On Being ‘Foreign’- (Huh To My Accent, Love My Kinky Hair)

Let me start by saying that this is not a HUGE deal. I mean on good days I actually laugh about my ‘foreignness’ and feel nice and exotic while I’m at it. But it’s the bad days that get you. Maybe you’re home-sick, or you suspect you have just been a victim of covert racism or you are just having a bad day, period – that’s when I dwell on stuff like this and actually send it out to a public forum to get it out there. (Not such a bad thing, actually).

What am I talking about? In a minute, I was just getting there. It’s the whole concept of not being ‘American’. Forget that I was born in Illinois and spent my formative years here. Forget that I am 5’6′, black, with no distinguishing marks on my face or body (as are at least 40% of the black female population in Baltimore). I am still ‘different’, at least when I open my mouth. I mean I have a accent, but then, doesn’t everybody? It’s definitely not ‘Baltimorean’, but it’s hardly the ‘click-click’ of the Congo pygmies. So here I am, a cultured, educated, not to mention well traveled attorney and once in a while I still get that “Huh-oh-since-your-accent-is-different-you-must-have-dropped-out-of-the-sky” look. I mean, it took me a while to get used to the whole Baltimorean accent with the ‘a’s pronounced as ‘u’- e.g. “scuuured” for “scared”, “muuurried” for ‘married”, and I was never silly about it.

And then there are the ones who are nice about it, but who come off at best as being patronizing. “You have got the cutest accent…”, or “.say that again. I love the inflection…” I mean come on – next thing your kids will be taking me to school for show-and-tell and you’ll be inviting me to your house, so all your friends can hear my ‘remarkable’ accent, and maybe a tale or two about ‘the jungle days in Africa’. NOT!

Then, what is it with wanting to touch my hair? I mean dang! Do I touch yours? Exactly. Even when you are being complimentary, its just a bit too much. Every time I change a hairstyle, I prepare myself for the grilling the next day at the office. “Why did you cut your hair?” (I’m wearing a short wig), “Wow, your hair grows so fast.” (it’s an extension), or just open mouthed amazement. I mean, asking questions to understand is great, but three times or more is a pain. Trust me.

But oh, the absolute worse is when you see my name first, say on my desk, a name tag, or are introduced to me and then assume that I probably ‘just got off the ship’ and you start to talk loudly to me, in deliberate, mile-spaced, “Janet and John” words, as in “I – am – going – now – okay?”. It is all I can do to keep from laughing. I am African, not hard of hearing, people! The fact that I am African does not mean that English was not my first language – which brings me to another thing I hate . “Ooh, your English is really good! How did you learn to speak so well?” Well, Duhhh. I have to bite my tongue to keep from saying stuff like “actually, I was a child prodigy…”, because I know they would buy that. Sounds way more believable than English was my first language. And then again, English is ridiculously easy, I promise you. Try learning Ibo if you dare.

I know I have vented, which is sad, because I’m actually the nicest person (no, really). But just do me a favor – don’t make any assumptions about me, and I will accord you the same respect.