Skip to main content

On having an accent

Back in the olden days, when it was a major undertaking to get from, say, Bristol to London, or even Bristol to Weston-super-Mare, and so most people didn't bother, it is said that you could place people within 10 miles or so by their accent. Now that we've built motorways and everyone spends their days whizzing up and down them, you have to go a bit further to get your accent noticed, but moving 3700 miles from Bristol to Texas certainly does the trick.

Of course, I don't really have an accent - I speak quite normally, thank you very much, but everyone else talks funny around here, so naturally I stand out as different. It's been a strange experience to be marked out the minute I open my mouth. About the second thing everyone says to me is, "You're not from around here" or, "Where are you from?" Even though we talk the same language (well, almost), the way I speak says I'm a newbie, a stranger, something exotic.

Fortunately the third thing people say is usually, "Oh, I love your accent!" followed by an account of their friend or second cousin or whoever who lives in England, or a tale of their visit to the UK in about 1976, and how much they liked it there. It's quite humbling what a good press the UK gets over here, considering that the respect isn't particularly mutual. And I have to say, I much prefer it to, "Oh, what a horrible accent!" followed by a summary of Britain's failings. Makes life a lot easier.

There are, however, a few difficulties in communication, especially on the phone. I thought Graham was exaggerating when he said he rang up to order a pizza once and no one could understand what he was saying. Then I got over here and had a memorable conversation which went something like this:

"Hi, I'm phoning for details about the job you had advertised in the bakery window. Could you give me some idea of the hours and so on?"
"Ummm..... well we have chocolate, carrot cake, white cakes with flowers..."
"Sorry, I was asking about the job? You want someone to work for you?"
(long pause) "Uh... you need to order something like that in advance"
(defeated) "OK, thank you very much."
(hangs up and crosses that possibility off the list)

I've also had to practice emphasising the r a bit more in Martha (Marrrr-tha instead of Mah-tha), otherwise no one gets my name, and of course White over here comes out something like Whaaate, but I can't quite make myself abuse the letter i that much yet. Still, two more years - I shall move back to the UK and be greeted by, "Hey, where are you from? Why do you talk with that awful drawl? Can you believe the idiot that those Americans elected for president?..."

On second thoughts, maybe I'll just stay here and learn to talk like a native. Howdy, y'all!

Comments

Yup, get used to it. I let Kristal do the talking, because any attempt of mine to engage in complicated negotiations inevitably lead to blank looks until she jumps in to translate. It's strange that nobody ever thinks, 'oh, this person has a weird accent, I'll ask them to repeat themselves', they just carry on as if they know exactly what you said. You can't just blame it on American ignorance of the wider world, though, as I've had plenty of experiences of having zero clue what somebody has just asked me. Thanks for the Wedding party invite.
Love
John

Popular posts from this blog

The Churnet Way: a wonderful walk

The loop from Oakamoor to Froghall and back was one of the most enjoyable walks I've done in a long time. It had a bit of everything: woods, ponds, rivers and railways; steep climbs and sweeping views; an unusual church, an ex-industrial wharf, and, as a final bonus, car parks with toilets. Of course, the sunny weather helped too. I parked in Oakamoor and set off along a quiet lane called Stoney Dale. This is the route of the Churnet Way, which deviates away from the river for a couple of miles. After a while I turned right and climbed up through the woods on a gravelly path, then dropped down to the B5417. a spring in Oakamoor   Crossing the road, I entered Hawksmoor Nature Reserve. It has some fine gateposts commemorating John Richard Beech Masefield, "a great naturalist". I found a photo of the opening of the gateway in 1933; unsurprisingly, the trees have grown a lot since then! A track took me down through the woods to East Wall Farm. Lovely view! Nice duck pond as

The Churnet Way: bells at Alton

Alton village and Alton Towers are perched on opposite banks of the Churnet, with the river cutting a deep valley between them. Most people drive straight through the village on the way to the theme park. But I have a great liking for walks and no fondness at all for rollercoasters, so I found a large layby to park in at Town End, in Alton, and pulled on my boots. The church bells were ringing as I set off. I vaguely wondered if there was an event. A wedding? Unlikely on a Tuesday morning. Maybe a funeral. I followed a footpath across a few fields to reach Saltersford Lane. This was the width of a single-track road, but mostly overgrown and muddy. I was grateful for the strip of stone flags (and some more modern concrete slabs) which provided a dry surface to walk on. Presently I came out into some fields and dropped down a slope to the old railway line, at the point where I left it on my previous walk .  bit of old rail   There followed several miles of walking along the railway path.

The Very Persistent Widow, or, We're Going on a Judge Hunt

Image by Pexels from Pixabay   At church this morning I was leading the kids group for the five- to seven-year olds. We are studying parables at the moment - the short and punchy stories that Jesus told. Today's was about the persistent widow, who kept on going to the judge's house to demand justice. As I read it, echoes of The Very Hungry Caterpillar came into my head: "...and he was STILL hungry!" as well as images from We're Going on a Bear Hunt: "Mud! Thick, oozy mud!" So here is the version of The Persistent Widow that Jesus would, I am sure, have told, if his audience had been a group of infant school kids. They seemed to enjoy it. I hope you do too.  If you have a small child to help with the knocks and the "No!"s, so much the better. The Very Persistent Widow Lydia was a widow. That means her husband had died. She didn’t have any children, so she lived all by herself. Now someone had done something wrong to Lydia. Maybe someone had