Identity and Accents

By Lauren Davis

“Do you know Daniel Radcliffe?” “I bet you drink tea all the time.” “Have you met the queen?” Yes, these really are the comments and questions that a Brit faces in the U.S. My personal favorite came during a discussion of the Revolutionary War in a high school history class – right after I’d moved here from London; with a genuinely smug look on his face a boy turned to me and asked: “So, how does it feel to know that we beat you?”

Since moving to America five years ago, my accent has defined almost everything about me. It goes beyond just receiving amusing one-liners. During every interaction, every endeavor, and every friendship, I feel as though I represent the British perspective. And in turn, beyond my control, a variety of assumptions both good and bad are made about me every time I absent-mindedly include the extra syllables in the word “aluminium.”

In the U.S., I have been defined by, and have also actively defined myself by my Britishness in a way that I took for granted before I left England. However, over the past few years my brain has unwittingly and unwillingly corroded that accent – that external representation of a large part of my identity – as it adapted to my American surroundings. I’ve begun to slur my pronunciation, use new slang, and speak in a louder tone. I’ve also become more friendly, more outgoing and self-promoting, whereas I used to be much more quiet, reserved and humble – even pessimistic. The ultimate blow came this past summer, when I returned to London for an internship and a British co-worker mentioned in passing that she “just assumed I was American.” It sounds ridiculous, but it took all my strength not to curl up in a ball and sob with indignation. In my mind, I am still just as British as I’ve ever been. Her words were a jab that I felt, viscerally, for the rest of the day.

In many ways, I don’t have a problem that I’m changing into a slightly confused and confusing, transatlantic hybrid. I’ve always felt proud to be an American citizen, and am pleased to be genuinely embodying some of that national identity. I care about the country, its people, and its policies. But on the other hand, I am British. I just am. My Britishness is the stake I’ve driven into the ground that I can clutch onto as I proceed through waves of new experiences and people that threaten to throw me off course. Without it, I feel lost.

To be accused of no longer being British – or worse, to have my Britishness entirely unidentified, especially in England, my home – feels like someone yanking a rug from beneath my feet. My British accent, more than just a way of pronouncing “r”s or saying “trousers” instead of “pants,” represents for me the entirety of my British identity: the tastes, the TV shows, the music, the comedy, the landscapes, even the subway system or the grocery stores that shaped me as I grew up. Being British is fundamental to the way I put language together in a spoken or written form; how I organize thoughts and express them, even when my particular tonal pronunciations are not heard. By being British, I can subconsciously peg myself to a geographical location, and firmly feel grounded in a community and a culture no matter where I am. Being British provides a sense of comfort, a viewpoint for arguments, a perspective in cultural affairs, and an excuse for humor or sharing knowledge.

As I change and adapt, is it a bad thing that my accent becomes diluted, along with my sense of nationality? Is it a good thing? Am I growing and changing, becoming more interesting and worldly, or am I losing something basic and essential to who I am? Traveling back and forth between England and America, I struggle with these questions.

Identity is a strange concept, as it has an infinite number of facets: from what we wear, to what we eat, to where we were born, to how we speak or what sports we play. Each one of us, intentionally or not, crafts an identity out of a unique combination of things, some of which we can control and some we cannot – like the family and culture we are born into or our genetics. But we each have the freedom to place an emphasis on the facets that mean the most to us.

Ultimately, I’ve concluded that it doesn’t matter, in any real sense, whether I’m British or American, or some mixture of both. More important to me are the values I try to keep at my core and seek in others – like empathy, honesty, kindness, or bravery. That said, I will never escape the pangs of wrath and woe I feel when my Britishness is accused of having been polluted, or worse, goes unidentified. I’m trying to embrace the transatlantic crossbreed I’ve become. I may not fit into either country perfectly, but perhaps that actually reflects the kind of person I am – always a little on the outside, peering in, but also able to step in and offer my two cents worth when I feel like it.

 
Lauren Davis is a graduate of Phillips Exeter Academy and a junior at Princeton University majoring in Philosophy and Neuroscience. When not writing, reading, or confusing herself with big questions about brains, she enjoys walking around Hyde Park in London, illustrating children’s stories, and riding in equestrian jumping competitions.