Un-American Girl

Six-year-old me did not understand why I had to go to the little room away from my classmates. Six-year-old me could not comprehend what all the hubbub was about; did I not speak well enough? Was something wrong with me? No, that couldn't be. Surely my parents would have noticed if something were amiss. I didn't need translation assistance; I spoke English, but my British English did not fare well with the American school system.

The year was 1977. I was living in a small town in Massachusetts, attending a modest-sized elementary school. I was a happy-go-lucky little girl enjoying first grade and loved my teacher. My mum was pregnant with my baby sister, and I recall being so excited for her birth so mum could bring her into my class for show and tell. Storytime and sharing with my classmates were some of my favorite classroom activities.

Until verbalization and speaking became a perceived problem, not by me or my family, but by the school teachers.

The tricky thing is that I didn't exactly have a British accent. I was born in the United Kingdom on a US military base, and our family traveled due to my father's naval obligations. We came to the States when I was three and settled in Virginia before my dad opted out of the service and relocated us to Massachusetts to build a home, settle down, and raise my siblings and me near his side of the family.

These few family members would be all I ever knew since my mum's whole side lived in England.

My non-accent accent was thanks to my mum. I learned to speak primarily with her as Dad worked long days. When she read aloud, her tone gave Cinderella's fairy tale more magic, putting an extra shine on the old glass slippers and making The Three Little Pigs much more enjoyable. I felt that extra oomph in the tale of three pigs and a mischievous wolf when my mother spoke, and I wanted to be a gifted storyteller just like her. I memorized that story and often recited it aloud proudly, saying, "Blow that down, blow that down." I especially enjoyed telling this favorite tale to my younger sister, keeping her entertained while mum did household chores and cooked dinner.

Yes, three-year-old me was absolutely delighted with my mother's voice, and at a tender age, she became my greatest role model.

Naturally, bits of mum rubbed off. I was her child and before the days of desks and pencils, teachers and books, my mum instructed me the basics as any parent would.

A few years later, when I entered kindergarten, I transitioned quite well, and as the chatty little girl that I was, I quickly made friends and loved singing, doing my ABCs, and the lighthearted atmosphere of my little pals and I learning while having fun. No one batted an eyelash when I spoke or interjected, correcting my speech whenever the short vowel sound 'O' became 'Aw,' or when my 'T' in words like 'Better' sounded much more precise.

However, the first grade wasn't the same. Suddenly, I felt cornered, like I was in trouble for simply speaking naturally. I felt like I was handpicked as a problem child, as someone who needed fixing. But how could that possibly be? There was nothing wrong with mum. Heck, strangers were often taken by her accent, and I could tell by their facial expressions that my mother's voice brought them joy, prompting further conversation.

Besides, I did not talk exactly like Mum. I did not grow up in the United Kingdom having a lifetime of cultural rearing and influence; I was just a six-year-old child finding her way, favoring the vocalization of a person I thought had perfect speech.

I was quite mistaken. My pronunciation of particular words was promptly corrected. I quickly learned that my vowels and the minus of 'r' in words like 'water' were unacceptable. My complete hodge-podge of banana and tomato raised an eyebrow or two, and before I knew it, I was led by the hand of a speech therapist to a little room to relearn according to American standards.

Why?

I wasn't speaking a foreign language or had difficulty understanding my lessons. Albeit, my perception of particular words and articulation was different than my classmates, but who cares! We cannot all be the same; my parents taught me to be myself, so why in the world then was my self-expression, my sense of being questioned and trying to be reformed?

With no choice in the matter, I followed the speech therapist's plan, learning some ridiculous mouth exercises for accent modification. I listened to 'proper' speech over and over on a headset, focusing on vowel sounds. Of course, this did not cover the differences between British and American English words. I remember smiling to myself, thinking about truck versus lorry, diaper to nappy, and cookie to biscuit, and firmly deciding that not the speech therapist, teachers, or other school officials would take away any part of me- ever!

Indeed, I had concocted a brilliant plan. So, with a twinkle in my eyes, I sucked up my so-called language lessons, got through the school day, and off I went, home to mum and dad, and my younger sisters to do what I saw fit; be the real me!

I dropped the perfect little conditioned speaker act when I got home, returning to my safe space, what I knew and loved, and what my mother taught me. I can still hear her saying, 'Tomato (pronounced like aw) is proper English. It is not tomato ( long a sound). And then she would smile, reiterating the British opposition to my elementary school instructors. I may have been only six, but I knew enough to understand that language meant different things in different places, and I was proud to be unlike the other children despite the annoying quest the school system had to adjust my ways.

Because deep down, I knew I wouldn't let them win. I had a voice that would not waiver, and I was intent on keeping it no matter what.

Yeah, so, I faked that shit to the best of my capabilities, and soon enough, I said so long to the miserable little room and the speech therapist who was only doing her job.

Keeping up with my newly attained role, however, would prove harder than I initially anticipated. My larger-than-life imagination was my best companion during some lonely days ahead of me, and I realized over time that the little actress me wanted to take the lead, playing simply myself, not the alter ego I created to get by without reprimand or worse, further therapy.

While conversation and verbalization were things I could manage to keep within American standards, reading aloud was more perplexing. Much like my storytime hours spent with Mum where the magic of language took over, and a personal decision to personify this style while reading aloud to myself at home, I could not help but adopt a British tone when reading aloud at school.

These incidents revealed themselves more intently as my elementary years moved on.

I dreaded history lessons and English when we would go around the room, each student taking a turn reading a particular paragraph or section aloud as the rest of the class followed along in their textbooks. Anxiety took over as I struggled to perfect my vowels and not botch up proper pronunciation. I felt a surge of heat flush my face, my hands sweated, and sometimes it took every ounce, every grit of self-control to prevent me from speaking in a shaky tone, the same shaky tone internalized, hidden from classmates and my teachers from age six up to nine, when I was in the fourth grade.

As luck would have it, my fourth-grade teacher was from Australia; finally, I caught a break and a chance to breathe. Ms. Rainka was my language angel and a person who could relate to the invisible struggles of a child who only wanted to embrace her dual identity as American and British. Her Aussie accent made me smile every morning when I took my seat and she made other children smile, too! The class adored her sweet and gentle personality, her fun teaching style, and, her accent. She was a rarity in our little town school, even the town itself, but teachers and students alike embraced her one hundred percent for the person that she was.

Acceptance at its finest and most honorable, but what about little old me?

Where was the acceptance for my non-accent-accent that seemed to be such a damn problem when I was in first grade? Where was the embracing nature of adults for a little girl who only wanted to be herself and not molded into what society deemed agreeable? Where was my acknowledgment as a dual citizen, a person with a rich heritage who wanted nothing more than to live her life walking in the footsteps of both her mum and dad?

It simply was not there.

Fortunately, Ms. Rainka was one of those ultra-bonding teachers who made the time to get better acquainted with her young students. This meant I finally had an adult at school I felt comfortable talking to about my British side of my family and things I wanted to do, like ride the Tube and visit Buckingham Palace. Fast-forward a few years later, I lived my dream when my family went on holiday to England.

Perhaps the biggest treat for me was finally exhaling all the anxiety and worry I had accumulated since that first day of speech therapy. Sure, I had managed to remain within acceptable boundaries and flick the whole language thing on and off like a light switch between home and school, but I did not want to. Even at nine, I couldn't comprehend the entire point, what it was supposed to prove, or how it was meant to benefit me in the long run.

My parents told me from the time I was small that I was an actress, and yes, I enjoyed my magical worlds of make-believe and made-up stories, but my voice, my real voice, was not an act, and I was determined to find a way to own that voice and finally speak it.

The back and forth and the conflict during my tender years made for insecurity, an insecurity that became deeply embedded into my spirit. It was embedded so deep that several times, the future me would collapse once again into the little child space where her voice, her true voice, was muted.

I was granted a reprieve; however, that came as a gift- the love, support, and guidance of a beautiful teacher.

For the remainder of the fourth grade, I not only relaxed more, sighing a sense of relief, but with Ms. Rainka's keen eye and attention, I discovered that I love writing. Stories and reading fascinated me and entertained me for countless hours, but upon a simple writing assignment, I realized that I liked creating. Taking the words from my imagination and crafting them into words on paper quickly became my new-found love.

These words, a quirky flair for humor and the obscure, made me see I had a voice. Much like my non-accent accent, my writing voice was unique, demonstrated by my first short story read aloud to my fourth-grade class. My perspective was unlike any of my classmates, much like my speaking voice. I realized that if I could entertain my class, make them laugh, and stimulate a class discussion through my words on paper, I could do the same with verbalization and conversation- the voice of my real self.

I made an honest effort, and for a while, I celebrated myself, but in the long haul, I would stumble again and again through adolescence, adulthood, and womanhood. Many more times, I would question my voice, my identity, and my place in this world.

Round and round, up and down, through many highs and lows, but no matter how loud and unkind life became, even when it felt like it was me against a cruel, cruel world, somewhere in the whisper of silence, I heard all versions of the past me; the three-year-old storyteller, the six-year-old actress, and the nine-year-old writer. I would listen to them collectively, cheering for me each time I lost my voice again.

A muted me could never be, and the silent struggles that awaited would be the ultimate test, finally unleashing my hidden vocals and giving me the confidence to take my rightful place on the stage called life.