Every
time I tell people that I moved to the US from the Philippines, that's almost
always the 1st or 2nd thing they tell me, without fail.
Mind
you, I don't get this just from folks who grew up speaking English -- although
I could argue that I'm a much better English writer and speaker than Americans
who think "your" and "you're" are interchangeable -- but
from fellow immigrants as well. Every time, I feign a polite "thank
you" and go into a short explanation I’ve perfected over the years, of how
English is a 2nd language for most Filipinos, and how I grew up
watching Friends to mimic their accents, that flat, nasally, non-accent accent
with a bit of upspeak?
Truth
be told, my feelings about this seemingly innocuous comment are as complex and
varied as there are accents in an episode of Downton Abbey. The only US show I
can come up with for analogy is Modern Family, which I refuse to use because
even they make a caricature of the one person who “sounds different” (looking
at you, Gloria).
I
can settle one thing right now, though: I love the English language. I love
studying it, reading it, writing it, hearing it. As a child, I read English so
well that I vividly remember my late uncle Jordan, who was a high school
English teacher, drag my 9-year-old self in front of a group of high school
juniors to read an excerpt from a book. Afterwards, he told the class “that’s how you read English.” I love the
language because of its complexity, its vastness, and its messiness. You think
there are rules, but then there are loopholes and exceptions to
those rules! English is the US Tax Code of languages, basically.
And
because English was such a foreign language that was a challenge to master, I
had put it on a pedestal that made me feel falsely superior because I spoke it
eloquently (relatively speaking). I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one that
felt like this, and there’s probably a better anthropological explanation to it,
but that’s how I felt about English growing up in the Philippines. English was
my skill and my pride, my passion and my conceit.
Having
a good command of the English language also made the transition to the United
States a bit easier. Being a teen was hard enough; can you imagine being a teen
and moving to a new country? Welcome
to the United States of Insecurity, population: me. So back then, when people
told me I spoke such great English “with no accent,” I beamed. It was the one
thing I could be proud of, the one thing I had control over. That compliment –
as I saw it – was a sign that I was assimilating to the American culture
seamlessly. Look at you speak perfect
English as you order a large pepperoni pizza from Costco. Would you like a
giant soda with that?
A
funny thing happened on the way to growing up, though. See, coming from the
outside, I imagined the US as a homogeneous society, that there was only one
way to communicate and fit in. I wasn’t exposed to the diversity that is the
United States. Thankfully my family moved to San Gabriel CA, which had a euphony
of accents found in the Chinese restaurants, the taquerias, the banh mi shop, the
nail salons, Gabrielino High School, my parents’ workplace, everywhere. I
started to appreciate the way someone’s native language influenced the way they
spoke English, whether it’s Spanglish (only second to my favorite hybrid
language, Taglish), or the brisk way a native Chinese speaker talked to me. Most
importantly, I realized that my old notion that someone who spoke ‘perfect
English’ was somehow better was wrong. It does not matter as much how you
speak, but what you choose to speak about. I mean, the Kardashians speak
‘perfect English’ and I could probably gain more knowledge by moving a cat’s
mouth apart. When I went to UC Berkeley, I met so many wonderful, brilliant friends
from Thailand, Indonesia, Ukraine, France, etc. I loved listening to them in
their accented English as we talked about college courses, economic theories,
or just life. Throughout my career at Target, I’ve worked with highly skilled,
intelligent individuals from East Asia and I’d much rather talk to them than
listen to another mind-numbing conversation about the Bachelor.
My
simplistic ideas of the value of the English language evolved over time, and
I’m the better for it.
Which
is why I have such conflicted feelings towards that comment: Your
English is so great; you don’t even have an accent!
Nowadays,
if someone tells me that, my first thought is that they’re really saying, “Your
English is so great; I’m so glad you’ve learned to speak in a way that doesn’t
make me feel uncomfortable.” Everyone should know by now that we
actually live in a diverse world, and not everyone talks like your local news anchor.
But, if I were to pass judgment that quickly, then that makes me no less
prejudiced than my old self, when I used to smugly mock folks who can’t
differentiate their “fees” and “pees.”
Maybe
the person telling me I speak ‘good English’ really meant it as a compliment,
like the time one of my ESL students showed genuine admiration for my immigrant
story. I volunteered as an ESL teacher for a few months, and I could see how
difficult it is to pick up a new language – any language – especially for an
adult. So, I know their hearts are in the right place. I could only hope to
share my knowledge of the English language with them as they try to make a new
home in this strange country of ours.
Or,
maybe someone is really surprised that I speak ‘good English’ because he or she
thinks that every immigrant from a non-Anglo country speaks ‘broken’ English.
If that were the case I would never know because either a) they’ll never admit
to thinking that or b) they have that stereotype imbedded in their
subconscious. Whatever assumption they make about me then is their burden to
bear, though. It has no bearing on my self-worth, either positive or negative.
I could only hope that they would be more exposed other languages and realize,
just as I did, that it doesn’t matter as much how you sound, but what you sound
out about.
Your English is so great; you don’t even have an accent! English is my skill and my
ambivalence, my passion and my uncertainty.
