ACCENT DISCRIMINATION

I am of mixed race.   By low percentage, only droplets of this and that; that defines me.   To look at, I have all the features pertaining to Asia.  More South East, as my almond shaped eyes are  walnutty round, my fair skin belies a Caucasian tone, and my small  bone structure strictly oriental and an obvious inbred subservient nature. There’s obvious history.   But before I divulge the naughty slice of my Germanic undertones, I want to address my own narrow view that finally broke recently to show objectivity in its true light.

I married a Caucasian, a trace of ginger, with virulent freckles, and a strong Viking-like bone structure, with an inbred undertone of a fighter.  The opposite end of the spectrum of me. We produced 2 boys and a girl.  Their obvious mixed race, brought a wide range of diversity;  powerful determination with subtle Asian charms;  the strain of freckles, a predominant feature in all three.  Strong bone structure mixed with a strain of exotic Asiatic features gave my children perfect symmetrical beauty according to  BBC’s The Human Face.

Having traversed over the tribal barrier, I gave myself a pat on the shoulder that I am the thinking modern woman, with objectivity in race relations, crossover of cultural gaps, powered by success that Kipling’s East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet, was such a far-fetched long ago thought that should clearly be dismissed, poetry shelved and long forgotten.  How could I be so wrong about myself?

The day of revelation came last week.

Sitting closely together on our big settee, my husband, the Viking-like overpowering size was watching BBC news at full volume.  I, the petite Asian multi-task wife, listening to the news, with my head down simultaneously answering messages on my phone, flipping through Instagram and scrolling down Facebook as we do, every now and again looking up at the TV screen when some absurdity is discussed among known reporters.

          

I love the beauty of accents and having schooled in the UK from kindergarten upwards, I developed naturally the quality of the school’s accent; mostly upper-middle class, high-end that distinctly puts your GPS at Kensington unlike the strong Cockney Londoner or East-end Coronation Street twang.  In earlier years I admired BBC’s announcers but then having to gradually accept the politically correct regional tones; the Scottish notes against the Welsh sing-song and even tolerated some Brummies.  

Suddenly as I am scrolling my string of FB messages, a beautiful accent talking about Boris Johnson’s mistake of the day, I was struck by the tone; deep and husky, reminiscent of my school like days, posh and expensive, and admittedly sexy.  I looked up expecting a Daniel Craig James Bondish look-a-like; but my total shock was resplendently echoed in my husband’s quizzical expression.  He had a screen perfect face; there in full frontal feature was his Sikh turban, sideburns with the required beard and ‘tash beautifully groomed and tucked. 

Studio lights known for its stark brightness, helped to lower the dark tones by a significant margin, nevertheless the screen never lies and the beauty, symmetrical features that can be seen between the blue turban and the beard/tash was truly handsome.   My shocked demeanor shocked me even more of what was ravaging in my mind #blacklivesmatter and all its ramifications.   

The accent didn’t match the face.

 I’m not racist, in fact having broken the values of marrying out of the tribe nonsense, I judged myself differently, but then a thought struck.

My Asian face, small body, walnutty eyes, seemingly could be from anywhere from as far west as Myanmar, stretching east to the Philippines, as far north as mid China,  reaching south to Indonesia; encompassing a fair range in square miles overland and overseas, but what was coming out of my mouth was this Kensington posh lingo.  

The accent didn’t match the face.  

How many quizzical looks, silences, and remarks made throughout the years have been judged on me.  How dare I give such a shocked expression when this Sikh reporter came on.   Then the obvious thoughts raced at great speed already summoning him up in less than a second.  Rich parents, top school, upholding tradition, arranged marriage……how ashamed I was to have such notions.   Or….. my twisted sarcastic assumption….perhaps BBC’s producer finger pointed a staff member in a roomful; he looked right ‘Tonight’s your night – put him in make-up, he’s going on the 8 o’clock news’.

From that night I have vowed never to judge.