Where are you REALLY from?

I have this little dream that one day I will bind up (bind as in pages, not feet) all the frustrations my generation of Asian Americans face into a neat little book.

Them: Where are you from?
Me: Seattle.
Them: *Scoff. Laugh as if I made a cheeky joke.* No no, where are you really from?

Most times I just give up and tell them want they want to hear. Why does this crap bother me....imagine going up to every black you meet with "Hi. Nice to meet you. Were your ancestors slaves?" Or better yet, go up to a white and ask "Were your great-great-great-grandparents slave owners?"

Why does it matter and it's none of your business, so shut ya mouth!?!? Don't get me wrong, I am proud of being an immigrant. My life story is the backbone of my identity and my conscience. I love talking about ME. ME. ME. I don't even know what part of "Where are you really from?" that bothers me. I feel like people ask it only to satisfy some sick curiosity. They rarely go beyond labeling me as "assimilated immigrant" or "model minority."

At times, I can feel them doing mental calculations to assess if I have linguistically and culturally assimilated into mainstream white America. Internally checking if my English skills and mannerism justify two decades on US soil. Am I paranoid? Maybe. But more often than not, the rest of the conversation confirms my suspicion. Here's a list of What-I-really-Want-To-Say to Where-Are-You-Really-From?

Them: Oh, but you speak English so well.
Me: Yes. Thank you US education system.

Them: Do you visit your home often?
Me: Yes, I go home every night.

Them: I love PF Chang. Isn't this place great?
Me: Sure.
*If you don't get this one, see comedian Dat Phan's clip.

Them: Are you disappointed that you only have two daughters? You must be trying for a boy next time.
Me: Yeah, my girls are a disappointment. Want to buy them? I'm not keeping the next one, if it's another girl. For the record, I'm not "trying for a boy" as much as "trying to have hot steamy sex."

Them: I heard about the typhoon/earthquake/flood/wrath of God in Asia. Are your relatives okay?
Me: Thank you so much for your concern and kind thoughts. Luckily my family lives in Seattle and the typhoon/earthquake/flood/wrath of God only hit a small section on the other side of the continent from my ancestral home.

(If I don't get some pop culture reference)
Them: Oh, that's right! I forgot you didn't grow up here.
Me: If I didn't rush to the opening night of Harry Potter, that doesn't make me a foreigner, you dumbass.

Them: Must have been so hard growing up a Communist.
Me: ?

(At potluck party)
Them: Did you bring authentic Chinese food? I'm so excited to try some.
Me: I baked a homemade apple pie. (discontended sighs seep in around me)

Them: Your people's . . . xyz blah blah.
Me: My people can kick your collective asses.

(If I am in possession of any ethnic looking food, even if it's in a take-out Styrofoam container inside in a "Thank You" plastic bag with plastic utensils.)
Them: Oh My God! Did you make that?
Me: No, I got my order to-go. And no, it's not food from my family's business.