The ADT guy came in today to fix our security system. Ten minutes into our conversation, and he did that American thing I’ve still not gotten used to: asked where I am from.
Normally, I give a wise-ass answer like, “oh, I came from California only four months ago,” or if I am particularly passed off, “I came from Kansas.” Delivery is always deadpan, like I am totally clueless about what they mean.
This dude was different; I picked up on the African accent the moment he walked in the door. So I was stuck…a bit.
My go-to response, usually so sweet for me, wasn’t going to cut it. He’s been here since 2006 or so, and he was just being an American. But he’s still from the Old Country.
“I am…not from here,” I said, a little grumpy. There was no joy in owning him, yet he was using triggering language.
Eventually I told him where I came from. He said he caught an accent in my speech and he wondered. Then he said: “I am from Liberia myself,” after which he told me a mini life story about himself.
Moral of the story: sometimes the world is not out to get me.
Even Steven 