I’m usually not the type of person to walk into a room and hover on the sidelines of a mingling crowd, prepared to wait to be spoken to before engaging in conversation. Usually it’s the opposite; I feel more at ease after I go up to a friendly-looking face and strike up a discussion. Doing this makes social events where I don’t know any of the other attendees much more enjoyable. But ever since arriving at Oxford last year, I’ve felt the urge to rein in that habit a little, primarily for one reason – the minute I open my mouth, I’m going to be marked as an “other”. My lack of a British accent will betray me, as I introduce myself in my native American tongue.
Most students at Oxford would be quick to say that they don’t view international students any differently than their compatriots, that it’s ridiculous to feel like I’ve got something to hide. And in theory, they’re right – most of my best friends at Oxford are other British undergraduates, and aside from the occasional friendly snicker or two when I pronounce something the American way, we’ve managed to get past most of our linguistic differences after more than a year together. However, most new people I meet, no matter how subconsciously they do it, instantly project a generic image of Americanism onto me before I’ve said anything about myself other than my name.
Inevitably, on discovering that I hail from across the pond, I will be asked several questions in rapid succession, which although they may vary slightly in wording, never fail to stray from a few key points. First, I will be asked where in America I am from; I will then say Connecticut, a town about an hour from Manhattan, where I was born.
Subsequently, I will either be asked where Connecticut is (if the person I’m speaking to did not hear the second bit – everyone seems to know where New York City is) or, my new acquaintance will begin to gush about someone they know who lives in New York and ask whether I know them. The answer is, for future reference, most likely no; the same goes for those who say they have friends or family in Arizona or North Carolina; chances are, I have not been to that town or met anyone from that school, unless the town is in New England or the school is in New York.
Then, of course, I will be asked where I’m studying abroad from, since the vast majority of Americans engaged in undergraduate study are of course students at universities in the United States taking a year abroad. I’m still surprised at the disbelief which sometimes flashes across someone’s face when I explain that I am a “real” student, reading for a degree in history at an “actual” college (and I’m not making exceptions for Americans here who are studying abroad, either – they’re often the most disbelieving of all!)
By this time, several words will have been exchanged, and my new acquaintance will invariably comment on the fact that my accent does not sound like a “typical American” accent. No, it does not; I am from a state where residents posses neither southern twangs nor nasal outer-borough screeches, no hint of Boston or the Rocky Mountains or California discernible in my voice. In my nation, a place Winston Churchill termed “this great novel land of yours which sticks up out of the Atlantic,” there are many accents, and many voices, and mine is distinct only in its failure to fulfil any stereotype.
But I’m perfectly content with the tone of my American tongue. In fact, though reflex may hint otherwise, I don’t really feel the need to hide anything. After all, once the initial onslaught of familiar questions is past, I’m treated just like everyone else – until the discussion turns to American politics, that is. And when that happens, I can’t guarantee anything.
