Where Did You Grow Up?

It’s one of the simplest — and most important — questions in the art of human connection, but my whole body tenses every time I am asked where I grew up.

For me, the answer to this perfectly innocuous question is logistically complicated and emotionally treacherous. Whenever I can, I try my best to zip through a muddled answer that concludes with “but I’ve been in New York City for eleven years now.” I’m a New Yorker now and that’s all I’d like to say, but a person’s backstory is important.

I hate, hate, hate, hate, HATE answering the question of where I grew up. It is typically one of the first things strangers ask each other, and this is not a 100-level topic for me. But it’s unavoidable and a demonstration of someone’s interest in me as a person and so I answer — reluctantly and as quickly as I can. I can become cagey and weird, it only makes the discomfort worse.

By now, my explanation of my upbringing has essentially been whittled down to a memorized script. But the more I share, the more questions I get asked. I want to say: Please stop asking me about my childhood, just pretend I was born a 30-year-old woman.

So here it is.