For you Anglophiles (you know who you are), we are pleased to be able to bring you on a regular basis the writings from OSC member, Janet Eldred, current resident of York, England. She now writes a regular column for the Yorkshire Evening Press. Janet recently completed a Masters Degree at the University of York and has since begun a PhD program, researching contemporary Christian women's writings.

The Hail from the Dales falls mainly on the Vale by Janet Eldred Reprinted by Permission of Author from the Yorkshire Evening Press

It was my first day in York, and my landlady was helping me settle into my flat. She had graciously offered to take me grocery shopping, and we were compiling a list. As she wrote down basics for my larder, I said I'd like some `PAH-stah' and `toe-MAY-toe' sauce. "You're in England now", she interrupted crisply. "You'll have to say `PAST-a' and `toe-MAH-toe'". Inwardly, I flinched. Without knowing it, she'd touched on my biggest insecurity about coming to this country: my American accent and, by extension, my nationality.

In general, we Americans are more respectful of a British accent than we are of any native US speech pattern, including our own. That's any British accent. We can't distinguish Cockney from BBC, let alone Yorkshire from Geordie. Put a Brit on the telephone or into a group of Americans, and the Yanks instantly become more alert and deferential. This is because, the Revolutionary War aside, on a very fundamental level Americans think that the British are somehow better than they are — Shakespeare and royalty and all that. On a scale of advanced civilizations, the Brits are deemed to be just that tiny bit ahead of their cousins.

In my case, this innate sense of inferiority meant that for the first few weeks I was afraid of not being taken seriously on the telephone and shy about asking questions in public. I assumed that at best people would dismiss me, as just another tourist here to take a few snaps of the 'Minster before heading off to Edinburgh. At worst, I would be held accountable for global warming, sound-bite politics, grey squirrels, and Fergie's continued presence on the telly. Best to keep my mouth shut, then, until more data came in.

Fortunately, the reception has been overwhelmingly warm. My vocabulary and accent immediately peg me as an American, but this usually leads to lively conversations, not criticism. Brits are anxious to share their tales of travel to the States, and are curious to know an American's impressions of their culture. Some even like American accents. In fact, a Scot who has lived in England for years offered this advice in her rich brogue: "Don't ever lose your accent. It's part of who you are".

So, I drop my final g's (goin' shoppin'), substitute d for t (`my housemate' comes across as `my housemaid'), and roll my r's (wor-r-r-ld, gir-r-r-l) with pride. In addition to pasta and tomato, I'm sticking with my familiar pronunciations of words such as `CON-tro-ver-sy,' `AL-ter-nate,' and `con-TRI-bute' rather than switching to `con-TRO-ver-sy,' `al-TER-nate,' and `CON-tri-bute.'

There are times, though, when having a native accent would help. When tourists or delivery men stop me in the city center to ask directions, immediately upon hearing me they say, "Oh, sorry — you won't know either." Before I can protest that I do know my way around York, they've disappeared in search of someone with the right voice.

So for a time, my nearest and dearest, John, tried to coach me, a la Henry Higgins, in the intricacies of Yorkshire-speak. Eliza Doolittle was a better student than I, however. I'll never pass at the pub, let alone the grand ball.

More challenging than imitating the local accents, though, is simply trying to understand them. Before I moved here, a good friend in the States warned of potential difficulties in this area. Nonsense. I'd seen "All Creatures Great and Small" on television; wasn't that enough exposure? Besides, we speak the same language, minus a few colloquialisms and some slang. I wasn't concerned.

I should have been. I've since tried the patience of many a native by asking bus drivers, shop clerks, and postmen to repeat statements two and three times before finally getting the meaning — or simply giving up. Some people think that increased volume improves understanding, when what would really help is for them to slow down and enunciate. Unfortunately, much of the time it might as well be Mandarin Chinese people speaking for all I can make out of it.

Even after nearly two years here, it can still take a moment or two to interpret what's being said. One Sunday morning, the preacher was talking about that famous prophet, Jerry Meyer. It took most of the sermon for me to realise he was speaking of the man I knew as `JER-ah-MEYE-ah'. Oh.

Happily, there's the occasional satisfaction that the trouble with accents isn't all mine or even necessarily a transatlantic problem. When John and I were in Dorset recently, he asked the barmaid at a pub if they had any pork scratchings. "Yes, of course we do", she replied — and promptly handed him a box of matches. +