Sidewahk chahks. One of the staples of American childhood, and I don’t think we have them at all in Britain. Perhaps we do, and I just never came across them. I wish I had done – they’re a very useful arrow in the mother’s quiver of outdoor toys for small children. Happy hours are spent doodling on the steps, the path or the patio, and then when the rain comes, it’s all washed clean and you can start all over again.
If you have a front drive, or a front porch, a front path, or even just a front doorstep, you can display your work for passers-by. Most will miss it, of course, cocooned in their cars from such neighbourhood detail, but the occasional walker, in trainers, sports gear and headphones, will glance over, and I like to think we make the mailman’s job more interesting.
Earlier in the year, 7-yo wrote a lovely message of welcome for visitors. “The Manhattans live here - this is our house - hello” it read, in a spidering melee of capitals and lower case, some letters twice the size of others, and no one the same colour as its neighbour. If you’d passed by that day, before the rain came, I’m sure you’d have enjoyed the message, and perhaps you would have wondered about the blur of colour underneath. That was where the open-hearted child had written “Our garage code is ####”, to be extra welcoming, and the more security-conscious mother had scuffed it out, sad to have to explain a little more of the world to him as she did so.
Three weeks ago, on the day of our return from Britain, some friends came by and covered our drive and porch in “Welcome Home” messages: a huge red heart and big flowers, and personalized exclamations. “Hi, 11-yo, can’t wait to see you!” “We missed you, 7-yo!” It was wonderful, and made me promise myself that I would do the same for others in the future. Perhaps I could bring the custom back to repressed Britain, where such a gesture would be embarrassing. Heavens, other people would see it! And children’s names, their own NAMES, outside for all to read! Embarrassing, but enjoyed too, I think. I will take the risk one day (but maybe not use the children’s names).
Now, if you walk by our house, you will see a four-letter word carefully inscribed three times in different colours. Hurry though, before the rain comes. “OLAY OLAY OLAY”. Intrigued, I asked 4-yo why she had fetched the bottle of body moisturiser from the bathroom, and taken it outside to copy. “I wanted everyone to know that I can do that letter now”, she replied, pointing to the Y, somewhat larger than the other letters and a little more wobbly, but absolutely recognisable. She learns so fast these days, in that engaging 4 year old way, and often teaching herself. I wouldn’t even have known that she can do all the other three letters. I wonder why she picked the letter Y as the next one to master. I wonder why that word on that bottle caught her interest. I wonder if she feels, as I do still, that letters have their own personalities. I wonder which ones she will like best. I have always liked Y.
Anyway, I felt her achievement and her desire for recognition deserved a wider audience than our - no doubt rather puzzled - mailman.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Making the grade
Back to school again. All well in general. We now have a preschooler, an elementary schooler and a middle schooler. Middle school is a bit of a step up: classes in different rooms with different teachers, changing for PE, having a locker, and no recess. 11-yo is horrified by the thought of having no time off during the day, and only half an hour for lunch, and I have to say, I do rather agree with him. How can you expect kids to function well from 8.00am to 3.00pm with only half an hour off? They do have PE, and “electives” which are less academic and more fun (though not the ping-pong that I’d been told would be on offer, and which I’d held out as a recess-alternative bone to 11-yo all through the summer). Useful training, I suppose, should any of them end up perchance living in a society where a long-hours work culture prevails.
Middle school, we were told, would bring increasing expectation on the kids to take responsibility for themselves and their work. Yesterday, 11-yo came home with his first History homework. “I don’t really know what I’m meant to write,” he said, “but I’ve got to do two sheets. On the first I’ve got to say what grades I expect to get, and how I’m going to behave, and on the second, I’ve got to say what grades you expect me to get, and how you want me to behave.”
On the first sheet, he duly stated that he hoped to get A grades, or at least Bs, that he would turn homework in on time, that he would work hard in class, be respectful and honest, make friends with people who need friends, and a few other undertakings, which had me looking for the “for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health” clauses by the time he’d finished. He discussed with me what he should say on the second sheet, and paraphrased our conversation as follows: “My Mum says she doesn’t mind what grade I get, so long as I do my best.”
Fffffff, sharp intake of breath through teeth. What do you mean, you don’t mind what grade your kid gets? Well, I appreciate that we can’t all be good at everything. So, 11-yo might be gifted in History, or he might not. Time will tell. He might get As and Bs, or he might not. If he doesn’t, he might get those As in other subjects, but, well, he might just not be terribly academic, and end up with all Bs and Cs, and excel at being a sportsman, or the piano, or cooking, or nothing at all. He might just be a thoroughly nice rounded individual who is happy in himself and contributes to society, and that’ll be mighty fine. I did say I would encourage him to aim high, be diligent and punctual in doing his homework, attentive and respectful in class, and contribute well to discussion. I thought that was the least I could do.
This grades obsession, though. It’s a bit sad. I know parents who reward their first graders each week-end (with playstation time, I think) according to their weekly grades. I know parents who say “I don’t care what he does at home, how much TV he watches, whatever, so long as his grades don’t suffer”. I know a first grade teacher who has to operate a system of grading in which 5 and 6 year olds are graded for reading ability, so those who can’t yet read have to be routinely given a C, and then she has to deal with the parents freaking out about it.
Anyway, back to 11-yo. He then asked his father to contribute, and added “My Dad says that he isn’t worried about my grades, but wants me to develop a life-long love of learning”. Fffffff, again. So you differentiate between a good education and good grades? That’s definitely pretty crunchy (have I used that word right?). Probably got 11-yo put on a list of children at risk.
We may have got good at understanding the school supplies list, we may even be able to operate the complex drop-off and pick-up procedures, but I’m afraid our performance at this first middle school hurdle will have ruined our chances of being straight A parents.
Middle school, we were told, would bring increasing expectation on the kids to take responsibility for themselves and their work. Yesterday, 11-yo came home with his first History homework. “I don’t really know what I’m meant to write,” he said, “but I’ve got to do two sheets. On the first I’ve got to say what grades I expect to get, and how I’m going to behave, and on the second, I’ve got to say what grades you expect me to get, and how you want me to behave.”
On the first sheet, he duly stated that he hoped to get A grades, or at least Bs, that he would turn homework in on time, that he would work hard in class, be respectful and honest, make friends with people who need friends, and a few other undertakings, which had me looking for the “for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health” clauses by the time he’d finished. He discussed with me what he should say on the second sheet, and paraphrased our conversation as follows: “My Mum says she doesn’t mind what grade I get, so long as I do my best.”
Fffffff, sharp intake of breath through teeth. What do you mean, you don’t mind what grade your kid gets? Well, I appreciate that we can’t all be good at everything. So, 11-yo might be gifted in History, or he might not. Time will tell. He might get As and Bs, or he might not. If he doesn’t, he might get those As in other subjects, but, well, he might just not be terribly academic, and end up with all Bs and Cs, and excel at being a sportsman, or the piano, or cooking, or nothing at all. He might just be a thoroughly nice rounded individual who is happy in himself and contributes to society, and that’ll be mighty fine. I did say I would encourage him to aim high, be diligent and punctual in doing his homework, attentive and respectful in class, and contribute well to discussion. I thought that was the least I could do.
This grades obsession, though. It’s a bit sad. I know parents who reward their first graders each week-end (with playstation time, I think) according to their weekly grades. I know parents who say “I don’t care what he does at home, how much TV he watches, whatever, so long as his grades don’t suffer”. I know a first grade teacher who has to operate a system of grading in which 5 and 6 year olds are graded for reading ability, so those who can’t yet read have to be routinely given a C, and then she has to deal with the parents freaking out about it.
Anyway, back to 11-yo. He then asked his father to contribute, and added “My Dad says that he isn’t worried about my grades, but wants me to develop a life-long love of learning”. Fffffff, again. So you differentiate between a good education and good grades? That’s definitely pretty crunchy (have I used that word right?). Probably got 11-yo put on a list of children at risk.
We may have got good at understanding the school supplies list, we may even be able to operate the complex drop-off and pick-up procedures, but I’m afraid our performance at this first middle school hurdle will have ruined our chances of being straight A parents.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
A shot in the dark
Bloggy Friends, you’ve always helped me out (except for Victoria Beckham’s phone number, but that was a tough one, I grant you), so can I ask you to come to my aid again? Two things.
First, I want to set up that clever system whereby whenever one of you writes one of your fabulously witty and interesting posts, I am notified. I think there are various sites on which I can do this, so just tell me the best one (for ‘best’, read ‘simplest’).
Second, and this is a bit more of a challenge, help me out with cross-Atlantic immunization issues (and I’m not just talking about the spelling). The story so far: 4-yo had all her infant jabs. She is due her pre-school boosters. Immunization schedules are different in the US and UK. The whole DTP bundle is given five times in the US to a child by the time it reaches school age, to the UK’s four. Is this cost-cutting by the NHS, or cynical cashing in by US drug companies? Or neither? I have no way of knowing. Are they different products or different doses, and will it matter? Trawling the internet hasn’t yielded an answer.
Immunizations are compulsory here, so in order to attend preschool, 4-yo had to have a letter from her doctor saying that there were medical reasons for her not to be immunized. (Odd, isn’t it, that in a nation that holds so dear the principle of personal freedom, people are quite happy to be compelled to have their children immunized – can you imagine the outcry there would be in Britain?) I told 4-yo’s doctor that she could have her pre-school booster when we were on holiday in Scotland, sticking to the UK schedule. Keep things simple. I have now had to tell him that the GP in Scotland said it was too complicated to give her the shot because she was no longer registered with him, he didn’t have her records, and it meant he would have to register her as a temporary resident, which took two weeks. At this point, I warmed greatly to my doctor here, when he said “but that’s the kind of thing we say in this country”. I love it when I come across an American who can laugh at America. Anyway, he now wants a bit more information on what exactly 4-yo was injected with, as an infant, and so I am charged with phoning my very nice and long-suffering health visitor and getting the information from her (without either of us saying “wouldn’t it just have been easier if Dr X had agreed to do the job when you were over?”).
Option A: postpone the whole issue, assume 4-yo isn’t going to be exposed to polio, diphtheria, whooping cough and tetanus (especially given that every other child has been immunized), get my nice doctor here to write the medical exemption note for preschool, and have another try at sorting it all out when we are next in Britain.
Option B: get her to have the American booster, and trust to luck that it won’t do her any harm, but actually after the conversation with the doctor, I’m already committed to
Option C: get information from the health visitor in Scotland (which may well not help anyway).
Option D: an immunologist, who enjoys blogging in his/her spare time, happens to read this post, and is able to tell me authoritatively what to do. That would be nice. De-lurk, kind passing immunologist.
They’re shots in America, jabs in England, jags in Scotland. Shots, jabs, jags, whatever. They’re a pain in the behind.
First, I want to set up that clever system whereby whenever one of you writes one of your fabulously witty and interesting posts, I am notified. I think there are various sites on which I can do this, so just tell me the best one (for ‘best’, read ‘simplest’).
Second, and this is a bit more of a challenge, help me out with cross-Atlantic immunization issues (and I’m not just talking about the spelling). The story so far: 4-yo had all her infant jabs. She is due her pre-school boosters. Immunization schedules are different in the US and UK. The whole DTP bundle is given five times in the US to a child by the time it reaches school age, to the UK’s four. Is this cost-cutting by the NHS, or cynical cashing in by US drug companies? Or neither? I have no way of knowing. Are they different products or different doses, and will it matter? Trawling the internet hasn’t yielded an answer.
Immunizations are compulsory here, so in order to attend preschool, 4-yo had to have a letter from her doctor saying that there were medical reasons for her not to be immunized. (Odd, isn’t it, that in a nation that holds so dear the principle of personal freedom, people are quite happy to be compelled to have their children immunized – can you imagine the outcry there would be in Britain?) I told 4-yo’s doctor that she could have her pre-school booster when we were on holiday in Scotland, sticking to the UK schedule. Keep things simple. I have now had to tell him that the GP in Scotland said it was too complicated to give her the shot because she was no longer registered with him, he didn’t have her records, and it meant he would have to register her as a temporary resident, which took two weeks. At this point, I warmed greatly to my doctor here, when he said “but that’s the kind of thing we say in this country”. I love it when I come across an American who can laugh at America. Anyway, he now wants a bit more information on what exactly 4-yo was injected with, as an infant, and so I am charged with phoning my very nice and long-suffering health visitor and getting the information from her (without either of us saying “wouldn’t it just have been easier if Dr X had agreed to do the job when you were over?”).
Option A: postpone the whole issue, assume 4-yo isn’t going to be exposed to polio, diphtheria, whooping cough and tetanus (especially given that every other child has been immunized), get my nice doctor here to write the medical exemption note for preschool, and have another try at sorting it all out when we are next in Britain.
Option B: get her to have the American booster, and trust to luck that it won’t do her any harm, but actually after the conversation with the doctor, I’m already committed to
Option C: get information from the health visitor in Scotland (which may well not help anyway).
Option D: an immunologist, who enjoys blogging in his/her spare time, happens to read this post, and is able to tell me authoritatively what to do. That would be nice. De-lurk, kind passing immunologist.
They’re shots in America, jabs in England, jags in Scotland. Shots, jabs, jags, whatever. They’re a pain in the behind.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Home again, home again, jiggety jig
We are back. We had a golden summer. Cousins played happily with cousins. I had my fix of old friends. We went to lovely beaches, the North York Moors, enjoyed old haunts, discovered new ones. Walked down streets – such a different thing from going to the mall. Walked along leafy country lanes that I have known since I was pushed along them in a big Silver Cross pram, kicking my younger brother for leg space. Went to the christening of my blogson. Husband and 11-yo had a day at Lord’s. Realised we’d been away too long when I said “there’s the pub”, and 4-yo piped up from the back of the car “what’s a pub?”
And blogging. Hm. Didn’t do much of that. Didn’t have internet access, you see. Had to go to the public library. Cramps one’s style a bit. Hadn’t planned to go silent for three months, but it sort of happened. Sorry.
It was good to go home. I had been worried that it would be unsettling for us all, make us unsure of where we fit in these days. But the opposite happened. It helped. The children made sense of which cousin belonged to which aunt and uncle, and if we needed evidence that blood is thicker than water, it was there to be found in the way they got on so easily. Links to places and people were still strong, but didn’t seem to evoke the same sense of loss. We fitted in here, there and everywhere more easily that I could have imagined. The familiarity was comforting. Most of all, we just didn’t think about it too much. I had been worried that the trip would make us homesick, but no. At least not for now. It made Britain seem more reachable, just a flight away, the Atlantic really just a big pond.
This, too. The balance has tipped. We knew deep down all along that this our American chapter would be not wrong, just different, and not forever, but we decided that we would live from the outset as if it were, putting down deliberate roots, holding loosely to home ties, living our thought lives as well as our physical lives here in the Midwest. I never fooled myself, but I gave it my best shot, carefully and with effort. Our summer changed that. We’ve started thinking and talking about the return strategy. Too much, probably. We did some forward planning, a bit vague at this point, but at least the direction is decided. We’ve done the uphill climb, we’re now on the plateau. I know the downhill may be some way off, but I’ve allowed myself to acknowledge it exists. That is a good feeling.
A golden summer with silver linings.
And blogging. Hm. Didn’t do much of that. Didn’t have internet access, you see. Had to go to the public library. Cramps one’s style a bit. Hadn’t planned to go silent for three months, but it sort of happened. Sorry.
It was good to go home. I had been worried that it would be unsettling for us all, make us unsure of where we fit in these days. But the opposite happened. It helped. The children made sense of which cousin belonged to which aunt and uncle, and if we needed evidence that blood is thicker than water, it was there to be found in the way they got on so easily. Links to places and people were still strong, but didn’t seem to evoke the same sense of loss. We fitted in here, there and everywhere more easily that I could have imagined. The familiarity was comforting. Most of all, we just didn’t think about it too much. I had been worried that the trip would make us homesick, but no. At least not for now. It made Britain seem more reachable, just a flight away, the Atlantic really just a big pond.
This, too. The balance has tipped. We knew deep down all along that this our American chapter would be not wrong, just different, and not forever, but we decided that we would live from the outset as if it were, putting down deliberate roots, holding loosely to home ties, living our thought lives as well as our physical lives here in the Midwest. I never fooled myself, but I gave it my best shot, carefully and with effort. Our summer changed that. We’ve started thinking and talking about the return strategy. Too much, probably. We did some forward planning, a bit vague at this point, but at least the direction is decided. We’ve done the uphill climb, we’re now on the plateau. I know the downhill may be some way off, but I’ve allowed myself to acknowledge it exists. That is a good feeling.
A golden summer with silver linings.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Different things
Over the past few days, I have been collecting a list of things that will be different about life when we’re in Britain. They are pretty random, so I will just spew them out, although I have made at least a little attempt at organizing them. They are in three categories. Three categories – come on, that’s pretty good. I mean, it’s not the kind of intelligent analysis that would get me to be where someone like Matt Frei is, but three categories is three categories. Don’t knock it.
Things that will be different
• There will be reassuring white lines at road junctions, so that I will know where I am meant to stop the car
• Stop lights will not swing about on their wires in the wind in that alarming way
• The meat aisle in the supermarket will be mostly chicken with a small section of beef, rather than mostly beef with a small section of chicken
• Children won’t call each other “dude” (or perhaps they will; we’ve been away 18 months and this could be a new fashion for all I know)
• Everything will seem very small, especially cars and houses. A friend of mine laughed when I told her we have an air hockey table in our basement playroom: “you have a playroom large enough for an air hockey table?”. I didn’t tell her we could fit 3 or 4 in that room, and that we have a choice of other rooms where it could go. And that our house is not abnormally large for a family of five
• Children in a park won’t ask their parents for an underdog (which is surprising, given we’re meant to be a nation that always likes the underdog)
• A grill will be something you put meat under, not on top of
Things I will miss
• A big fridge
• The lack of traffic
• Not having to spend time planning the hunt for a parking space
• Thunderstorms
• Kraft Macaroni and Cheese in a box (which, annoyingly and humiliatingly, is much, much more delicious than homemade)
• Mixer taps that actually mix the hot and cold water
• Seeing exotic food in my local supermarket (cactus leaves, buffalo meat) – or will Cadbury’s chocolate fingers and Wall’s chipolatas seem exotic now?
• Knowing it will be warm enough every day to wear flip flops (I find the relentless heat hard to cope with, but I do like flip flops)
• People asking me where I’m from and saying they love my accent
Things I definitely will not miss
• Obscenely large portions in restaurants
• Drinks served 75% ice 25% liquid (am I the only one who likes a drink to be something you can drink? am I the only one with teeth sensitive to cold?)
• When I order milk from a children’s menu, the waiter asking “white or chocolate?”
(Of course these first three are entirely hypothetical, since we won’t be eating out at all. Given the cost of living in the UK, we will be existing on bread and water – oh, but at least it’ll be delicious bread, not the compacted cotton wool that is marketed as bread over here.)
• Commercials on tv – their number, frequency, length, quality and medical content (I think that covers the gist of it)
• The word “ornery”, because I just can’t quite get the nuance of what it means – one of those words which has a dictionary definition, but whose usage depends on undefinable knowledge
• The word “flakey”, for the same reason (and is it “flakey” or “flaky” – I can’t even spell it)
• Chiggers
• Four-way stops (don’t get me started)
• Children saying “can I get…” instead of “please may I have…”
• People asking me where I’m from and saying they love my accent (and yes, that’s meant to be in both lists - I’m a bit complicated on this one. Sometimes it’s nice to be different and have an immediate talking point, sometimes it would be nice to blend in a little more.)
Things that will be different
• There will be reassuring white lines at road junctions, so that I will know where I am meant to stop the car
• Stop lights will not swing about on their wires in the wind in that alarming way
• The meat aisle in the supermarket will be mostly chicken with a small section of beef, rather than mostly beef with a small section of chicken
• Children won’t call each other “dude” (or perhaps they will; we’ve been away 18 months and this could be a new fashion for all I know)
• Everything will seem very small, especially cars and houses. A friend of mine laughed when I told her we have an air hockey table in our basement playroom: “you have a playroom large enough for an air hockey table?”. I didn’t tell her we could fit 3 or 4 in that room, and that we have a choice of other rooms where it could go. And that our house is not abnormally large for a family of five
• Children in a park won’t ask their parents for an underdog (which is surprising, given we’re meant to be a nation that always likes the underdog)
• A grill will be something you put meat under, not on top of
Things I will miss
• A big fridge
• The lack of traffic
• Not having to spend time planning the hunt for a parking space
• Thunderstorms
• Kraft Macaroni and Cheese in a box (which, annoyingly and humiliatingly, is much, much more delicious than homemade)
• Mixer taps that actually mix the hot and cold water
• Seeing exotic food in my local supermarket (cactus leaves, buffalo meat) – or will Cadbury’s chocolate fingers and Wall’s chipolatas seem exotic now?
• Knowing it will be warm enough every day to wear flip flops (I find the relentless heat hard to cope with, but I do like flip flops)
• People asking me where I’m from and saying they love my accent
Things I definitely will not miss
• Obscenely large portions in restaurants
• Drinks served 75% ice 25% liquid (am I the only one who likes a drink to be something you can drink? am I the only one with teeth sensitive to cold?)
• When I order milk from a children’s menu, the waiter asking “white or chocolate?”
(Of course these first three are entirely hypothetical, since we won’t be eating out at all. Given the cost of living in the UK, we will be existing on bread and water – oh, but at least it’ll be delicious bread, not the compacted cotton wool that is marketed as bread over here.)
• Commercials on tv – their number, frequency, length, quality and medical content (I think that covers the gist of it)
• The word “ornery”, because I just can’t quite get the nuance of what it means – one of those words which has a dictionary definition, but whose usage depends on undefinable knowledge
• The word “flakey”, for the same reason (and is it “flakey” or “flaky” – I can’t even spell it)
• Chiggers
• Four-way stops (don’t get me started)
• Children saying “can I get…” instead of “please may I have…”
• People asking me where I’m from and saying they love my accent (and yes, that’s meant to be in both lists - I’m a bit complicated on this one. Sometimes it’s nice to be different and have an immediate talking point, sometimes it would be nice to blend in a little more.)
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Blog anniversary
Most bloggers do some kind of special post on their blogiversary. Mine will be 21st May, but sadly I won’t be able to post, since I’ll be in England and internet accessless (unless I am hunched over the computer in the local public library, which I guess is not beyond the bounds of possibility). It won’t be a tidy 100 posts (that would be clever), but I’m getting on that way – this is my 83rd.
It seems to be the thing to refer back to one’s first post, and here is mine. Things haven’t changed much. I have a house to organize and clean before we leave for Britain, since someone is kindly house-sitting and that does raise the bar a little in terms of cleanliness. I have long given up any thought of a perfect house; a half-way adequate one will do, but that is still some way off. I have suitcases to pack. I have laundry to do. I have excited children wanting my attention. I have the nagging realization that there is schoolwork to be finished. I have a sinus infection which makes me feel as if my head is full of putty, and as if the world is heavier and slower than usual. I have got to decant essential liquids into 3oz bottles for the flight. I have got to find a store that sells 3oz leak-proof bottles (which isn't as easy as you'd think). I have 4 days to go till we fly, and I am sitting here typing a blog post. As I said, things haven’t changed much.
It seems to be the thing to refer back to one’s first post, and here is mine. Things haven’t changed much. I have a house to organize and clean before we leave for Britain, since someone is kindly house-sitting and that does raise the bar a little in terms of cleanliness. I have long given up any thought of a perfect house; a half-way adequate one will do, but that is still some way off. I have suitcases to pack. I have laundry to do. I have excited children wanting my attention. I have the nagging realization that there is schoolwork to be finished. I have a sinus infection which makes me feel as if my head is full of putty, and as if the world is heavier and slower than usual. I have got to decant essential liquids into 3oz bottles for the flight. I have got to find a store that sells 3oz leak-proof bottles (which isn't as easy as you'd think). I have 4 days to go till we fly, and I am sitting here typing a blog post. As I said, things haven’t changed much.
Friday, May 9, 2008
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”.
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”.
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