Granted, this was over the phone, but still. I was so flabbergasted that it was a few seconds before I could gather my wits and say no. The client was from Hong Kong, and I was conscious of being slightly flattered that he would think I shared his nationality, even while I was floored by the sheer absurdity of being mistaken for anything other than a Caucasian American. I think my native accent is a dead giveaway, but apparently not.

As a child I wished passionately to be "foreign," and to live in foreign lands. I thought being an American was utterly dull and common as dirt. I was absolutely convinced I was born to travel the world. I wandered around pretending to speak French, and parroting English phrases picked up from books and television. My family, failing to grasp my urgent need to go abroad, oppressed me by vacationing in Hawaii instead of France. I felt sulky and deprived until I discovered Hawaiian culture was pretty darned foreign and delightfully accessible. I immediately obsessed on Hawaii for the next few years, followed by Japan, China, and all of the South Pacific.

Since then, of course, I've become a travel agent in order to pay for my sightseeing jaunts around the world. I've even lived, albeit briefly, in a foreign land. I feel like a citizen of the world, aware of the value of my own country but not counting it more valuable than others. I don't try to hide who I am, but I prefer to blend in if possible. One of my secretly cherished memories is standing a few feet away from a British friend who was looking for me in a crowded street and could not spot me. When she finally did, she exclaimed she couldn't locate me because I looked so British, and she was subconsciously looking for an American. I was delighted in much the same way I was flattered today. I like the idea of being mistaken for a different nationality, because I was so worried I was destined to be "only" an American.

Tami Vining, on the other hand, has gone through her whole life being asked the same question over and over, until it has sometimes seemed to be the only thing anyone cares about. "What are you?" strangers say, trying to place her unusual features. Tami is many things: a science fiction fan, a punk rock musician, a poet, a dyke, a graduate of film school, a volunteer with street outreach groups, a friend of mine since 1982. She was adopted as a very young child while her parents were teaching and living in a small town in Alaska. She does not particularly think of herself as an Inuit, but that is her genetic heritage. She was raised in a white, middle class family in Idaho and Germany; that's how she identifies. She is an urban soul to the core; she has no interest in "returning" to her tribe and their way of life.

"My cousins invited me to come see them on the reservation. They wanted me to hunt an elk with them. I don't want to hunt an elk!" she said plaintively last night while sipping herbal tea after dinner. She was visiting from Seattle as a post-graduation present to herself, and spent the night before heading for Yosemite.

"Ew," I said aghast. "They'd probably want you to take the first entrails or something as honored guest." We shuddered in mutual disgust.

No, neither Tami nor I would fit in with this sort of activity. But no one has any expectations for me. No one calls me sister, or accuses me of not doing enough for my people, or repeatedly asks me to identify my race and my tribe. I am well represented on television and in movies. My genetic heritage is not a puzzle. And my race is not an issue that has ever come up more than once or twice in my life. But Tami, well, Tami walks through her life being requested to show racial i.d.. "What are you?" they ask, not interested in who but only what.

"Human," Tami says, and moves on.

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