The one about accents
When I arrived in the UK almost twenty-five years ago to the day, I not only brought a heavy suitcase with me but also an American accent. The result of having accessed half a dozen US-teacher-led postgraduate courses back in Havana (starting when I was still an undergrad), my way of speaking English sounded more northeastern USA than anything else.
It didn’t take me long to acclimatise myself as soon as I landed in Blighty. I was thrown into London’s linguistic melting pot straight away. This triggered two opposite reactions in me: I loved the mix as much as I dreaded it. At some point I felt frustrated. What was the point of spending five long years in university, learning English, if I got in a right mess every time someone dropped their “Ts” or answered each question with “blatantly” (this was the late 90s)?
Little by little, as I became used to the wide variety of accents in Britain, I also noticed a pattern: southern English was the default speaking model, whereas its northern counterpart was often looked down upon.
One of the advantages of being a non-native English-speaking immigrant is that your front row seat is booked automatically. From it you’re exposed to myriad cultural and social phenomena you lack background information on, and yet, you can’t help but be fascinated by. What makes this experience more interesting is that if, like me, you’re invested in your host nation’s history, you’ll have a blast going around and poking holes here and there. Being curious, I call it. Others might say “being nosy”.
At some point, though, the thought occurs. It’s well and good for a Liverpudlian or Mancunian to complain about accent discrimination. Especially when this kind of snobbery has a negative impact on education and employment. What about non-native speakers, though?
Less than a year after I’d arrived in London, I’d lost my American accent. What followed thereafter was a hybrid-in-the-making. At some point, when I was still working in the travel industry, a client rang up and asked to speak with the “Irishman”. We had a north London lad on the sales floor, who was the offspring of Irish parents. Naturally, the call was transferred to him. It turned out he’d never heard of this person. Eventually, after questions were asked and the customer was kept on hold for longer than most retail gurus advise, I was approached. Yes, I had quoted a holiday price to this person and no, I had not given them my name. I’d forgotten. But Mario, the operations department staff said, you’re not Irish. Unintentionally, I found myself as the main source of entertainment at our annual staff Christmas party for as long as I stayed at the company. People couldn’t get enough of my “Irish” accent.
Welcome to my linguistic world. Not just mine, mind you. Read the latest stats on the 2021 UK census. Almost 50% of Londoners were not born here. That’s a lot of Irish-sounding people.
Joking aside, a non-native speaker faces a double-whammy that is often overlooked. On the one hand, we want to be understood. On the other hand, we don’t want to shed our homegrown identity, even if we’ve relocated abroad.
That’s why many of us “choose” an accent. I placed the verb “choose” in quotation marks, because sometimes the choosing is done for us. For some immigrants adopting an accent comes naturally. We’re like little sponges, absorbing sounds and pronunciation patterns. For others this is an onerous task, made even more difficult when they lack a solid, educational background.
Very early on I learnt to code-switch. While a lot can be said about this approach (it’s got its pros and cons), the truth is that it helps you navigate what could be tricky social situations. At job interviews I was the candidate with the polished up posh English, whereas in the staff room I was the geezer nattering about football. In my case, I don’t think I’ve lost anything. In fact, I’ve gained a better understanding of the shifting patterns of British English.
As for that American accent, it’s long gone now. In fact, when I was discussing the English language, its quirks and intricacies, recently with a fellow cycling instructor, he told me that when we’d first worked together, he thought I was from Tottenham, north London.
I’ll drink to that, even if part of me misses my erstwhile “Irish” accent.
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