On the morning of June 3rd, I found myself ambling along a tree-lined, mulberry-strewn path leading from Selçuk, a small town on the western coast of Turkey, to the ancient city of Ephesus. My mother and older brother were a bit further ahead, and my father, a mulberry enthusiast, was trailing behind as he patrolled the trees for ripe fruit. In inspecting his bounty earlier, I had discovered that mulberries, along with cherries, apples and the Brazilian jaca fruit, induce a rather unpleasant allergic reaction in my mouth, so I made sure to avoid both the berries and my fruit-laden father for the rest of the walk.

About half-way to Ephesus, we left the mulberry path for a short while to visit the Temple of Artemis, which was one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. Not much remained, save a single column accompanied by a few piles of white marble rubble. What proved to be more enagaging were the vendors who prowled the surrounding area. There were the requisite three or four “ancient coin” sellers: shifty Turkish men with inexplicably large collections of highly valuable, authentic Roman currency jingling in their pockets. Next to them were a number of tables with statuettes of Greek gods, primarily Artemis and Priapus. For those of you who are as uninformed as I was, Artemis is the Greek goddess of the forest and hills, and is typically portrayed as a huntress. Priapus, on the other hand, is a rustic fertility god, protector of livestock, fruit plants, gardens and male genitalia. Priapus' statuettes appropriately featured a small man happily clutching his enormous, erect penis with both hands. My father pointed the sculptures out to the rest of us, and we meditated on the Greek pantheon as a family as we meandered through the wild poppies and grasses that had blanketed the ruins.

As we walked away from the tables, one of the coin-sellers snuck up behind me and tried to strike up a conversation in English. I am always eager to practice my limited Turkish, and responded in his native language, catching him off-guard. Once he regained his composure, the seller posed a familiar question: “Where are you from?” The combination of my dark skin, unruly hair and decidedly handsome moustache tends to fuel Turks with a burning desire to know my ancestry, and I typically have some fun with them.

“America,” I replied.

The man narrowed his eyes, confused, and then asked his question again. When my response did not change, he shook his head. He then asked where my parents were from, and I said India. He nodded understandingly. “So you are Indian.” I politely disagreed and repeated my initial answer. He grew a bit upset, but I did not stick around to pursue anything since my family had moved further afield. I rushed to catch up to them, and described my interaction with the coin-seller with a broad smile on my face.

Afterwards, I was surprised to find that my parents were not as amused as I though they would be. Instead, my father asked, quite simply, if I knew what I was doing (I had told them that this was a favorite game of mine). Of course I did, I told him. I was having some fun at the expense of others. The fact that a coin-seller could not come to terms with immigration was not my problem. The question he meant to ask regarded my heritage, not my homeland, and I felt entitled to play games with the semantics.

My parents frowned at me in unison, and then my father began again. He first assured me that it was fine for me to say whatever I wanted, but thought that I should at least know how I was being interpreted. I was answering the question on my terms, but had not realized that my interrogator's conception of identity was a far cry from my own. In America, individual identity and worth are typically defined by one’s accomplishments and abilities. In places like India and Turkey, much more value is placed on one’s bloodline and roots. Identity is thus synonomous with ancestry, and for me to describe my identity as having nothing to do with my parents or forebears was perceived by the Turks as not only disrespectful, but downright offensive.

When my father finished, I felt uncomfortable and did not know how to respond. Stranger yet, I had trouble putting my finger on what it was about our interaction that had caused my discomfort. I certainly had not realized the baggage that my playful response to the coin-seller had carried with it, but that was not it. Nor was it the unsettling fact that after two months in Turkey, I had remained completely clueless as to the way identity was constructed within the culture. Rather than attempt a rebuttal, I continued to walk alongside my family in silence, shaken but unable to understand why.

We finished our short tour of the pillar, rounded the edge of the field and once again came upon the statuette tables and vendors. In an attempt to lighten the mood, I suggested that we purchase one of the Priapus statuettes for my younger brother, a connoisseur of all things vulgar and lewd. My parents nodded in agreement, and I proceeded to bargain. When the price was right, the vendor plucked the statue from the table by its natural handle, it's manhood, and then proceeded to wave it in the air at my parents to ensure that I had selected the correct piece. My mother blushed with embarrassment and then shooed him away, instructing him to put it down. On cue, I then picked up the statue in the same fashion and waved it even more ostentatiously, so as to inform everyone in the vicinity that my parents wished to buy a little statue of a man with a big johnson. My mother started shaking her head as she suppressed a smile, and it was at that moment I realized what had been bothering me earlier. Having been on my own for the past ten months, I have been forced to undergo a good deal of growing up, and my interactions with my parents have been reflective of it. My father's well-warranted lecture, however, transported all of us back to the instructive parent-child roles of my youth, and that was what had made me so uneasy. Somehow, watching my mother struggle to feign anger while I waved a statue around by its penis clarified this shift, and simultaneously made me realize how content I am to exist as my parents' middle, idiot son. Just in case I forget again, perhaps I should buy a second pocket-sized statue and keep it close at hand. I will ask my mother if she will buy it for me.