accents and twangs

“Hi! Do you have eggs benedict?” My favorite Sunday breakfast.

“I’m sorry, say that again?” the sweet waitress says again.

“Eggs benedict,” I repeat.

“What is it? Grits?” she asks.

“Poached eggs with salmon and hollandaise sauce” I thought she was asking what it was.

“I’m sorry, can you talk louder and slower please? It’s the accent, I can’t understand you.”she explains mustering the politeness I’m generously suggesting.

I shrunk into a bean and all my pride and confidence escaped like the whizzing of a fart.

“OMELETTE please” I say, defeated.

“Alright, coming right up.” she says as she shakes her head looking at the people at the next table who smile and head-shake in agreement.

I shit you not, the saga continues, my children were about three and one at the time. They ordered sausages and corn bread muffin. I laid one of those disposable table mats, sliced the sausages and laid it on the mat for my youngest to eat. My oldest managed the plate just fine, still preferring to wave the sausage wand as she took tiny bites while wielding her meat weapon making cute noises.

I was sulking as I ate the fucking omelette I didn’t even want. Made a mental note to learn ‘Murican. Elsa, my oldest was giggling at the older ladies at the next table. The same ones who were smiling and shaking their heads in unison celebrating my humiliation and disappointment of not getting my favorite breakfast. Well at least they were being sweet and kind to my kids at this point.

“Where are you from honey?” she asks me, speaking slowly and enunciating beautifully, with a wide Garfield grin.

“Malaysia.” I reply with a smile trying to chew quickly preparing to chat.

She turns her focus to Elsa, “well now you’re here, you’re going to have to learn how to use the silverware won’t you.”

“Sorry? I missed that.” I said in disbelief.

“Oh hun, all the kids here use silverware, these sweet girls ought to too, bless their hearts.” That fucking Garfield grin switched into Joker in that second.

Was she fucking kidding me? My toddlers and their whole fucking preschool class of American children eat with their hands if they want to. Why was there a need for her to ‘educate’ me?

Well, I’d show them! I went home that morning and grabbed all the children silverware and utensils I could find and started etiquette lessons for my one and almost three year old. By golly, they were going to be educated in American ways! Thank the forces for my American husband who had good sense, who told me to, “drop the bullshit and let the kids eat. We’ll teach them when to use the silverware when we want, not when some rando tells us to.” I was so panicked and with the urgency of a fire I wanted to hide my foreignness and preserve my children’s Americanness. I did all the little classes for infants and bought all the gadget and gizmos all the American mom’s bought. I was determined on etching and carving all the Americanness I could find into them, wanting with all my being for them to be American.

Ok, then there was the issue of my accent, that wasn’t the first time I had heard that here in Kentucky. “I’m sorry, can’t understand you, it’s that accent” they would say. As humiliating and demeaning as that may be, when in Rome right?

I lined up every episode of Reba and mouthed along as she spoke. It was my ‘Murican ‘lessons’. English I already spoke since I was a toddler. I watched Reba’s head tosses, her mouth stretch and pout and paid close attention to the inflections in her voice. I needed to not only sound American, overachiever in me, I was going to sound Southern or just like Reba McIntyre, figured either way I would score points. I’d play and pause, repeat, play again, rewind, repeat. I was serious. God dang it, I was gon’ sound Murican. Bless my heart. Typing is so much better than this sound I’m making right now, a cross between a Scott and an Indian school teacher.

I would try my accent out at the grocery store.

“How y’all doin?” I casually say to the bagger. No response. Rude. But Whatever.

I see her saying something and I didn’t hear, “Sorry, come again?”

“We speak English here. You taken the classes yet?” Oh my, these people I keep meeting are true blue educators.

Why is it so important that I sound like them, dress like them, have my children eat and behave like them, be like them? How is my colorful self not a fun interesting addition to the tapestry. Forced assimilation is a painful notion. That I am to lose what makes me, me, in order for the elusive ‘them’ to be comfortable. It is a humiliation and a disheartening pain when my Reba impersonation falls flat on a tough crowd man. I’m currently watching reruns of Nashville, watching Scarlet very closely as she has the deepest accent, I figure if I make it half way I may be at acceptable assimilation levels. Then when I travel from here to way yondah they’ll sing praises of my country accent.

Ah yee.