“Oh my Gawd, I love your accent.” This phrase has, and will always, induce a mixed bag of emotions that wrestle with each other inside my awkward British mind. It is, in every way, a sweet and sincere compliment.
When I first arrived in the United States, I loved hearing it and had an array of smart or flirty (whichever was required) responses catalogued on the tip of my tongue. My favorite was one that I had guiltlessly borrowed from one of my great heroes, Christopher Hitchens, who said, “But, my dear—it is you who has the accent.”
Four months down the line, and as you can imagine, it has become quite a bore to begin most interactions with this ubiquitous routine. In fact, if it weren’t for the daily freebies and occasional phone numbers, I may be tempted to keep schtum. You see, I have found myself in quite the peculiar situation where the simple act of opening my mouth invokes interest in almost anyone within earshot.
It seems an unfair upper hand to be given because it is something that comes completely natural to me. Like every other native speaker, I don’t believe myself to have an accent. “Rawther” is the only way I know how to say “rather”; “warter” is the only way I know how to say “water” and if I excite you when I say the word “dirty,” then it usually unintentional. Usually.
I still haven’t been able to work out exactly what it is about the British accent that is so pleasing to the American ear. I say British, but really I mean English. I doubt many of you folks would appreciate the dulcet tones of the Welshman, and even I, at the best of times, cannot understand Glaswegians, which is why it’s lucky to meet one who laughs at his own jokes.
Perhaps it is the false impression that we English are innately smooth, gentlemanly and intelligent. Though I wish it were the case, I have to tell you that you are incredibly mistaken. As a nation, we are partial to binge drinking, knife violence and occasional public indecency. If you were to visit, you would soon notice that England is less like Downton Abbey and more like one of Gordon Ramsay’s kitchens.
Fortunately for me, most of you haven’t visited, and I can quite shamelessly keep up the facade that we all live in thatched cottages, spending our afternoons drinking tea and discussing the weather whilst the queen’s daily address plays in the background. In fact, I do believe I have become even more British since arriving in America. And yet, whenever I hear that phrase and deliver any of my usual responses I feel rather cheap and dirty. Dirty.
I am conflicted. On the one hand, I love —love—all the perks: invites to parties, free drinks and more dates than you can shake a stick at. On the other, I am generally not a massive fan of special attention, and whether I like it or not, this is something quite hard to avoid. It’s probably for the best that I am due to return home in just a short month. But I have the feeling that within no time at all, I will be quietly resenting sounding the same as everybody else.
