All Change Here

[Note: This article was written in 2020, a year before the author began identifying as non-binary. For the purposes of authenticity, any gendered language used in relation to their anecdotes has been preserved as the original text.]

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‘Ay not ei, oh not ow, don’t say r-EYE-n, say r-EH-n…’

The servants of Professor Henry Higgins’ household echo these strains he repeats to his pupil, flower girl Eliza Doolittle, in a musical segment of My Fair Lady, the Audrey Hepburn-starring film adaptation of the Bernard Shaw classic Pygmalion. Eliza is Cockney, and within one second of hearing her speak the Oxbridge-tongued professor is driven to his wits, determined he would teach her to speak English ‘in the proper manner’. He's hardly concerned about grammar; it's her accent that offends him the most.

I devoured the movie and its soundtrack religiously as a child, fed to me by my father who I’m certain had a closet desire his daughters grow up sounding like prim and proper British schoolgirls. But rewatching it now, I realise Eliza’s dropped Hs and emphasized EIs in place of AYs would not sound too out of place on the streets of present-day Melbourne. So what is the ‘proper manner’, really?

Professor Higgins, and possibly my father, would balk at me today. I was raised speaking British English, and between the influence of varied sources of English media and my Indian peers, my accent and pronunciation resembled that of a stereotypical sitcom taxi driver.  Now, after nearly a year living in Melbourne, it’s become riddled with EIs and OWs and decidedly Australian. I raise an eyebrow at myself when I ask the Coles lady about ‘pot-EYE-toes’.

But when I listen to recordings of my voice from years past (and cringe), and talk to friends who I met this year who say they love my voice, I can’t help wondering if I was always meant to sound this way.

Maybe we should look to the esteemed Professor himself for guidance, by going through the bars of his opening solo from the movie, ‘Why Can’t The English?’...

‘Look at her, a prisoner of the gutters! Condemned by every syllable she utters. By right, she should be taken out and hung; for the cold-blooded murder of the English tongue.’

While Professor Higgins is aghast that this obstinate flower girl doesn't speak with the eloquence of an Ascot attendee, fellow members of his generation back in my motherland would disagree. A friend of mine who returned to Mumbai after an extended stay in the UK received compliments aplenty on the British mannerisms that had crept into her voice, but her extended family was not amused. To them, her English that would be the coveted gold standard for most people was ‘broken’. If they’d heard my Australianised garble, they’d be clutching their pearls in despair.

It’s quite clear to us there’s an element of nationalism to these statements, coupled with older folks from my hometown asking me which plane I stepped off. And in the current climate, with every aunt and uncle insisting we stand by injustices committed in the name of misplaced national pride, a polished English accent - or a clearance-rack Bogan one - has suddenly become an unusual means of rebellion. To the rooted-in-home-soil boomer, speaking like your former colonisers is now anti-national, even though you were the one who insisted on sending your child to them.

So the next time your (brown) parent sends you a fake-news forward, send a voice message back with the cleanest rolled Rs and articulated ‘ECH’s, maybe sip a cuppa while doing it for dramatic effect. I’ll do my part by saying EI not AY, and dropping all my Ts. What a pity it isn’t barbecue weather.

‘Hear a Yorkshireman, or worse, hear a Cornishman converse. I’d rather hear a choir singing flat.’

I took Higgins’ advice and actually did get in touch with my friend Ben from Cornwall, who’s now moved to Wales to study, ensuring his resultant accent has the potential to make the Professor’s ears bleed. Ben isn’t too mad at the softer tones his voice has taken on, and doesn’t notice the difference when travelling between regions. What he does notice, however, is the assumptions cisgender folks make about his voice irrespective of region, and deepens it accordingly - but admittedly out of their comfort, and not his.

Now, I’ve gotten my fair share of ‘thank you sir’ from Uber drivers who upon arrival are slightly shocked their deep-voiced rider is actually a woman. It’s amusing at first, but after a point it makes you wonder what qualifies a voice to fit within archaic ideas of gender; and the fact I don’t care what gender my voice sounds like on the phone comes from a place of privilege. Why use pronouns on the phone, anyway? Shouldn’t we be more worried about doing our jobs?

I fear for what would’ve happened to Ben if he grew up where I did: a homogenous bubble that not only harbours surface transphobia, but also assumes everyone has to sound a certain way. Anything different, and you’re a foreigner (which qualifies as any region of the country diametrically opposite to the one you live in); anything in clear-cut English, and you’re trying too hard to be white.

But what if that was the change I wanted? Not my skin colour, but something representative of a place more tolerant, more colourful, that didn’t care how you spoke English as long as you paid your tab? It’s an immigrant utopia, but when you struggle for two minutes in the native language before desperately switching to English, you can’t help hating the sound of your own voice. That it would be better placed elsewhere where it was actually able to speak; to express all the things it felt, without being mocked by the local populace at no fault of your own.

‘This verbal class distinction should by now be antique! If you spoke as she does, sir, instead of the way you do; why, you might be selling flowers too.’

So here I am in Melbourne, a plane ticket later, having taken full advantage of the verbal class distinction I was born into: a household that prioritised fancypants English over the three native languages my ancestors offered. And instead, I speak an awful lot like Cockney Audrey Hepburn. And while I’m not selling flowers, we live in a time where retail jobs should be elevated to the respect they deserve for the patience they entail. Even the most mellifluous baroque could be selling you flowers.

It’s not just Bernard Shaw’s caricature character that makes these classist assumptions, unfortunately. I’ve heard them within the walls of my own house, and I’m thankful for the multicultural college education that helped me unlearn them. There’s the case of my friend Am* from France, whose consumption of English media has seeped into his native French accent, leading people to assume he’s from the fancier part of town. 

It should be clear by now this perception of voice is deeply restrictive. I’m fortunate enough to be able to move somewhere more accepting of the way I sound, but there’s so many kids still boxing themselves in because they’ve grown up believing their voice ties them to one identity. And I can tell you it doesn’t have to be that way.

‘Arabians learn Arabian with the speed of summer lightning; the Hebrews learn it backwards, which is absolutely frightening.’

It’s not like Higgins isn’t completely unaware of the existence of cultures besides his own - but when it comes to English in particular, he dallies out preconceived notions over a single syllable out of place. Not too dissimilar from the aunties lamenting over ‘broken’ polished voices, or the playground kids switching to a different language when I showed up.

Perhaps that’s the key to why people assume identities based on voice, and at the same time, its grand irony. That with English becoming so universal, it grew too big for its boots, and people wanted dainty little shoes they could fit in instead; their own comfy bubbles where everyone sounds the same. 

Unfortunately, I have terribly big feet (it’s true!). So if you're perturbed by my voice, I will instead define myself by the words I write, because there’s no physical voice attached to them. You could read me from Melbourne or Chennai, Mumbai or Cornwall, and I’d be the voice you want to hear in your head, instead of the one that throws you off guard.

‘Use proper language, you’re regarded as a freak. Oh, why can’t the English learn - to speak?’

Out of context, this last line would perfectly summarise my experience growing up, when in actuality the Professor was placing emphasis on the first clause. But even the language is hardly ‘proper’ these days; from missed calls to mulligatawny, immigrants have bent it out of its stodgy shape in delightful ways. We can hardly imagine conversation without these bits of borrowed vocabulary - so why should borrowed accents be any different?

I’ve long since stopped looking for validation from my former peers. Instead, I’m content with the nonchalance of people on the street in the place I now call home. I was particularly humoured by one sidewalk surveyor from a few months ago, taking a shot at guessing where I came from after asking me a few questions:

‘Okay, okay. I totally got your accent.’

He pauses before confidently blurting out his answer.

‘You’re from New Zealand!’

Well, they’ve got a nicer prime minister. I’ll take that as a win.