Shortly before departing to Paris for college, a brief incident caused me to reflect upon my ethnicity. While shopping in the produce section of Brooklyn’s Stop n’ Shop one day, an elderly woman approached me and asked, “Простите, молодой человек, вы знаете сколько стоят эти помидоры?” On first breath, I didn’t know how to respond to her asking if I knew the price of the tomatoes. Despite my instantaneous, indeed subconscious, mental translation, I considered myself an American and I was shopping at a typical American store. I felt insulted because she was labeling me and presuming my ethnic identity.