Immigrant Life: When People Automatically Assume You’re Not ‘From Here’
By: Hurriya Burney
Tags: This Happened To Me, Self, Equality, Travel, Immigration

Photo by Jannet Serhan from Pexels

I frequently travel to Victoria for work. The vibrant Vancouver Island city is a twenty-minute seaplane ride from Vancouver, merely 93 km away across an expanse of water.

On a recent trip, I arrived at the tiny Vancouver harbor airport to discover that all morning flights were delayed due to fog. I had client meetings booked in Victoria starting at 10 a.m., and all three half-hour increment flights, starting at 8:30 a.m., had been canceled.

A harried-looking customer service rep was trying to explain patiently, to two annoyed-looking men in business suits, that she had no line of sight into the status of future flights. She suggested that they look at alternative travel options, one of which was to cab to the Vancouver International Airport about 40 minutes away and grab a larger plane from there.

I sidled closer to eavesdrop on the conversation, thinking it may provide the answers I was seeking. Unconvinced, I asked the rep, “So are you sure that there is room on flights from the Vancouver International Airport?”

I wanted to confirm that taking a 40-minute cab ride out to the airport would be worth my time. Since the rep had clearly been in touch with their partner carrier at the airport, I thought it would be quicker to ask her than to call the airline myself.

The response I got was unexpected. The rep looked at me, quickly sized me up, and said, “Ma’am. This is Vancouver. You are in Vancouver.”

Maybe she hadn’t heard me. Perhaps I wasn’t clear enough.

I kept a straight face and replied, “Yes, I know this is Vancouver. I live here.”

Color flooded her face. I could tell that she was mortified at the assumption that she had made.

In a few seconds of perusal, especially when flanked by two white men, I stood out as different.

And the unevolved part of her brain — likely barely hearing a word I said — automatically assumed I wasn’t from here. She conflated me with the dozens of tourists that undoubtedly flowed through the airport on a daily basis. Even though I was carrying a briefcase-style purse and wearing a business suit.

I wasn’t offended. Because microaggressions are an unavoidable part of the immigrant experience. People generally mean well. They’re pleasant. They want to do the right thing. But social conditioning, especially seeded over childhood, is hard to escape.

Photo by Matheus Viana on Pexels

If you’re an immigrant, you’ve undoubtedly been asked, a gratuitous number of times, where ‘you’re from’.

I don’t take offense at that question. I prefer to believe that it comes from a place of genuine curiosity.

When asked that question in Vancouver, I always share that I was born in Pakistan but have been living in North America for over 17 years. When I’m traveling within North America, outside of Vancouver, I tell people I’m from Vancouver. And ignore the puzzled, slightly surprised look I sometimes get.

I know that the color of my skin marks me. People assume that I’m a tourist from India. Because I don’t look like a typical Canadian. Surely, there must be a contraction that better defines my roots. Indian-Canadian maybe. I have no problem embracing that label — although I’ve only been to India twice. After all, labels don’t change who I am. They don’t predict my outcomes in life.