It was a loud and promising summer night at a popular bar in Kinsale, a small town on the southwest coast of Ireland and a haven for tourists drawn to delectable food, vibrant music, and that feel of “The Emerald Isle.”

My turn to get drinks, I move toward the bar and quickly notice them: Tall and tanned with friendly faces framing white-toothed smiles giving way to vigorous, but sincere laughter. Pressed chinos and button-down shirts: You couldn’t help but notice them.

I lean forward so Declan can hear me above the din, “Two white wines, a gin and tonic, and a vodka and coke. Thanks.”

One of the tall-tanned-friendly-smiling-button-downs leans left and downward toward my ear.

“What are your nationalities?” he asks.
“What are my what?” I ask back. I am genuinely unsure of what he has asked. Could he have asked me my name?

“What are your nationalities?” he perseveres.

Thoughts swirl: He thinks I didn’t hear him. What does he mean? Nationalities? Or did he say nationality? Wow, he has great hair. Uh-oh, he’s starting to wonder if my “confused face” is actually my “must find a bathroom” face. Come up with a charming way to continue this conversation.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what you mean.”
“I mean, where are your parents from? Let me guess, Sweden?

I get it now.

“Well, I hate to disappoint you, but my nationalities are Dublin and…Dublin.”

What are your nationalities?

Is it important to you to know them and do you identify with them?