When Accents Speak Louder Than Words

When I was young and sweet, and living in a nurses’ hostel in a dodgy part of London, a young man followed me down a dark street.

It wasn’t late but it was winter and, away from the bustle of bright shop fronts, the road was lined with empty cars and unlit houses. I hadn’t lived in the city for long, but something didn’t feel right about the stranger who was keeping pace with me along the opposite side of the street.

I stopped, pretending I’d forgotten something, and turned back toward the main drag. The man swung around and followed. I ducked into a newsagent and bought some gum but when I emerged, there he was—on my side of the street now, looking at a shop window. Apparently, he wasn’t pressed for time but I needed to get back to my room to get ready for the night shift.

I approached the man, he stiffened and stared harder at the window. Facing the back of his head I asked, “Are you following me?” and he flinched as if I’d thrown something at him. He turned and I could see that he was a little younger than me, around 20.

“Are you Scottish?” he squeaked in a South London accent. “Nobody’d follow you if they knew you was Scottish.”

I knew what he meant, the Scots have a reputation. England still has parts of a wall the Romans built to keep Scottish savagery at bay. After a short discussion about what happens in downtown Glasgow on a Saturday night, the two of us reached an unspoken agreement that neither of us would attack the other. Then my new friend walked me back to the hostel because “It isn’t safe for girls to walk around here on their own”.

Scottish accents come in many varieties and when I feel threatened, mine defaults to the one I learned as a child, one that sounds nothing like how I learned to speak at home.

I spent my early years in Dundee, a grim city in Scotland’s industrial belt. My family lived on a council housing estate. The sprawl of tenement buildings surrounded a scrubby patch of grass where parents sent their kids to play when they wanted some peace.

My father was from Kenya so my family didn’t look like the other families on the estate. My brothers and I were the only biracial kids around and we didn’t sound like the other kids either. Dad had worked hard for the privilege of speaking the Queen’s English and he wasn’t going to have his children sound like ‘uneducated ruffians’. We were taught proper pronunciation and slang was banned.

Out on the street, though, different rules applied. We lived in a proudly working-class neighborhood and the way I spoke was a problem so, when I put on my shoes to go out and play, I also put on my outside voice. It was harsh and unladylike and came with a vocabulary that would’ve earned me a whipping from Dad, but it meant I could join in the games the other kids were playing.

My industrial-grade Scots accent wasn’t always helpful in tricky situations, sometimes it was better not to say anything at all.

Towards the end of my time in London, I moved into a dilapidated Victorian house with a group of friends. It was Brixton in the 1980s and we were in the first wave of gentrification; recent college graduates living their boho years of stewed lentils and flea market winter coats.

One night, I went out with friends, Dave and Anna, and took a bad-choice shortcut. We were stopped by a guy with a knife. He was sweating bullets above the scarf tied around his face even though it was freezing and he was in shirt sleeves.

Dave and I quietly reached for our ‘mugger funds’, small amounts of cash kept separate from our valuables. But Anna wasn’t having it and piped up with, “Hey, we live here too you know!” Anna had the kind of Downton Abbey accent that could stop a thoroughbred at full gallop.

Suddenly the man holding the knife didn’t look scared, he looked like a grenade with the pin removed. Fortunately, Dave worked in a crisis center and had the wherewithal to keep calm and make a connection. He gravely locked eyes with the man and said in a local accent, “You’re alright, mate”. Then he shoved Anna towards the main street and it was over.

In happier times, Anna showed me the positive uses of an upscale accent. On our adventures around town, we only ever used the bathrooms of the best hotels. Unlike Anna, I didn’t look like a ‘rich kid’ but I learned the accent of one and when to use it.

It was helpful when I went to South Africa in 1986. It was the tail-end of apartheid but segregation was still heavily enforced. My British passport gave me the dubious status of Honorary White but that wasn’t obvious to the lifeguard watching over Durban beach.

He stood on his chair blowing his whistle while my American friend and I scanned the surf for danger. Then I realized the danger was me. I ran over and asked, “What seems to be the problem?” in the plummiest voice I could fake. He went from beet-red to ashen and sat back down without a word.

Traveling from Johannesburg to Cape Town, I met people from across the race and privilege spectrum. They were warmly hospitable and welcomed conversations about the regime in their country. My accent and race mattered less the longer we talked, and I’m glad for what those conversations taught me about connecting with strangers.

Now that I’ve been living in the States for twenty years, my default accent has settled into ‘mid-Atlantic’. Which coast comes through clearest depends on the ear of the listener—Brits say I sound American and Americans love my British accent. Mention Scotland though, or ask about my family, and the brogue thickens immediately.

It used to make me feel like a phony but I’ve made peace with it. We all play a part as we move through the world and meet new people. The way we dress, the words we use, and the customs we lay claim to are all learned behaviors—affectations to some degree.

Now in my 60s, I have a pretty good idea of who I am as a person. If playing with how I present myself helps me meet more people and learn more about how they live, I’m happy to do it.

If I can make someone feel like I’m less of a stranger, less of a threat or a mystery, by moderating how I speak, then that feels like the friendly thing to do.

Is your life ruled by your never-ending to-do list these days?  Need a break to think and feel something different for a moment?