A grandfatherly white male busker plays familiar folk tunes on a guitar or ukulele outside of a grocery store. He nods and smiles, saying “Thank you” as passersby drop coins or bills into his open case. (This part of the scene can take place as the audience enters.)
A Filipinx woman in her late thirties walks out of the store. She wears business attire with high-end shoes and a designer purse slung over her shoulder. She holds two bags of groceries in reusable bags. The grocery bags are not heavy, but she is tired and cranky, having left a full day of work to buy a few items for dinner that night. After a long day at the office, the bags feel as if they are holding ten-pound weights.
The Busker assesses the woman and sees the designer purse and shoes. He smiles at her and nods. She nods back, smiling politely. She attempts to pass by him, trying to avoid further engagement. He steps in front of her.
Busker. Good evening, Ma’am.
She is instantly annoyed at having been called ma’am.
Woman. Evening.
Busker. Are you having a good one?
She purses her lips and lets out an exasperated sigh.
Woman. As best as can be expected.
Busker. That’s all that we could ask for, eh? If you don’t mind me asking, where are you from?
The Woman drops the smile.
Woman. (to audience)
This happens all the time. I’m asked “Where are you from?” Strangers, co-workers, friends. I take the words at face value, “I want to know where you’re from” as in “Where were you born?”
(to Busker)
I’m from Winnipeg.
Busker. No, no. Where are you really from?
Woman. (to audience)
There it is. The question isn’t “Where are you from?” The question really is, “Why do you look like you don’t belong here?”
(to Busker)
I’m from Winnipeg. I was born here.
Busker. No, no, no. You’re from the Philippines, right?
Woman. (to audience)
Respect your elders. All Filipino children are taught, respect your elders.
(to Busker)
My parents came from the Philippines.
Busker. Ahh, I knew it! Mabuhay! Kamusta ka!
Woman. (to audience)
I think that means “Welcome”? “How are you”? Why would you say that to a stranger leaving a store? “Welcome. How are you.”
I was born here. I was raised here. I barely know Filipino. I know the important things such as the swear words and “Salamat” for “Thank you.” My parents spoke to me in Tagalog when I was very, very young, but once I started kindergarten, the language dissipated into the English ether.
(looks at Busker)
I’m not sure what he’s expecting me to say. Does he actually want to know how I’m doing or does he want some sort of validation, a pat on the head for saying the funny words correctly?
(to Busker)
Um, okay.
Busker. All right! I love pancit and lumpia!
Woman. (to audience)
Once someone finds out I’m Filipino, why do they feel the need to tell me they like traditional Filipino food? When someone tells me they’re Jewish, I don’t start talking about matzah ball soup. When someone says they’re Métis, I don’t yell out “Bannock!” When someone says they’re British, I feel no need to bring up Bangers and Mash.
Why not start a real conversation?
(turning to the Busker)
Why couldn’t you have said something along the lines of —
Busker. (puts down the guitar)
Ahh, you’re Filipino? I had a Filipino co-worker at my last job. He brought pancit and lumpia to our work potluck. They tasted amazing. Can you recommend a Filipino restaurant?
She smiles at him genuinely.
The Busker picks up the guitar and the eager look on his face returns.
The Woman sighs and drops her smile.
Woman. (to audience)
But no, I have to respond to the shouting of random Filipino dishes.
(to Busker)
That’s … nice.
Where are you from?
Busker. (proudly) Nova Scotia.
Woman. Ahh … (thinking of a Nova Scotian dish) The Donair.
Busker. That’s right! I love Donair!
Woman. (to audience)
He says where he’s from so proudly because he is never asked The Question. He answers with pride because that’s the place where he was born and the place where he grew up. No doubts. No questions. Everyone believes him the first time he answers.
I’m rarely given the privilege of being believed.
She puts down the grocery bags.
A few weeks ago at work, all of the managers were introduced to the new Director of our unit. We started off great but as I walked him back to his office …
The Woman shakes hands with her new Director.
Director. Great to meet you, and thank you for making me feel so welcome. By the way, where are you from?
WOMAN. Winnipeg, sir.
Director. Oh, sorry, that’s not what I meant. Where are you from originally?
Woman. (smiling politely)
I was born in Winnipeg.
Sir.
The Woman picks up the grocery bags and steps away.
(to audience)
But what else could I do? What could I say?
She closes her eyes.
I needed to be home. I needed to be with my family.
The Woman puts down the bags.
I have two sons, five and ten years old. They’re mestizo, Eastern European and Filipino, the perfect fusion of my husband and I in every way. I looked at my five-year-old as he played with his toy cars. I see my dark hair and his father’s straight nose, my almond eyes and his father’s eyelids. I needed to know.
(to five-year-old)
Jamie, come here.
Jamie stands in front of her. She takes his hand.
Woman. Have you ever been asked the question, “Where are you from?”
The boy nods.
She takes a breath.
Woman. What do you say?
Jamie. I’m from Canada.
She smiles and touches his face.
Woman. That’s right, honey. You’re from Canada, born in the same hospital where I was born, in Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada. Can you do me a favour and get your brother?
Jamie. Okay.
(calling out) Gerald! Mommy wants you!
He runs out.
Gerald enters sulkily.
Gerald. I’m in the middle of a game.
Woman. I just have a quick question, honey.
Have you ever been asked the question, “Where are you from?”
Gerald shrugs.
Woman. How do you answer?
Gerald. (shrugging) I dunno.
Woman. (sterner) Gerald, how do you answer the question, “Where are you from?”
She takes his hand.
You can tell me.
Gerald. The Philippines.
Woman. What?! The Philippines? Why do you say the Philippines?
Gerald. (stepping back)
Because that’s what they want to know.
Woman. Why do you say you’re from the Philippines? You were born here. I was born here. My parents have been here over forty years. Daddy was born here. His parents were born here! Their parents were born here! And one of their parents was born in Poland. You are not from the Philippines!
Gerald. I’m sorry, Mommy. I’m sorry.
Woman. No, honey! I’m sorry for yelling.
She hugs him.
Gerald. I thought that’s what it means.
She pulls away and looks at him.
Woman. That’s not what it means.
I’m so sorry. I’m not mad at you.
She looks down at their hands.
I’m not mad at you.
She lets go and Gerald walks away.
I’m not mad at you.
She looks up at the audience, scanning the people in front of her.
She turns and glares at the Busker with seething anger.
Woman. I’m mad at them.
She directs her anger at the Busker, circling him.
I’m mad that my ten-year-old has been asked the question enough times to know that it doesn’t matter that he’s half-white or that he’s second-generation Canadian.
I’m mad that he knows he is viewed as an outsider.
I’m mad because those words mean one thing when you are white and another thing when you are brown.
She turns to the audience.
Where. Are. You. From.
She turns to the Busker, picking up her bags, turning to leave.
Busker. (jovial) Since you’re Filipino, I wanted to play you something.
The Busker starts to play the chords to “Bahay Kubo,” a children’s song from the Philippines. He sings “Da da, da da” for the melody. He keeps playing the same verse over and over again (three chords).
The Woman turns to him slowly and is taken aback as she hears the song. She listens for a moment. Her anger trickles out of her as she stares at him.
Woman. (to audience but looking at Busker)
“Bahay Kubo …” It’s a song from the Philippines. My mother used to sing it to me. She had a beautiful voice.
(singing along with the melody) Bahay Kubo, kahit munti …
It means Little House … And a garden. It’s about a little house and the vegetables that grow in the garden. I remember singing the song with her. I remember speaking the same language.
(singing along with the melody) Bahay Kubo, kahit munti …
She closes her eyes for a moment.
My mother died two years ago. I would give anything to hear her sing to me again.
She circles him, her eyes fixated on him as she speaks.
If I wasn’t so wound up from the stupid, ignorant, racist question he used to get my attention, I probably would’ve given him a loonie, a toonie, maybe all the money in my purse for a memory I hadn’t thought of in years, maybe decades.
How did he learn this song? Who taught him the melody? A friend? A lover?
(singing along with the melody) Bahay Kubo, kahit munti …
We bought Gerald a ukulele last year for his birthday. After three days, he never touched it again. If this man could teach Gerald the song, I would give him money. I would give him my jewellery. I would tell him about the fantastic Donair place in St. Vital. I would do anything to share this song with my children so that someday they can share the song with their children.
(singing along with the melody) Bahay Kubo, kahit munti …
Why? Why did you have to ask me those words? Why couldn’t you just say —
Busker. (stops playing, speaking politely)
Excuse me, Miss, I am so sorry to disturb you. I’m just curious, are you Filipino? You don’t have to answer, of course, but if you are Filipino, and even if you’re not, I have a song that I think you’d enjoy.
The Busker starts playing an exaggerated version of “Bahay Kubo” again, badly singing the lyrics of the song.
She steps back into her original position. Defeated.
Woman. (to Busker, angrily) HEY!
He stops playing.
Next time, if you want to know someone’s ethnicity, you should just ask.
Racist asshole.
The Woman walks away in frustration.
The Busker is confused, oblivious to her anger. He shrugs it off.
He nods and smiles at an unseen person passing by.
Busker. Hey! Where are you from?
Jamaica? Hey mon! I love doubles and beef patties!
The Busker starts to play a set of syncopated reggae chords.
He smiles as the unseen person drops money into his case.
Yeah! Thank you, mon! We be jammin’!
He continues to play the song.
Lights fade out.
Where. Are. You. From. was commissioned by Royal Manitoba Theatre Centre and produced as part of Tiny Plays, Big Ideas, a virtual festival featuring four short plays exploring the theme of human rights. The original creative production team included Audrey Dwyer as dramaturge, Hazel Venzon as director, and starred Rochelle Kives & Rob Patterson.