Accents

Thanks to Al Fresco Holidays, for putting right the situation, and offering a second holiday prize.

Now, here's a story about accents. My kids have varying degrees of American accents. As you would guess, 7-yo, being the youngest, has the strongest. She sounds American to me. According to a local here, you would think she was an American child, with rather proper parents.

That's one aspect of the British accent that I think fuels the American love of it. Somehow it speaks to them of bygone eras, and feeds that vague nostalgia we all have somewhere in our psyches, the sense that things used to be better. There was a time when all was well with the world, or at least a bit more so than today. I might be wrong about this, but it's a working theory. For Brits, it plays out in period dramas. We all know intellectually that life in Edwardian England was oppressive, smelly, and you couldn't get antibiotics, but somehow we all have a slight yearning for Downton Abbey days. Not From Around Here has an interesting take on the matter.

Anyhoo, 7-yo has clearly picked up this idea that a British accent means you're a bit proper. I know this, because she was annoyed with me for some parental injustice or other - you know the kind of thing - and from the back of the car, she piped up with her rendering of what I was insisting. And out came this prim, disapproving, rather aloof, voice. Think Maggie Smith as Miss Jean Brodie in an English accent, with light hints of Penelope Keith as Margot Ledbetter, citrus suggestions of Judy Dench as Q in James Bond, and woody after-notes of Helen Mirren as The Queen. (I haven't yet seen Meryl Streep as Margaret Thatcher; otherwise I expect she'd be in there too.)

"Mummy, you always say [enter Maggie Smith combo stage left] 'We can't possibly go, it's far too late, and you need an early night because we've had a busy week'. [back to Midwest twang] You always say that." (Or whatever the details were. I forget the exact conversation, but you get the picture.)

We've all had those moments when we hear our child use our phrases, and think "oh my goodness, is that what I sound like?" I tell you, this occasion was that feeling in spades. Do I really sound all prim and proper to her now? Or was she just taking the mickey? Or is she so attuned to American cultural assumptions, that to her, an English accent now implies a whole package?

It made me laugh, but it also made me a little sad - this gap between us. It's not that I want her to be like me, but it's that need for shared heritage with your children. Why else do we have Christmas traditions, take our children to places we went to as children, and teach them history in school?

Of course the alternative interpretation is that I really do sound like that.

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Sometimes it helps to be American

I'm so often told "I wish I had an accent like yours", but today, American people, I came across a situation where it would have been useful to have an accent like yours.



In a conversation with my mum, she referred to something that "wouldn't have mattered formally". But to clarify, I had to ask her "formally, or formerly?"



Now see, if we'd been American, we wouldn't have had that problem.



Similarly, I might have to seek clarification if she ever talks to me about cheetahs or cheaters, though I expect the context would give it away in that case.

Job

Well, congrats to those of you (If I could escape, Aly and Heather) who said toy shop, because you are right! (Florida, Wiltshire, Lapland - you've got to love the diversity of blogging.) And an honorable mention to Speccy, who did mention toys - but had me in a travelling van, instead of a fixed retail outlet. It's one of those toy shops where you can't buy a Barbie or Nintendo game, but you can buy wooden fruit. I love it, because it's the antithesis to Toys R Crap, which I hate, and which is pretty much the only alternative here.

The shop is very English in feel, actually, because it's small - though big enough to have room for kids to try out a selection of ride-on and bounce-on toys. Whenever I've been in there with my children, they get on one of those wobbly ride-on things that you operate by wiggling the steering wheel quickly from left to right, and I find it hard to persuade them to leave. I've always been impressed by a shop that lets children wiggle and bounce around, especially as the aisles are pretty small (it really is very untypical), so it would be easy for an errant wiggle to knock down a whole display of boxes of Lego.

Incidentally, did you know that in America, they pronounce Lego 'Laygo', as if it were French and had an acute accent over the e. And they always refer to it in the plural. English children play with Leggo. American kids play with Laygos. Just a little cultural detail of the kind which I know you have come to expect from this blog.

Any old way, I'm not going to say too much about the job at this point, because I'm going in on Wednesday morning, and I don't want to have to post on Wednesday afternoon, about how it didn't all work out, having got you all very excited on my behalf. So act casual for now, ok?

I imagine the interview will go something like this:

Toy shop owner: What experience do you have in the retail sector?

Me: None.

TSO: Can you operate a cash till, and credit card swiping equipment?

Me: No.

TSO: How would you help someone who was looking for an educational toy?

Me: I'd tell them not to bother. School will educate your child. Focus your home life on having fun. How about this camera that squirts water, or this whoopee cushion?

TSO: Will you enjoy engaging with children, leaving their parents free to browse undisturbed?

Me: Up to a point. Here's a sign I've seen in another shop, which I'll display when I'm on duty: "Unattended children will be given an espresso, and a puppy to take home".

TSO: Will you promise to talk in your lovely English accent?

Me: Yes. I know no other way.

TSO: You've scored 1 out of 5, and on that basis, I'm happy to offer you the job.

You think I exaggerate the whole accent thing. I should tell you that I found out about the job, because the TSO was trying to recruit a friend of mine - an English friend of mine - who turned it down. (Actually, she's my only English friend here, and the reason she turned the opportunity down is because she is moving back to England. Today. Sob.)

I should have titled this post Job and sob, shouldn't I? That would have been neat.

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A dutiful post

There are some words that I’ve never quite got to grips with, in an American accent. 'Dennist' is one of them. I need to have my teeth looked after by a fully T-ed dentist. I can’t be doing with dennal issues. Dennist sounds far too much like Dennis the Menace. Then there’s the word 'and'. I’m sorry, but I just can’t love it when it’s pronounced 'ee-und'. Sorry. I’m not too good with words that end –er either. I like those words properly clipped. Eith-a, for example. It’s just not nice when the ending is swallowed back into the mouth and chewed around with an rrrr sound. I couldn’t help flinching a little when I was at 9-yo’s school Winter Show, and 200 children enthusiastically launched into the opening numb-a, singing “In Decembrrrr, We remembrrrr…”.

There is one word which I really can’t cope with at all. It’s the word ‘duty’. That word just begs to be pronounced dyootee, as in “England expects that every man will do his dyootee.” How inspiring would that have been for the navvies if Nelson had announced “England expects that every man will do his doodie”? See my point? Doodie sounds like what you put your dog out in the back yard to perform. It’s just too close for comfort to doo-doos. I feel the meaning of the word does honestly require a little more gravitas in its pronunciation.

I had a long exposure to doodie when 5-yo was keen on the Barbie movie The Princess and the Pauper (por-pah, or pah-prrr – we’ve been through this one, I’m not doing it again for you). Both the princess and the pauper are very enmeshed in thoughts of their responsibilities and doodies. Given the choice, I have to say that I’d go for being a princess, living a life of luxury and inheriting the kingdom, even if it does mean an arranged marriage to the hunky prince Dominic who rules the neighbouring realm - frankly, what’s to complain of there? The pauper’s alternative is living in a lonely hovel, and slaving away night and day for an abusive employer, in order to pay off her parents’ debts. Hm. Tough choice.

I digress. Both girls sing of their devotion to doodie, and it made me laugh each time 5-yo watched the dvd. “It’s my doodie!” beautiful blond Princess Anneliese would chirrup prettily.

Well, now the word has come home to roost. 12-yo is playing the part of Frederick in his school’s production of The Pirates of Penzance. It’s going to be hard for me to keep a straight face when the pirate chorus opens with:

“We sail the ocean blue, and our saucy ship’s a boodie,
We are sober men and true, and attentive to our doodie”.

Then 12-yo has the line:

“It was my duty under my indentures, [Back to dentistry again, Ed.] and I am the slave of duty”.

Of course the audience will already adore his English accent, and if he says “dyootee” in his opening lines, he will just steal the show.

I'm not even going to get started on the whole byootee/booty issue. Barbie princesses, for example, love to assert that their booty is on the inside, which is anatomically very curious.

Oh, it’s so complicated being English.

Post-script 1: Oops. Seems Nelson didn’t say that line anyway. He signaled it from his ship with flags. They’re so clever in the navy. Thought of ways to get the word out fast, even in those pre-Twitter days.

Post-script 2: Oops. Seems “We sail the ocean blue” is HMS Pinafore, not Pirates of Penzance. Listen. I’m a blogger, not a G&S expert, not a naval battle historian. A blogger. Right? Give me a break.

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Mulkar

It's a rum deal when you can't even understand your own children's accents.

8-yo was talking to me about a film he wants to see, called Mulkar. Now, I'm quite used to movies, books, games and toys with odd names. It goes with the mother-of-small-boys territory (if you have boy babies or toddlers, you are right to be feeling nervous at this point). I don't know where it all started, but I suspect the Three Wise Men had something to do with it. It's impossible to keep up. Just as you've mastered the use of a few words of the world of Yu-gi-oh, along comes Pokemon, and just as you've mastered a few Pokemon words and are feeling smug about knowing there's an accent over that e in the middle, along comes Bakugan. Is Bakugan out in the UK yet? And in case you thought you had Bakugan sussed, your son will develop an interest in Star Wars and all its spin-offs, or Bionicles.

Do any of you remember Lego Knight's Kingdom? Perhaps it's still current, but I haven't noticed them in any stores round here recently. That was the worst. In days of old, knights were called knighty names like Sir Galahad and Sir Lancelot. These days they have names like Sir Nasdaq and Sir Indesit. From the mighty realm of Vorsprung Durch Technik.

So yes, I'm quite used to made-up names being bandied about. For example, we own a DVD entitled Picachu. We really do. We have another entitled Squirtle. We also have The Battle of Metru Nui. See what I mean.

I've learnt that the thing to do with these names is to abandon all hope of remembering them, or of making any sense at all of how they relate to each other. It's very irritating for small boys to be interrupted by a keen parent with "ah, how's that Toa doing, there?" when he has a Visorak in each hand. Or "can I be Yoshi?" when you're not even playing Wii Mario Super Sluggers (okay okay, now I'm just showing off). No, the best thing to do, is to sound very interested, nod wisely, and let the names flow right through your brain without even attempting to stop them at a memory cell somewhere. Then you just have to bluff (what do you mean, you can't bluff? It wasn't THAT long since you were in the workplace.)

In my defence, I was driving while we were discussing Mulkar. As you all know, the average Midwestern mom vehicle is only a whisker shorter than a London bus. If I'm in the driving seat (which, being safety conscious, I always am when I'm driving) and your child is in the back, you really need an intercom system or some hands-free walkie-talkies to communicate with each other. Speaking of London buses, I'm thinking of running a string down the side of the car interior, with a bell, so that the children can indicate to me when they want me to stop. Anyway, I was driving, and the conversation went like this:

8-yo: Can I see Mulkar?

Me: Mulkar? Is it a good movie? Have any of your friends seen it? (buying time here)

8-yo: Yes, it's good. Can I see it?

Me: (thinks: darn it, I still don't know what genre we're in here) Um... I'll have to think about it. What's it called again?

8-yo: Mulkar. Mul-kar.

Me: Mulkar. Yes. Is that about... Mulkar?

8-yo: Mom! Mul... Kar...

12-yo: (joining in the exasperation) Mom! It's Mul... Kar... You know. As in Mul... Kar...

Me: Mul... Kar...? As in Mul... Kar...?

12-yo eventually spelt the words out for me. Have you guessed what it was they were talking about?

Click here to find out.

I'm wondering if it stars John Mulkarvich.

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Saints

I was telling Husband that one British English-ism I’ve found it hard to drop (and I’m not sure I’ve even tried, to be honest), is the way we pronounce the ‘Saint’ in names. 5-yo overheard our conversation.

“What’s that? What do you mean? What are you saying? What are you talking about?”

I took a deep breath. This wasn’t going to be an easy one to explain to a 5 year old, but I thought I’d have a go.

“Well, when churches or streets are called St James’ or St John’s, in England we don’t say Saynt James’ or Saynt John’s, we say Ssnt James’ or Ssnt John’s, but here in America, they do say Saynt James’ or Saynt John’s. They say the word Saint like Saynt, whereas we say the word Saint like Ssnt.”

Crystal clear. I say that with confidence, because she totally got the point.

“You mean like we say St Derella?”

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Accents

"Not AGAIN", you're sighing. Yes, another post about accents. I'll be brief.

I was stunned the other day when we were talking about accents, and 4-yo asked me "what is an accent?" I got her to repeat the question, and then I explained how people say the same words differently. She was still a bit mystified, so I gave some examples.

"You know how Daddy or I say 'good job, well dun', but your preschool teacher would say 'good jaahb, well duuhn'..."

After I'd given two or three examples, with exaggerated clipped regal-sounding English and my best Midwest drawl (which isn't very good, actually), she nodded. She'd got it.

"Have you never noticed before that Daddy and I speak a bit differently to everyone else round here?" I asked.

She hadn't.

I find this completely intriguing. I can see how she might not have formulated into a conscious thought, the fact that her parents speak differently to other people. It's just that I would LOVE to know what she thinks all those conversations have been about, those many many conversations that I have had over the past 2 years, with friends and with complete strangers, with her, my small blond shadow, at my side. She must have heard me have an accent conversation at the checkout at least once a week (and that's a conservative estimate). She has occasionally been involved as an exhibit in conversations with friends (although I've avoided that as far as possible - I don't like the performing animal effect).

What does she think we've been discussing? Or has she just flicked the off switch that children use when adult talk gets boring? I would love to know.

Christmas words

We had a few interesting linguistic excursions in our house over the Christmas break.

I don't go out of my way to encourage rogue versions of carols, although the last few posts might lead you to think so. Nonetheless, 4-yo came up with her own. She would sing

"Deck the halls with boughs of holly
'Tis the season to be naughty"

and then laugh uproariously. (Try saying it with an American accent, and you'll see that the rhyme is closer than it looks.)

Then 8-yo asked the following question:

"You know when a boy thinks a girl is pretty, he says she's hot? Well, if he thinks she isn't pretty, does he say she's cold?"

Good question. Meanwhile, one of the little presents that Santa put in 4-yo's stocking was a packet of panties (her older brothers will never understand how panties and socks could possibly count as presents, for heaven's sake, but luckily Santa understands girls as well as he understands boys). Husband picked up the packet and said "oh, low rise panties. At first glance I thought it said low risk panties." Bridget Jones, you have so much to answer for.

Then there was a totally bizarre moment at the lunch table. We were enjoying smoked salmon, and encouraging the kids to try it. 4-yo asked the question "Is Gran smoked?" Hm. You're always told to answer kids honestly, so I replied "No. Um. No. Gran isn't smoked." That seemed an honest response.

It was only after long pondering that I worked out the background to the question. A couple of weeks before Christmas, 11-yo's class had been discussing the evils of smoking. I had been telling him how in his grandparents' generation, many people smoked, because they didn't know how bad it was for you. His grandparents had done so, but had given up when the ill effects became known.

Smoked salmon. Grandparents who smoked. Isn't the world a complicated place for a 4 year old?

The accent is on

I know I talk about accents a lot, but in my defence, I am frequently required to talk about accents in my real life, so it seems only fair that I should be allowed to in my cyber life too. I'm very used to talking about my own accent. Most people remark on it, if they don't know me. Most of them say they love it. That's an easy conversation to have. "Thank you" I say, "it came for free. I didn't have to study it, or pay for it, or anything." It's a nice conversation (if a little repetitive).

This week I've had two rather different conversations about my accent. The first was in a park. A five year old girl came up and introduced herself to 4-yo and asked her to play. They spent a happy time, while the mother asked me where I was from, how long I've lived here... the usual. Then as 4-yo and I were leaving, the little girl came over, looking rather puzzled and intrigued. She finally came out with "You speak excellent Spanish".

This made me laugh, not only for the way she had misunderstood, but also because it was such a very polite grown-up phrase coming from such a little girl. I explained to her that I wasn't speaking Spanish, otherwise she wouldn't understand what I was saying, that it was English, the same as she spoke, but it just sounded a bit different. Her mother came to my rescue: "like Charlie and Lola - she's from the same place as Charlie and Lola".

I felt the cache I normally enjoy from my accent was a little depleted (if you've never heard Charlie and Lola talk to each other, then find a clip on youtube or listen to a story here, and you'll see why it's not the most flattering of comparisons). Then getting 4-yo's hair cut today at Master Cuts, one of the other clients, a young chap with an adventurous hairstyle, said "I love your accent" (no surprises there). "My room-mate's parents sound a bit like you. They're from England, I think, but I find them really hard to understand if they talk fast". "Whereabouts are they from?" I asked, gearing up for the appropriate variation on the northern/southern/Liverpudlian follow-up conversation. "Um... I think they're from Dubai".


Oh, and speaking of hairdressers, I have another hairdresser-and-accents story. I have had to find myself a new cosmetologist (as you'll remember they are called), as my old one has moved away to Connecticut. Most inconsiderate of her. So off I went to a new one. The usual format: she asked me how I wanted my hair, I chatted away to her about my hair while she was washing it, I then moved back to the vertical chair, and as she started to cut, she looked at me in the mirror and struck up a bit of polite conversation. But her opener was far from predictable: "So have you lived here all your life?" Her face was completely straight, not a hint of irony. I didn't want to embarrass her, so once I'd recovered from the shock, I just replied "No, we've been here a couple of years", and then asked about her. I mean, judging by other people's reactions, I don't pass for a local just yet.

I'd like to think it was a bet, and that as I left the cosmetology salon, the entire staff and remaining clientele erupted in yelping laughter and shouts of "I can't BELIEVE you did that!" But I don't think so. I think she just hadn't noticed my accent. Did a nice job on my hair, though.

Words

Sorry, I’m going to write about accents again. You’ll think I’m obsessed.

We moved from the south of England to Scotland when our eldest was 3 years old. He retained his English accent, although it did soften round the edges. I remember the time he came home from school, aged 5, and said they’d been learning about volkeenaws. It took a minute for the penny to drop, and then I realized that he was talking about vol-cay-noes. Never having heard the word in an English accent, he didn’t know to anglicize his Scottish teacher’s pronounciation of it for my benefit. They were just volkeenaws.

The same thing happened here in the US last year around St Patrick’s Day. My second came home from Kindergarten with a picture of a man in a funny hat, and told me it was a leprechaahn. When I said “oh, a leprechaun, how lovely!”, he retorted “it’s not lepre-coooorn, Mum, it’s lepre-caaaahn.”

Now it’s happened again with my third. She has a dvd which she borrowed from a friend, and which she calls “The Princess and the Paahprrr”. She first heard and used the word at the friend’s house, and I certainly wasn’t going to adjust her pronounciation, so in order to avoid confusion, I now just find myself talking about the princess and the paaahprrr too. It’s bad enough trying to explain what a paaahprrr is to a 4 year old, without having to remember how to pronounce it each time.

Today when she put the dvd on, we got off to a very complicated conversation when she asked me what a paaahprrr was (again…), and because I hadn’t seen what dvd she’d chosen and lacked the context, I started explaining how some kids call their parents Mommy and Daddy, but some kids call their parents Mama and Papa. She looked at me very blankly, and I eventually realized the confusion. It was quite a long conversational journey back from that to Barbie twirling round in her (suspiciously rather attractive and not at all ragged) pauper’s dress.

You will be able to tell from this story how very impoverished the conversation round the dinner table in our house is. Husband and I evidently never discussed volcanoes, leprechauns or paupers at all in front of our children in their crucial early formative years.

Recycling: Part II

When you move abroad, you find out new things about yourself. Lots of it is good, to do with the way you rose to the challenge, aspects that you enjoyed more than you anticipated, inner strengths you didn’t know you had. Feel good in retrospect stuff. But you also find out things about yourself that aren’t so nice. These are the dirty little secrets that don’t make it onto the expat websites. For example, you may be rather relieved if you’re honest, to find out from other people’s experience that your kids will lose their American accents when you return home, in spite of your assertion that preferring one accent over another is a form of racism. Or how about the fact that you never thought of yourself as materialistic, but it’s pretty nice, when it comes down to it, to live in a house double the size of the one you left in Britain.

Here is another one. I am not as green as I’d like to think I am. In Britain, I recycled carefully, I didn’t waste things, especially food, we used buses, only owned one car, a diesel, I minded about the future of the planet. Or so I thought. Here, we have two cars (which in our defence, is a necessity, given the almost non-existent bus service). I can salve my conscience by looking at the guzzling SUVs, and think “well, at least my minivan does around 20 to the gallon to your 15”. I try not to waste things, but it is harder, and I do less well. I do recycle, but it took us a while to get round to it, and I’m more lax about it. I have genuine questions as to the value of recycling – in a country where space is so vast, I do wonder if landfill is not a bad option, set against the energy required to recycle (and the comments on my previous post have done nothing to reassure me). It’s not these questions that make me lax though. It’s the conscience-salving that says I might not be doing it perfectly, but at least I’m doing it more than most people.

I can make all kinds of excuses, and have all kinds of logical reservations, but at the bottom level I know this to be true: I cared more for the environment when I loved it more. I know we’re talking global warming and consequences that will affect us all, worldwide. I know that being green is about safeguarding the planet and not about pretty green English lanes and how early in the year daffodils flower these days, and what is causing the decline in the number of sparrows, but there we are, I’m just airing my dirty washing in public and being honest. I may be a citizen of the world, but I am hugely influenced by my local situation.

There’s another element, of course. It’s not all to do with the English countryside. I tried to be green in the UK because everyone else is trying to be green. Sometimes it’s by reason of moral choice and sometimes it’s with financial or other incentive, but it is fairly unavoidable. Being a good citizen is increasingly bound up with being a green citizen.

I don’t share Margaret Thatcher’s view that there’s no such thing as society. There clearly is. We are hugely influenced by those among whom we live. This can be for evil – history shows that the majority of us can turn into the people who spy on our neighbors and colleagues, report them to authorities, turn on them, or turn a blind eye. I think it is often ignored, though, that society is a force for good too. We are all better people for rubbing along beside others who, in all kinds of ways, bring out the best in us. It is easier to behave well if the prevailing wind is carrying you along.

An accent post

Now, here’s a “Not wrong, just different” classic. I think you may have to dig deep on this one. We all like to think we’re liberal-minded, open to cultural variation, happy to embrace difference. Have you ever thought about accents, though?

When we moved to Scotland from the south of England, people were intrigued to know if our children were picking up a Scottish accent. “Ooh, how lovely!” they would say. Then we moved to America, and when they see us, people will no doubt be intrigued to find out if our children have picked up an American accent. “Ooh, how lovely!” they will say. Or not. Now I’m not a gambling woman (not with money, anyway), but I would lay a large sum on a bet that we will not get that reaction once. In fact, before we came, a few people told us stories of their friend/sister/cousin who moved to America/Australia/Canada and their kids lost the accent when they came back home within weeks/months/days. It seems a reasonable thing to assume that a fellow Brit will share a dislike of an American accent, and also that it is ok, even in these politically correct days, to say so. Perhaps I could have a bit of fun, and pretend to my friends that I am charmed by my kids’ new accents. “Such cute intonation – we’re so thrilled for them” I could say, and watch friends’ faces as they struggle to work out if I’m being serious.

I don’t think there is any way to justify our attitudes to accents. I mean, it’s not as if an accent could be evolutionarily superior, is it? The soft lilting tones that we so admire in a Scot didn’t serve his cavemen ancestors any more useful purpose than the nasal elongated vowels of his American counterpart. I’m trying to think how one could argue that case. The caveman Scot was naturally better at imitating the subtle sounds of wild birds, and was thus better equipped to hunt them down and feed his family on nutritious poultry. The caveman American was better at warning his family of impending danger, because his loud holler carried farther. Hm. Not very convincing either way, is it? I think we just have to accept that when it comes to accents, we are all very insular and deeply prejudiced.

Or course it works in our favour here. We all know that the Americans just love the English or Scottish accent. At one point in my life, when it was a vague possibility (only a vague one) that I might move to New York, my friend there was very keen on the idea, on the basis that if I shared an apartment with her, and used my voice on her answerphone, her social life would take a dramatic turn for the better. It’s jolly spiffingly splendid to be on the receiving end of some positive discrimination, for something that comes for free. It’s not as if I have to work at my accent, or practise it, or pay for it. It’ll have to do me instead of cosmetic surgery for the duration of our time here. It’s not quite right, though, you have to agree. (Not quite right, but not so wrong that I didn’t shamelessly use my accent to avoid a ticket when a policeman on a motorbike pulled me over for having out of date tags – “oh miy goodness mee, offissa, Eye’m terriblee terriblee sorreee” - but that’s another story).

I must have become more used to the accent here than I realize. I went to see a high school production of Oliver recently, and after a few minutes, I began to wonder why the actors were all putting on odd, slow, stilted voices. Then the penny dropped (duuh). They were putting on English accents, and putting them on very well in fact. It must have been exhausting to have to sound so pretentious all the time. Is that what I sound like to them? And if so, why do they find it so attractive? But it will take a less self-interested woman than me to stand up at this point in time and say “Not attractive, just different”.