Last Monday, I stopped by a factory in Pietermaritzburg that sells gardening boots. Leanne, one of the nice people who work there, helped me to find a pair in my size.
“Where are you from,” she asked as we chatted.
“I’m from New York,” I answered. “How did you know I’m not from here?”
“It’s your accent,” said Leeann.
My accent. Yes.
Leeann’s question resonated with me because it reminded me of my being perceived by others in KwaZulu-Natal as a foreigner, which, of course, I am here.
As it happens, the Torah last week told a story about identity. In the story, God gives Abraham and Sarah new identities, as part of God’s promise to make Abraham the leader of a great nation. Abraham’s new name reflected his new status.
Identity is with us always. Shakespeare uses mistaken identity in such plays as Cymbeline, the Comedy of Errors and Twelfth Night to create confusion and comic effect.
Around the Shabbat table on Friday, some friends and I discussed identity. What is our identity? Where does it come from?
“I was such a different person in high school,” said Kate, one of our hosts.
On Thursday, I visited a coffee bar in Durban. The manager, a Durbanite named Zane, asked me where I am from. “I’m from New York,” I said, enjoying answering the question for the second time in four days.
“Ah, yes, that’s it, I can tell by your accent,” Zane said.
For me this week, foreigner feels right.