I was a junior in college at a typical red Solo cup-filled party and noticed a guy making eye contact with me from across the room. I felt anxious but excited as he started to make his way over.

Then he asked, "So, where are you from?"

This was the first thing he said to me. Not "What's your name?" or "What's your major?" or any other boring line.

“Where are you from?”

I have heard this question many times over. It seems my ambiguous physical features are an invitation to a guessing game I don’t like playing. Are you Persian? Mexican? Italian? Native American? The list goes on. People would throw names of any race or ethnic group at me hoping that one would stick.

"I'm trying to figure you out," someone said to me once, suggesting I was a math question he could find the answer to if he worked through the problem.

Eventually and begrudgingly, I would tell all of them I'm half-Indian.

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Growing up with a white mom and Indian dad, I had difficulty accepting my dark features and ethnic background because it seemed clear to me that whiteness equated "normal." In the fourth grade, I brought chicken curry to school for lunch and saw all my classmates' faces wrinkle up in confusion at this bizarre food they had never experienced. I got teased for it, so for the next eight years, lunch consisted of only peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. In eighth grade, a friend thought it would be "exotic" if I dated a white guy. In 12th grade, a stranger in line at a gas station asked if I knew the cashier because he was also Indian. A high school classmate also asked my sister if all Indians were born with red dots on their heads. And my dad was called "Pete" through the 10th grade because the science teacher didn't like his Indian name.

I was born and raised in America, but for much of my life, I felt like an outsider. In my most crippling moments of insecurity, I wished for my mom's whiteness and the privilege that came with it, where I wouldn't have to explain my appearance and I could experience what I thought was normalcy.

Then Donald Trump announced his presidential bid.

Like most people, I had a good laugh at the beginning picturing this childish reality show host in the White House. But he quickly made his stances clear: He called Mexicans "rapists" and "murderers," supported the deportation of millions of immigrants who called America home, proposed to ban all Muslims from entering this country, and incited violence at his rallies with hateful and racist remarks against anyone he deemed different. I watched videos of protesters being aggressively ejected from his rallies, and Trump supporters spewing racial slurs and verbal abuses at anyone who disagreed with them.

I was shocked that his divisive rhetoric was fueling so much hate and saddened that he was exploiting prejudices to prey on fear of the masses in pursuit of his own political agenda.

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On a recent business trip, my father was at a restaurant with a coworker, and when the waiter went to place a fork and knife at the table, he turned to my father's white colleague and jokingly asked, "Is it safe to give this guy a knife?" Not wanting to cause a scene, my father shrugged it off, but I was angry that a loving and kind-hearted person like my dad would be the subject of such a tasteless and discriminatory remark. Even under the guise of a joke, comments like these are still racist at worst and ignorant at best, yet I have no doubt that these occurrences would be even more commonplace and almost expected under a Trump presidency.

And yet as much as I fear that outcome, the more I think about this election, the more I realize how it’s had a positive impact on me. Trump’s misinformed, hate-fueled campaign has actually instilled in me the pride I should have felt long ago about being a person of color. I know that my ethnicity was never something to be ashamed of and I realize it's important now more than ever to not only embrace but defend the diversity that this country was founded on.

In the past, when I or any family members were the subject of ignorant remarks, I hardly spoke up because they only reinforced my belief that my ethnicity made me inferior. Now that’s no longer the case. A couple of weeks ago, I heard that dreaded question again. I was at dinner with a friend and she asked where I was from. This time, however, we didn’t have to play the guessing game. Instead of feeling embarrassed or frustrated, I was happy to share my background and experiences. I explained that my grandparents immigrated to America from India so their family could lead a better life, and for that I am immensely grateful.

Strangely, I have Trump to thank for helping me accept my ethnicity and, in turn, being more willing to stand up for it. And to show my appreciation, I’ll be happy to vote against him Nov. 8.

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