my Dad, it would mean leaving my sister in Nigeria with no one to care for her.

As I enter the conference room, students gather and talk excitedly to their family members. I breathe in slowly, and walk up to a girl who sits in the back with her parents. She is Asian American, and like me, this is her first time on campus. We exchange names with cheerful nervousness. We talk about our intended majors and our predictions for the upcoming school year. She tells me she is from Boston. Then she asks me, “Where are you from?” 

The word Chicago flows out of my mouth before I have time to think. She nods, meanwhile her parents’ faces light up with excitement. They tell me how much they love the city. They quiz me about various sites, explain their fascination with the architecture and ask me where the best pizza places are. They are doing their best to be kind, but my face grows hot with shame. I don’t know how to answer most of their questions, because frankly, I didn’t grow up there.

Me in Tanzania’s Ngorongoro Crater (early 2000’s)

I was born in England. I lived there for the first eight years of my life, before spending six more years in Nigeria. Within those six years, I lived in England for six months and Las Vegas for another six months. For my freshman year of high school, I studied in Massachusetts before being sent to Chicago. In between my sophomore year of high school and my first day of college, I studied and worked in China for a total of two years. Funny enough, Chicago was the only constant in my life of continuous movement.

My Mom, brother, and I in Chicago for Christmas (early 2000’s)

My Mom has lived in Chicago with her sisters and her parents ever since I was 8 years old. Every winter and summer vacation we would visit, which is why my memories of Chicago revolve around my mother’s apartment and my grandparent’s house. We made up for lost time by spending all of our days together. I didn’t make friends or explore the city. So, when I call Chicago home, I have never been able to shake that feeling of being a fraud, a cultural anomaly. 

I don’t think of myself as British or Nigerian either. My entire family is from the States. My Mom’s side is concentrated in the Midwest, while my Dad’s side spans from coast to coast and encompasses parts of the South. Growing up abroad with American parents, I understood that I was also American. I don’t have any obvious cultural marker that would suggest otherwise. I dress like an American, with jeans and sneakers. I watched American cartoons like Spongebob. I preferred cheesy pizza over Nigerian jollof rice and spicy chicken. Additionally, I attended an International School, which was culturally dissimilar from the rest of Lagos. There, many of my classmates were Nigerian, but also Italian, Indian, Dutch and American (to name a few). And it was there that I lost my British accent and acquired an American one.

My Dad and I at a pool in England

(early 2000’s)

The transition was seamless. At 8 years old, I was a young British girl with a cockney accent. My Dad laughs at his memories of me running around, declaring Britain’s superiority. England was the only home I had ever known. This all changed when the visits to my Mom began and Nigeria became more familiar. My teachers and my peers in Nigeria further diluted my sense of identity. I greeted my elders when they walked into the room. I knew about various holidays like Ramadan, Songkran and Nigerian Independence Day. We started our school week with a pledge of allegiance to the world. I also gained a vocabulary that included the languages and cultures of my classmates. By the time I was 10, I had absorbed my new environment like a sponge. And, I sounded like the rest of my American family.

When I eventually attended high school in Chicago, most people expected me to have a certain kind of knowledge. As a young black girl, I looked and sounded like I was from the city. In casual conversation, people would speak with region-specific phrases, reference major cross streets, various neighborhoods, or the latest upcoming artists. The cultural adjustment felt like a shameful and secretive task. I couldn’t relate to many of my peers who had never left Illinois, let alone the country. In my ignorance, I thought I had lived a better life, and in an effort to blend in, I didn’t speak about it.

My Mom, brother, and I in Chicago for Christmas (2023)

I am sure my story isn’t unique. There are many people who feel that home is not a place where they grew up. Sometimes, I long to regain my British accent, as it might give strangers a clue into how I was raised. Because to answer the question, “Where are you from?” with a long list of all the places I have lived, always feels a bit…much. And yet, I want to honor the life I have lived. Through my parent’s hard work and sacrifice, I had the privilege of growing up abroad.

My sister, boyfriend, Dad, brother, and I in DC (2024)

And so, as the pre-orientation begins, again I am Sophia “from” Chicago. This feels like a half-truth because my roots are not firmly planted in one place. However, they do exist not only through my Dad, but also in Chicago through my cousins, my aunts, my grandparents and my Mom. And maybe if the girl from Boston and I become friends, she’ll learn Chicago isn’t the whole story. And maybe, I will learn that she is a girl “from” Boston with a lot more to say.