Why I’m not offended when people ask me where I’m ‘really’ from...

We’ve been trained to think that simple expressions of interest have a secret hidden motive, writes Giorgia Ambo. But in the real world, that isn’t always true...

I find it a great deal more exhausting when people don’t ask, and make incorrect assumptions as a result (Getty Images/iStockphoto)

While waitressing in Covent Garden, my first and last customers of the day had one thing in common. Not their love of London, or fine cuisine, but their burning curiosity about where I’m from… originally.

“I just love your whole…”, trailing off, a young mother began waving her hands in circles around me at the till. “You’re just beautiful!” Flattery gets you far. “So, where is your family from?”

I’ve consumed endless media that tells me this question is outrageous. Recently, Forbes deemed it “not-so-subtle racism” and Glamour Magazine nicknamed it the “where are you from bomb”, even likening it to harassment. As one of the only people of colour in my school classrooms, in a predominately white neighbourhood, I understand that the constant explanation of your identity can feel othering, even exhausting at times.