Does it bother you that people ask you the dumbest things? Like “Are you adopted,” or “Where are you from?” when it’s obvious that you are biracial or that the people you call mom and dad were not present at your conception and birth?

In my case, people wanted to know who my birth mother was and why she gave me up. I had no answers, and it was none of their business, anyway. Right? I can’t remember exactly what I said, but every time I felt miserably wretched and unhappy at the thought that my mother had walked away and let me be raised by another family.

When I reached my teens, one of my greatest pleasures was reading about far-away places in The National Geographic Magazine. Whether it was about the Siberian landscape, or seeing luscious grapes on the terraced vineyards in southern Europe, perhaps Egypt’s pyramids, or the New Zealand islands… No matter, every new edition of the magazine rekindled my longing for what lay far beyond my home.

I was in a store with my friend Rifka, when a woman came up to me and rudely asked me where I was from. I didn’t fit the general profile of the neighborhood, still, why didn’t she ask the same question of my White friend as well? In line with my age-appropriate rudeness, I looked at the stranger and said, “Fez.” Rifka laughed so hard she almost wet her pants. The woman had probably never heard of the city, so I followed up with, “Morocco,” as I turned and walked away.

“That was so cool,” my friend caught up with me giggling. “When did you come up with such a cool answer? Morocco! Did you see her expression? Oh man, I loved that stupefied look on her face!”

My response had been a trigger reaction waiting to happen. And my friend’s joy at my rudeness made an impression on me. Oh yes, that’s how I’d answer unwelcome interrogators in the future. I’d say any place that came to mind and if in the mood, I’d embellish the locations by building stories around them. Like my parents being actors traveling with a troupe through a vast expanse of land. I was born on the steppe, six hours out of Ulan Bator. Any more questions, and my answers became increasingly ridiculous and silly and I’d burst out laughing myself. Imagine having palm wine shipped to an oasis in the Namibian desert. All in all, I realized I knew a lot about geography. What I didn’t realize is that I had a chip on my shoulder and felt bad because I looked different than the rest of the community.

As adoptees, most of us, directly or indirectly, were taught to respond when people asked us personal questions. It’s as if those asking have a right to know our personal stories. Those people would not ask such questions of someone who did not “look” adopted.

When I was young, I hated myself for answering. Later, through therapy, I learned that what I had hated was having my personal boundaries invaded. Boundaries… Somehow, as adoptees we lack a clear understanding of where others end and we begin. If you are an adoptee, are you aware of where you begin and another ends? Do you feel “invaded” when you are asked about being adopted? How much does it hurt, how much do you pretend it does not matter to you? How often do you lie in bed at night, hating yourself for not having had the nerve to speak out? What have you done about it? I’d love to know.