So, what are you doing here?

"You from Nigeria?" Mariama asked.

"Yes," Ifemelu said. "Where are you from?"

"Me and my sister Halima are from Mali. Aisha is from Senegal," Mariama said.

Aisha did not look up, but Halima smiled at Ifemelu, a smile that, in its warm knowingness, said welcome to a fellow African; she would not smile at an American in the same way. [...] Ifemelu fanned herself with a magazine. "It's so hot," she said. At least, these women would not say to her "You're hot? But you're from Africa!" [...]

- Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

Any social gathering I go to, there are two  questions people ask to open a conversation every single time: "Where are you from?" And "What are you doing in Mexico?" For whatever reason, the next question is usually whether I'm planning to stay. This really puzzles me. Perhaps people often don't? 

I can't blame them for asking. For one reason or another, in Egypt the question "where are you from?" used to drive me crazy. I sincerely hated it and would even sometimes avoid answering it, even avoid conversation with the person who asked all together (they were usually men asking, but I guess they were usually Egyptian men you would meet in the kind of places foreigners hung out at, in particular in bars; for reasons mostly social, the overwhelming majority of my Egyptian friends outside of the office were men, at least at the beginning). Here it doesn't bother me, but there is another problem. How does one answer such a question? Obviously, people who have spent a significant amount of their lives living in a country other than the one where they were born, adopt various strategies when describing their identity. To the question "Where are you from?" Some would answer "I am originally from X" or "I currently live in Y". These kind of answers are sometimes frowned upon for "showing off". But what do you do if the short answer "I am from Z" just doesn't label you with enough precision? How does one answer such a question simply, if life experiences are more complicated? Just how does one summarize the complexity of their identity for social small talk purposes? Generally speaking, I tend to be selective. Basically, I adjust my answers, depending on how interested my interlocutor seems to be. Or depending on my mood. 

I came to Mexico to work for some Very Important, Rich and Famous People, whose names it is better not to mention out loud (let's call them VIPs). So, I came to Mexico to work for a couple of VIPs, more precisely, to work with their children. As it is often the case with people who've got everything and a little bit more, the VIPs, rather extravagantly, wanted to raise their children as natives of as many cultures and languages, as humanely possible, plus a couple more. And so they dreamt up a Polish "development specialist" who would convey the very essence of her "Polishness" onto their little bundles of joy. To express it simply, I was contracted to imprint my unique cultural codes onto the VIP children - through my language, mentality and way of life. I was also told I would be part of a very special, alternative educational process, aimed at raising a generation of peace-loving leaders. I was to join an international team of "development specialists" of various cultures in a learning institution where children run barefoot, individuality is encouraged and conventional social norms do not exist. 

Armed with a suitcase of very progressive children's books, which I had picked up on a short visit in Warsaw - a brief vacation I took in hope of buffering the transition from program officer in Egypt to an early development education specialist for Mexican children - I joined my new family on the East Coast of the United States, where I was expecting to undergo some much needed training in preparation for my new role. "Everything I've been doing until now has led me to this job," I thought to myself, as I boarded the flight to New York. My mind drifted towards the "introduction to cultural studies" courses I took at University and I smiled to myself, thinking that I had finally found people open-minded enough to actually want to expose their children to applied theories of gender neutrality, non-violence and unbiased cross-cultural awareness. This was my opportunity to move away from the desk and onto educational projects "on the ground". I had found my tribe, I thought. 

Days passed and the trainings, initially mentioned on several occasions, were mentioned less frequently and eventually I stopped asking about them. Slowly comprehending that no one cared that in my opinion dressing little girls in pink dresses and calling them princesses should be considered child abuse, the bubble of my expectations burst with a loud "pop", as I woke up to a reality painted in pink and gold - the favorite colors of the lady of the house. The more I tried to mold myself into my new life and role, the more I was suffocating but what kept me going was the conviction that things would be different once we got to Mexico. I kept telling myself that there had to be a reason why they chose me over some 40 million other Polish people, that they had to have seen in me something they liked. In order to keep on the surface, I started using every opportunity to "get away". Conveniently based in Upstate NY at the peak of the stunning East Coast Autumn, with its multitude of red, orange and yellow hues, I visited friends in NYC, DC and Montreal, and also went on a beautiful hike in the Hudson Valley. Talk about epic weekends!  

As October neared its end, I packed up my temporary life and joined the VIPs on their great migration down South. The next chapter was beginning right then and there, and I was excited and hopeful once again. As expected, things did not get better and finally, after a bit less than three very long and painful months, it became obvious that my type of "Polishness" was not compatible with the VIP expectations and so we said our farewells. Sometimes pink is the saddest color. 

Although much relieved, all of a sudden I found myself jobless and alone in a foreign country, very far from home. A heavy burden had been lifted from my chest, I was free and saved from sinking into depression, which would have inevitably been the case, had I continued working for the VIPs. But what now? "When in doubt, do yoga" is my go-to solution to problems and so I did just that, but suddenly found myself on the floor, tears filling my eyes, experiencing what - I realized - was an anxiety attack. 

I took to the Internet with one thing in mind: I had to find a job, any job. And fast. Do you remember how at the end the play of A Streetcar Named Desire by Tennessee Williams, Blanche says to the doctor: "Whoever you are, I have always depended on the kindness of strangers."? That is somehow the story of my life. Obviously, the circumstances here were not remotely as bad, as in Blanche's case (whose story didn't end so well), but it was, in fact, a complete stranger, who helped me. He answered my post on a Facebook group, suggested that I teach English, convinced me I could do it and put me in touch with a language school. The following day I was offered a job. Truly, an amazing human being and I cannot thank him enough. I start Monday. Wish me luck!