Danger Zone

"Where are you from?" On the surface, this seems like a rather bland, straightforward question, but actually I've discovered that, like an onion, it's multi-layered, and the way one chooses to answer can vary tremendously depending on the listener's geographic enlightenment. For example, for most people whom I meet, "Cerritos" is a perfectly acceptable answer: neither too detailed, nor too vague. When I was in China, however, this response would have been totally incomprehensible; instead I favored a simple "America" (in Mandarin).

Around other Californians not necessarily familiar with all the cities in the greater Los Angeles area, the former answer might assume the questioner knows more than he does; the latter might be as uninformative as "from my mother's uterus," or be taken as an affront to his intelligence. Hence, in such social circles, I have settled on a safe "L.A.", or sometimes "Orange County."

(The truth, as my geographically enlightened readers well know, is that technically, Cerritos is in L.A. County, but in sensibility, demographics, and atmosphere, I find it much more aligned with Irvine or Fountain Valley than, say, Inglewood or Pico Rivera. Besides, as often as not, the person posing the question is asking to get a feel for your station as well as your local, so my answer isn't as disingenuous as it is informative. Anyway, Cerritos sits on the boarder of the two counties; cross the street from my neighborhood, and you're in Orange County. Our water is even piped in from the O.C.! Truth be told, Cerritos is a world unto itself, and defies categorization, but I'm not above classifying it for convenience's sake.)

My college years were a time in which I met many people from all over California, so I came to identify myself as an OCite when meeting new people. My regional chauvinism grew, until one day Aimee Chen (from the Sacramento area) called me on it. "Orange County is so snooty! Does everyone there have a six-figure income? Snooty, snooty snooooooooty!"

I rushed to the defense of my beloved county. "Not all the parts are nice!" began the retort. "There are ghetto parts--like Santa Ana." I am told that as I said "Santa Ana," my face underwent one of its infamous contortions, this one of utter disdain. (Unfortunately, I am not typically possessed of the power to restrain my face from divulging my true emotions; I do not, consequently, conceal my thoughts very successfully.) Noting that my comment had proved her point, Aimee laughed raucously.

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Tonight I learned whence this provincial chauvinism stems: my parents. I was preparing to drive to the gym, and my mom inquired where I was headed so late. After telling her, she asked which gym, and I said I supposed the one in Norwalk, since it's closest to our house in Whittier.

"Norwalk?" she balked. "Norwalk isn't safe!"

My father had caught the name of this perilous city as he was coming down the stairs. "What about Norwalk?"

"He's going to workout in Norwalk!" my mom replied.

"Norwalk?!? Why don't you just go out with a sign around your neck that says 'Please beat me over the head'? What are you going to Norwalk for?"

If they hadn't so often repeated that infamous name, their response might have led me to believe they had simply misapprehended me. Instead of "working out in Norwalk" it seems they heard "opening up a liquor store in Compton," "moving to the Darfur region of Sudan as a UN peacekeeper," or "going to do investigative reporting for a year in Fallujah."

But fortunately for me, I compose this not in any place as seedy as those; I am safe and sound--in Cerritos.