My family is incapable of going a whole day without speaking in either a silly voice, an accent or a foreign language. Within the first twenty minutes of my day I broke into an Indian accent, “Oh goodness gracious it’s very, very windy.”
There’s something about certain phrases or words that just sound better with an accent. No one sounds meaner or tougher than a northern English person using the ‘F’ word; spoken in any other accent, it’s just another word.
Growing up in England I was always conscious of how I would be judged or accepted based on how I spoke. I could switch back and forth between a broad northern dialect and pseudo ‘Queens English’. I say pseudo because I found it virtually impossible and felt phony to say “barth” in place of bath, and a duck is duck not a cross between a dack and a dock.
Which dialect I chose depended on whom I was speaking with. If I liked the person I would often adopt their native tongue. If I felt threatened then I would go into my posh voice and sound as pompous as I could be.
A couple of summers ago I had an alteration with a lady at the supermarket. I was dressed in typical island attire, flip-flops, a skirt and a simple T-shirt. My hair was pulled back and my sunglasses were perched on my head. I happened to brush my shopping cart by the lady, grazing her Louis Vuitton purse that was hanging on the side of the cart. (I’m a terrible driver.) I was about to apologize, but before I could open my mouth the woman said to me indignantly “Excuse you.” Immediately I recognized the tone, I sensed her looking down her nose at this specimen who dared to invade her space. She was an older lady, perhaps in her early sixties, her hair and make-up were done, and I can’t imagine how long she must have been at the salon and just how much hairspray had been required to create the do on her head. Her reaction irked me. In the most proper English accent I could muster, I asked rhetorically “Excuse me?” She quickly retorted: “Yes” maintaining her posture and then I let her have it: “How rude?” I continued, “How dare you speak to me in that tone. Why don’t you take your big hair and your, Louis Vuitton back to Connecticut where you belong. You’re not welcome here.”
I noticed my friend John out of the corner of my eye; he had witnessed the clash and looked a little pale. John is by no means the gentleman’s club type. He rides Harley Davidsons, wears leather, engineer boots and has tattoos; he probably lives at least part of the year in an old van. He is typical of many islanders who grew up here. I wasn’t sure what he made of the scene, he vanished quickly; I assumed he thought this was not a good moment for idle chitchat in the frozen food aisle.
A couple of days later John appeared in my chat window in facebook. He said “Hi.” And all I could muster was an LOL. “You smoked that lady.” “Haha, yeah don’t ever piss me off John.” Still not sure if I should be cringing or laughing. “I have to admit something to you.” He goes onto say. “I had to go hide, you gave me a giant woody.” Enough said.
When I consider what makes a woman sexy or attractive to the opposite sex, a quick temper does not come to mind. However a year later I was lying in bed with my ex-lover; he recalled seeing me let rip on my husband outside my Mother-in-law’s house many years earlier. The house was across the street from a little gas station, my future lover (not mentioning names here) was filling up his car and enjoying the commotion. “You were so hot.” He said. I looked at him incredulously. I remember those fights with James from our early years; the passion was so intense that if we fell out I would either fly off the handle or crumble into an abyss of self-pity. I no longer fight with James in such a way, perhaps I’m mellower now or perhaps I stopped really caring.
A few months after my boyfriend told me he’d seen my fight with James, we got into an argument ourselves; I leapt out of the bed and declared: “I’m done!” He handed me my earring, which I snapped out of his hand and then flung across the room, I saw him smile. I stormed out of the house and headed for the car, he came running after me, grabbed me and said “You are so sexy when you’re angry.”
Perhaps I attract men who like strong women. Or maybe there is something to be said for passion, because without it how can one even gauge what the other person is feeling. I however prefer men who are not feisty. I like the strong silent type, the type of man who seems comfortable in his own skin. If a man brings drama to a situation I think I find it a sign of weakness, and perhaps a feminine trait. In my opinion there is only room enough for one drama queen in any relationship.
