What Are You?

"What are you?"
I looked down at the kindergartner. I gave him what has become my standard answer: "I'm a teacher."
"No," he huffed, "What are you?"
I puzzled a moment while this boy's impatience grew. "I don't know what you mean," I faltered.
"Are you a Mexican?"
"No," I replied, starting to grasp the path of his inquiry.
"What are you?" he repeated.
"I'm Scottish. Irish," I was fishing.
His brow furrowed. "Have you ever been there?"
"Been where?"
"To Irish?" His patience was wearing thin.
"Ireland? No."
"To Irish," he needed an answer to his question.
I tried to explain, "People who come from Ireland are called Irish. The place is Ireland. The people are Irish."
"I'm Tongan," and this I already knew. He was part of a wide array of brothers and sisters and cousins who attend our school. They show up at every multi-cultural event and show off their dancing skills. Mad skills, both literally and figuratively, as the boys stomp about barefoot emulating their warrior ancestors. They stand in stark contrast to many of the kids at our school for whom heritage means the neighborhood in which they live currently. This kid had been to Tonga. He understood that if you were from Tonga, you were a Tongan. If you were from Mexico, you were Mexican. If you were from Africa, you were African. Irish? What was that?
"I've never been to the home of my ancestors," I told him.
He looked at me with a touch of sadness. I should have told him I was from Kansas.