Please, People, Stop Asking Me Where I’m From

I just don't have the patience to get into it with you...

When you meet someone for the very first time, there are a few questions people always ask. The first is obviously asking someone what their name is.

If you’re in a business environment, the second question is usually some form of “What do you do for a living?” and the question that inevitably comes next is one that always makes me cringe.

“So, where are you from?”

I hate it when people ask me this question, mostly because I have no idea how to answer it.

If I were born and raised in a very big city that everybody already knows—where I could just name the city without the need to elaborate any further—I might not mind so much.

If I could just say “Miami,” “Chicago,” or “Las Vegas,” I suppose it wouldn’t be so annoying. But that would only work if I was born there, raised there, and still lived there for this to make sense.

Otherwise, for anyone who’s moved more than once or twice, it makes answering this question complicated. My dad, for example, was born into an Air Force family. He was born in Georgia but also lived in Virginia, Iowa, Wisconsin, Nebraska, Newfoundland, Texas, California, Germany, and a few other places. How could he possibly answer this question accurately?

In my case, I was born and raised in Stockton, California. That’s pretty simple. People from California know where Stockton is if they’re from Northern California or have ever been to Northern California. For example, they’d know about it if they’d ever taken a road trip up I-5 to Oregon or Washington.

But not everybody in the state knows about it. People in Southern California, for example, never go further north than the Grapevine, so they haven’t heard of it. When my family would go down to visit friends in Hesperia, Reseda, or Sierra Madre, and we’d meet other folks down there, I’d tell them: “We’re from Stockton. It’s just south of Sacramento,” and that would offer sufficient context to explain where we were from.

But when we moved to Colorado in my teens, everything changed, and that no longer worked. Most people in Colorado hadn’t been to California at all, so “Sacramento” meant nothing to them.

This conversation got even more awkward:

• Them: “So, where are you from?”

• Me: “California.”

• Them: “Oh, really? What part?”

Here, I’d have a quandary: what I said next could either shut them up or make them ask a lot more questions. If I said “Stockton,” they’d go through a long litany of other questions:

• Them: “Stockton? Where’s that?”

• Me: “Northern California. It’s about an hour inland from San Francisco.”

• Them: “Oh, got it. So, the Bay Area?”

• Me: “Well, kind of… close, but we’re down the hill about 80 miles.”

• Them: “Weird. I’ve heard of the Bay Area, but I’ve never heard of Stockton.”

• Me: “Yeah, I know, a lot of people haven’t. It’s basically a bedroom community: people live there but commute to work in the Bay Area.”

Sometimes, they’d want to know more, playing guessing games like:

• “Is it near Modesto? I have a friend from Modesto…”

• “My mother-in-law lives in Redding. Is it close to Redding?”

• “What about Yosemite? How far is it from Yosemite?”

We’d go down this weird rabbit trail where they’d rattle off a list of 4 or 5 names of cities in California that they’d heard of but clearly never seen on a map and ask, “Is it near there?”

I hate this game.

But in the same scenario above, if I tried to anticipate this whole mess and cut it off at the pass with an over-simplified answer, that sometimes wouldn’t work either:

• Them: “So, where are you from?”

• Me: “California.”

• Them: “Oh, really? What part?”

• Me: “The Bay Area.”

• Them: “Oh, no way! I used to live in San Mateo. Where did you live?”

• Me: (Shyly, knowing I’ve been caught): “Well, it’s not really the Bay Area, actually. I’m from Stockton.”

• Them: “Oh… yeah, that’s not really the Bay Area.”

• Me: “Yeah, I know; I just say that because most people haven’t heard of Stockton.”

• Them: “That’s weird. I know Stockton. I have some friends there. It’s a long drive from where I used to live. It’s definitely not in the Bay Area.”

• Me: “Yeah, again, I KNOW that… I just don’t know how to answer that question. If I just tell people ‘Stockton,’ they’ve usually never heard of it before, so it turns into this whole discussion…”

This is all so embarrassing.

Half the time, if I just tell people I’m from Stockton, they act like I’m an idiot for telling them about a city they’ve never heard of before; it disappoints them because they were hoping I’d say something exciting like “Hollywood.”

The other half of the time, the person I’m talking to knows EXACTLY where Stockton is, knows it sucks, and has only been there while stopping at a gas station on a road trip to somewhere else way cooler.

Unbelievably, this same sort of thing happened to me again when I moved to Colorado, too.

I lived in Longmont, a beautiful farming town in Boulder County, just east of Longs Peak in the Rocky Mountains. But trying to explain this to people was even more exasperating.

• Them: “So, where are you from?”

• Me: “Longmont.”

• Them: “Oh, really? I’ve never heard of Longmont. Where’s that?”

• Me: “It’s about an hour north of Denver.”

• Them: “Oh. Is it near Fort Collins? I have friends who went to college there.”

• Me: “No, it’s about 45 minutes south of Fort Collins.”

• Them: “Oh. Is it near Greeley? I have friends who went to college there, too.”

• Me: “No, it’s about 45 minutes southwest of Greeley.”

• Them: “Longmont, you say, huh? Is it near Loveland? My sister used to live in Loveland.”

• Me: “No, it’s about 30 minutes south of Loveland.”

• Them: “Wow, I’m really trying to imagine it…”

• Me: “It’s basically just outside of Boulder.”

• Them: “Oh, you live in Boulder?”

• Me: “Well, no, not exactly… Longmont is twenty minutes northeast of Boulder.”

• Them: “I still can’t picture it… is it above or below Denver?”

• Me: “Well, like I said earlier, it’s about an hour north of Denver.”

• Them: “Weird. I’ve driven past Denver before, and I never saw Longmont.”

• Me: “Well, it’s off of the interstate; you don’t actually drive through it. It’s a few miles away from I-25, so you wouldn’t see it unless you took exit 240 and headed west.”

This nearly drove me mad as I tried to play the guessing game with people: if I didn’t live in Fort Collins, Boulder, Loveland, or Denver, I might have just been making it all up. Where was Longmont? It might as well be Never-Never Land.

So, sometimes I’d try to cut to the chase using the same method as before, using Boulder as the town in closest proximity, but this would backfire.

• Them: “So, where are you from?”

• Me: “Boulder.”

• Them: “Oh, no way! I used to live in Boulder. What part of town?”

• Me: “Oh, well, I actually live in Longmont…”

• Them (VERY disappointed): “Oh, gotcha… so you don’t ACTUALLY live IN Boulder.”

• Me: “Well, yes, I know that. I just say that because most people don’t know where Longmont is.”

• Them: “That’s weird. I know Longmont. I used to have friends there. It’s like 20 minutes from Boulder, and if you add in the traffic on the diagonal highway, it’s more like 45 minutes…”

• Me: “Yes, I know… oh, NEVER MIND.”

See what I mean? This is just insanity. Why do people insist on trying to pinpoint EXACTLY where I live when they don’t know where it is? It doesn’t affect them. Why do they care so much?

Why do people care where I live now and “where I’m from?” How do you even define where you’re “from” anyway? I’ve lived in three states. Which one am I “from?”

I was born in California. When I lived in Colorado, I told people I was “from California” mostly just to prove that I was NOT from Colorado because I find Coloradans annoying as hell, and I wanted them to know I’m not like them.

Now that I live in Arizona, I don’t know what to say. Should I tell people I’m “from California” like I did when I lived in Colorado? Or should I say I’m “from Colorado?” I’m not sure.

I want them to know I’m NOT from Arizona because I also find Arizonans annoying, and I want them to know I’m not like them.

But depending on who I’m talking to, some people in Arizona hate people from California because they’re pushing up the cost of housing and turning the state into another cesspool of the failed policies that ruined California in the first place, making people leave there in droves of historic proportion.

“Don’t California my Arizona” is a bumper sticker I’ve seen here more than once.

So, if I tell people in Arizona that I’m from California, they might say: “Oh, great, more of you people… you know you’re destroying this state, right?” and stare at me like I’m an idiot.

But if I say I’m from Colorado, they’ll say something like: “Oh, wow, Colorado’s a beautiful state… they’ve got mountains, and snow, and skiing, and everything. Why did you leave there?”

And if I’m in the mood to be honest, I’ll tell them the truth: “Because I hate mountains, and snow, and skiing, and everything,” and they stare at me like I’m an idiot.

And—get this—against the most astronomical of odds, sometimes the people I meet in Arizona are actually familiar with where I used to live in Colorado.

• Them: “So, where are you from?”

• Me: “Colorado.”

• Them: “Oh, really? What part?”

• Me: “Northern Colorado.”

• Them: “Oh, cool. I have family up that way. A little town called Longmont. Most people haven’t heard of it.”

Queue, in your mind, an image of Ron Stauffer throwing an inner temper tantrum with all the rage of Steve Martin in Planes, Trains, and Automobiles. I’m smiling on the outside, but on the inside, I’m tearing up my car rental agreement and throwing it to the wind, kicking my suitcase and smashing it on the pavement in anger.

What’s even weirder is how the people I know from Colorado and California will ask me where I live today and act confused.

• Them: “How’s it going, Ron? Where did you move to again? New Mexico?”

• Me: “Arizona.”

• Them: “Oh, really? What part?”

• Me: “Tucson.”

• Them: “Oh, really? Is it near Phoenix? My daughter goes to college in Phoenix.”

• Me: “No, it’s about two hours south of Phoenix.”

• Them: “South? Weird. I don’t know where that is.”

WHAT?! WHOEVER SAID YOU WOULD?!

What is wrong with people?! Why does everybody want to ask me where I’m from and want to tell me they have friends nearby, or they’ve never been where I live, or they’ve never heard of it before?

WHO CARES?!

Please, people, I’m BEGGGING you… stop asking me where I’m from. This is such a stupid question. The next time someone asks me, be forewarned: I’m just going to lie.

• Me: “Hi, I’m Ron Stauffer.”

• Them: “So, where are you from?”

• Me: “Pittsburgh.”

Period. End of Story. Conversation over.