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

Mr White Watson of Bakewell

Once upon a time, back in 1795 or so, lived a man who was always asking questions.  The kind of questions like, "Why is glass transparent?" or "Why do fruit trees grow better in that place than in this place?" or "What does the earth look like underneath the surface?"  This last question was one that he was particularly interested in, and he went so far as to work out what the rock layers looked like where he lived, and draw little pictures of them.  Now he was a marble sculptor by trade (as well as fossil hunter, mineral seller, and a few other things) so he thought it would be even better to make his little pictures in stone.  That way he could represent the layers using the actual rocks they were composed of.  Over the course of his lifetime he made almost 100 of these tablets, as he called them. Then he died.  And no one else was quite as interested in all those rocks and minerals as he was.  His collection was sold off, bit by bit, and the table...

Laid-back Lille and Bustling Brussels

After a night in a tiny AirBnB in Canterbury , where there were chocolates on the table and artwork on every inch of the walls, we boarded a ferry with an absolute minimum of fuss, enjoyed a smooth crossing of the channel, and were deposited in the decidedly unscenic surroundings of the port of Dunkirk two hours later. Once we got past the cranes and shipping containers, though, the countryside was flat but pleasant. We stopped at a small town called Cassel, reached by cobbled roads winding up a hill. On the summit was an old windmill and a topograph telling you the distances to various improbable places; St Omer may have been visible in the haze, but Manchester was surely over the horizon.  In Lille, we found our apartment, unpacked the luggage (one rucksack apiece), and set out to find food. Our first choice was fully booked, so we embarked on that kind of aimless wandering where everyone is hungry and no one wants to actually choose a restaurant. We reached a Lebanese place call...

Preparing

Graham and I have a small difference of opinion when it comes to cleaning for visitors.  He thinks I have perfectionist tendencies.  I think I'm doing the bare minimum.  After all, I have to at least pick up all the toys and clean up that pile of crumbs that keeps appearing under Toby's dining chair, don't I?  And while I've got the vacuum cleaner out, the living room and hall always need doing.  And there's no way our guests want to see all that dirty washing up, so I'll just do that.  And wipe all the counters.  And file all those pieces of paper that have been sitting there for weeks.  And... what?  Perfectionist?  Me? Of course, this may be one of those male/female divides.  Most of my female friends regard having guests over as an opportunity to make the house look reasonable for at least a few hours.  Because all that clutter just builds up.  A pile of paper there, a stack of laundry waiting to be put away, those o...