ACCENTS

 4110

Pt. 1

Depending on which DNA test I choose to believe, (I have taken two), I am somewhere between 60 to 75 percent English, Scottish, Welch and Irish; (with a whole lotta other nationalities mixed in). I used to teach a university course which included a chapter on "America; The Great Melting Pot."

That's me. That's definitely me. I am a melting pot all by myself.

I mean, I discovered stuff about my ancestral heritage that I never knew before. Other than the nationalities I referred to in the first paragraph, between the two tests (23&Me and Ancestry.com) claim (among other things) that I am German, French, Spanish, Italian, Greek, Iranian, Arab, and Sub-Saharan African. (Beyond this, research also indicates I have a bit of Jewish heritage). Be that as it may, (given the overwhelming percentages), I owe much of my loyalty to Great Britain and Ireland. 

For the longest time, my wife and I have wanted to visit the UK and Ireland, and we vowed to do so before we turned 70. We just made it "by the skin of our teeth;" (as we were born in 1949, and booked our tour for 2018).

We were not disappointed.

It was a simply glorious trip, and whether God, or fate or coincidence, the pre-planned locations included in our tour aligned perfectly with places my known ancestors lived, and from whence they immigrated to the United States. Dublin, Waterford, what is currently referred to as Northern Ireland, Glencoe, Edinburgh, and the Isle of Skye. 

While we were in Killarney, Ireland, I was afforded the privilege of singing, "Amazing Grace" as we partook of dinner in an old farm house. (It was not lost on me how relatively close we were to where John Newton wrote that great hymn of the Christian Church).

Pt. 2

Speaking of Killarney, Ireland, while we were there my daughter and I, (she had also joined us on the trip), "took in" a horse & wagon ride through Killarney National Park. And as we made our way through the park, I struck up a conversation with the driver. 

For whatever reason, I asked him how many siblings he had, and replying in a decidedly Irish accent he responded,

"I have eight brothers and sisters."

(and with a bit of Celtic humor thrown in, he continued),

"My dad and mom didn't have a television, and those winter nights were long and cold. They went to bed mighty early, and they were their own entertainment! I suppose you have them to thank for this wee ride you're taking."

I could not help but chuckle.

And now, I asked my host,

"Do you ever have trouble with American accents?"

To which Liam replied,

"Nay. Not so much. It's the Irish accents that throw me."

(As you might imagine, I was surprised).

Our driver continued.

"Some of my countrymen from other areas of Ireland are hard to understand. There are times I have to ask them to repeat what they said."

(I have often hypothesized that an Irishman or Scotsman might much more easily grasp the accent of a typical American, than we would theirs. I had never considered the possibility they might not comprehend one another).

Pt. 3

Our hotel in Glasgow, Scotland stood on the banks of the Clyde River, (or River Clyde, as they are prone to refer to it "over there"). We were just fifty feet from a beautiful bridge which spanned the river, a hundred yards from the convention center in which the now world famous Susan Boyle was awarded second place in "Britain's Got Talent," and an ancient overhead ship-building crane, for which the wonderful city is known, was just seconds away from the front door of the hotel.

 

On our second day in Glasgow, I boarded an elevator to take me up to our room on the third floor. And it so happened that a middle-aged, fairly non-descript man stepped on the elevator with me. I must have greeted him with a, "How are you." 

And recognizing my accent, he said, 

"Ah, you're an American." 

And I responded in the affirmative. (Based on the stranger's own peculiarly thick accent, I surmised that he was a native of Scotland).

 

As the elevator moved quickly towards my third floor destination, referring to the Second World War, Angus continued.

 

"Ah, we are so grateful for what your great country did for us; coming over here to help us" (and) "those dear, dear American lads. How we love and appreciate them even today."

 

And with this the elevator reached its destination, the doors opened, I nodded, and stepped off.

 

It was just a momentary, circumstantial sort of thing, lasting all of thirty seconds, and yet I will remember my brief interaction with this fine gentleman; as long as I live, and move, and breathe on the earth.

Pt. 4

Some dear friends, a couple I have known for twenty plus years, once traveled to the beautiful city of Inverness, Scotland for a wedding. 

Jeff and Ginger wore the standard fare. Each attired themselves in a kilt; (wearing, I suppose, the tartan colors of some ancestral member of their own family). 

And I can only surmise that as long as they remained silent, no one "would have been the wiser." (And, I might add, I plead guilty, or guiltier than either of them ever could, as my parents were native to the great state of Georgia, and bequeathed a distinctly southern accent to me).

Having enjoyed the wedding festivities to their hearts' content, including the food, and frolicking, and fun, and all that goes with a Scottish wedding, it was time to make their way back to their hotel.

Bidding their obligatory "goodbyes," my friends exited the building, and got into their rental car. (Thankfully, when we were there, we had the luxury of a tour bus. I cannot imagine driving a "left handed" automobile, and on what we would consider the wrong side of the road).

By now darkness was coming on, and Jeff switched on the lights. However, in so doing, he turned on a non-compulsory set of lights designed for fog; (and which is a tad too bright on normal nights).

Speaking of lights, now Jeff checked his rearview mirror, and noticed a flashing blue light behind him. Finding a safe place to pull over, he slowed, stopped and turned off the ignition.

With this, a Scottish policeman walked up to the driver's window.

Jeff smiled, and asked what he had done wrong. 

With this, the patrolman spoke. However, after he said his name, MacTavish or MacPherson or whatever it happened to be, "it was all Greek" to Jeff. The man might as well have been speaking with a mouthful of marbles!

And as the Scotsman finished his monologue about whatever infraction of UK law Jeff had violated, and as the American was growing increasingly frustrated with what seemed, for all the world, like a foreign language, he almost shouted,

"SPEAK ENGLISH!!!"

To which, their uninvited friend replied...

"I Am!!!"

by William McDonald, PhD