Howzit, my bru

On accents, holding tight and letting go.

When I first moved to New York over a decade ago, I took a creative writing class where the instructor encouraged us to “write about the whore of your experience.” I remember sitting in Bryant Park, among the twenty writers on a beautiful summer day, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks. “Who is he calling a whore?” I thought. My eyes darted around the group, but no one else seemed perturbed. They simply continued taking notes in the glimmering sunshine.

When he said it again—explaining that he was encouraging us to dig into the messy, uncomfortable parts of our lives—it became clear he’d been saying horror, and his strong New Yorker accent had made it sound very much like the other word I’d heard. At the time I chuckled, aware of how much my ears had yet to adjust. It was a funny misunderstanding, but it also became emblematic of the rocky relationship I’ve had with language in this adopted home of mine.

Recently, I was reminded of this moment when listening to the first episode of Lupita Nyong’o’s fantastic podcast, Mind Your Own. In it, she shares the story of her struggle to “sound American” when she started out as an actress in Hollywood. Lupita, who was born in Mexico and raised in Kenya, recalls how the more she tried to emulate the speech of actors she admired, the more she felt as though she was losing herself. “I couldn’t find myself in my mouth anymore,” she says, a sentiment that resonated with me.

I, too, know what it’s like to be acutely aware of how different you sound to those around you, and to toy with the idea of how to fit in sonically. When I first arrived in New York from South Africa 14 years ago, I was hyper-aware of how I sounded. When I spoke, I could hear my own voice echoing back at me; sometimes, I’d even struggle to form the right shape with my mouth.

But New York, I’ve since learned, is a city of accents. The more time I spent with friends from Tokyo, from Madrid, from Accra, from Dublin, the more comfortable I felt with how I sounded. And I learned, my accent, my way of speaking, is part of the city’s collective lexicon, a tiny fragment in a much larger, richer aural tapestry.

Unlike Lupita, I haven’t ever feel the need to change how I speak for work; in fact, it was almost the opposite. For the first eight years in New York, I was still reporting for a South African radio news network. Rather than risk being ridiculed back home, I stuck to my pronunciations. I’d say Sundahnce Film Festival (with a long ‘a’) rather than the clipped Sundaynce; Roos-a-felt Island instead of Rozevald. And, water—well, I’ve never been able to bring myself to say waadar.

To be sure, there are times when I do want to “sound American.” On the podcast Lupita mentions she’d measure her progress by seeing if the automated voice message system—like the ones you get when you call a help center or your phone service provider—could understand her. When faced with the robotic voice on the other end, I’ve found myself slipping into my best Valley Girl voice and saying "operator" with a rolling 'r' and blunted 't' so that it sounds more like a 'd': "Operrrada!" All in a desperate attempt not to have the voice say I need to repeat myself, or worse, hang up.

And it would be nice not to have to place my order at a coffee shop three times, or to have my surname written down correctly the first time I spell it out to someone: “N-E-O,” not “N-E-R.”

Still, there are things I just can’t change. I answer questions that need a positive reply with a hearty “ja (soft j),” and more often than not, I’ll greet you with a “howzit!” rather than a “hello!”

For me, the sidewalk will always be the pavement, a trash can, a dustbin and a band aid, a plaster.

Over the years, I’ve had people tell me that they love my accent—usually after first mistaking me for being from Australia. “You don’t sound South African,” they often say. To which I’d explain that South Africa doesn’t have one accent; we have 11 official languages. And I’d add that, as a white South African with Greek heritage, I probably sound even less like Matt Damon in Invictus than expected.

In some ways, my accent isn’t too dissimilar from Lupita’s. We both tend to pronounce every letter, as she says: “It’s there for pronouncing, so pronounce it!”

We both have trouble with how Americans say can’t. To me, there’s sometimes no difference between can and can’t when the t is softened to the point of disappearance. I could ask, “Can you help me with this?” and still not know whether the person answering means “yes” or “no.” Language can become a series of clashes where there should be connection.

I’ve been thinking a lot about accents and identity as I watch my daughter learn to speak. My husband is Australian, and, well, if you’ve read this far, you know where I’m from. When she first started talking, she sounded like me—her water was just like mine, flat and unembellished. She said pants and hands the same way. Her diapers were nappies, the stroller was the pram, and her swimsuit, her swimming costume.

When she went to daycare, I’d let her know that there were other words for things—that jerseys are also sweaters, for example—just so she wouldn’t be too confused. As she spent more time among her fellow toddlers and teachers, she began picking up American inflections. I shouldn’t have been too surprised then when one day it happened: she came home and asked for her waadar boddle. The t’s were barely spoken. I shuddered. She had an American accent.

Then it happened again: “Where my pants?” she asked, the “a” making a grating, aay-like sound. “Help wash hands?” she said. “Hands,” too, with that elongated haaynds.

It’s not that I dislike an American accent. It’s just I am proud of where I come from, and I feel like it’s such a part of me that I want it to be a part of her, too. As someone who was fortunate enough to come to the U.S. to seek growth and adventure, my accent, and the broader way I speak, the words I cling to, are my bridge back home. I may have left to explore the world beyond, but I’ve never forgotten where my roots are. And I don’t want to ever forget. When I speak, and someone asks where I’m from, I relish talking about South Africa, and the things I love most about it.

With the shift in my daughter’s language taking shape, at first, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of something—like it was just one of many moments in which the space between us would be growing further apart. It felt like she was losing not just the accent I’d given her, but a bit of me, too. So I took comfort in the words Lupita’s mom told her when she decided to finally embrace what her accent had become. “Your accent is representative of your life experience,” she had said.

I’ve come to know this: My accent isn’t just something I “keep” or “lose,” it’s a living symbol of who I am; of what I’ve left behind and what I’m passing forward, from South Africa to New York—from me to my daughter.

And she’s not losing anything, either. She’s adding to her identity. She’s becoming a little bit of everything. A New Yorker, yes. But also, a bit of South Africa. A bit of Australia. And maybe even a bit of something that doesn’t exist yet. It’s just like Lupita’s mom says, her life experience will inform her voice, in so many ways.

Lately, when I ask my daughter if she wants her water, she replies “ja.” One day she may drop that word but for now, I know I’m still very much a part of her, and so is the country of my birth.