The Question That Carries a Threat
Some questions aren’t about curiosity—they’re about permission.
An Art of Drinking Water reflection · 5 minute read
It doesn’t always arrive loudly.
Sometimes it’s disguised as curiosity.
As friendliness.
As small talk that lingers a little too long.
Where are you from?
I answer.
And then it comes—
No, where are you really from?
That’s when the air changes.
Because that question isn’t about geography.
It’s about permission.
It asks whether you belong here by right
or by tolerance.
Whether your presence is assumed
or needs explanation.
For many of us, immigration anxiety exists
even when we are not immigrants.
It lives in the body anyway.
It shows up in how quickly we clarify our status.
How carefully we carry documentation.
How alert we become when systems ask for proof.
It is inherited.
Passed down through stories, warnings, silences.
Through parents who taught us how to stay safe without naming why.
Through elders who knew which questions could cost you everything.
You learn early that legality is not always the issue.
Perception is.
Assumptions settle in quietly.
That you must have come from somewhere else.
That you are temporary.
That your belonging is conditional.
You feel it when people are surprised by your authority.
When your fluency is treated like an exception.
When your success is framed as improbable.
You feel it when you’re asked to explain yourself
in spaces where others are simply assumed.
And even when nothing explicitly happens,
your body stays ready.
Ready to justify.
Ready to clarify.
Ready to prove.
That readiness is exhausting.
It shapes how you move through the world—
how much space you take,
how visible you allow yourself to be.
It teaches you to keep your head down
even when you have every right to stand tall.
Water taught me something here.
Water does not carry a passport.
It is not asked to justify its source.
It moves across borders drawn after it already existed.
Water belongs because it exists.
And so do you.
The fear that follows you is not imagination.
It is memory—personal and collective—living in the nervous system.
But fear does not get to define truth.
If you have ever felt your stomach tighten at a harmless-sounding question,
if you have ever rehearsed answers no one asked for,
if you have ever wondered whether you are truly safe where you stand—
know this:
Your belonging is not up for debate.
Your presence does not require explanation.
Your worth is not determined by how well you can reassure others.
Some questions are not meant to be answered.
They are meant to be recognized for what they carry.
And once you see that weight clearly,
you don’t have to absorb it.
Like water responding to gravity,
you are allowed to keep moving—
not away from who you are,
but deeper into the truth that you were never temporary here.
You belong.