A woman walks into a bookstore in Wellington. She is well dressed and well mannered, probably an executive assistant for the CEO of a dairy company, or some such profession. She approaches the information desk and asks the salesgirl, an American, for help finding a particular title. The salesgirl begins to enter the customer’s request into the computer’s search engine, but hesitates:
“I’m sorry ma’am, but can you please repeat the title of the book?”
“Sick and Violent,” says the woman, a hint of annoyance in her voice. Trying not to judge, the salesgirl assumes her position at the keyboard.
“S-I-C…” She stops, and again asks, “Um, can you repeat that one more time?”
“Sick and Violent,” snaps the customer.
“Yea, ok, can you spell that for me, please?”
“Oh, second!” exclaims the salesgirl with a sigh of relief. She pauses. “And the last word?”
“Second Violin! I thought you said ‘Sick and Violent.’” As the woman looks mortified, the salesgirl tries to alleviate the tension with a joke, “I swear we speak the same language.”
“It must be my accent. I’ll go home and practice my English,” replies the customer, with not a hint of a sense of humor. Sadly, this type of misunderstanding happens all the time.
I understand how pathetic this is; but one of the reasons why I finally decided to leave Argentina was that I missed English. Or maybe it was that my English had gone missing. I had already been living in Buenos Aires for nearly two years when my friend came to visit. After a few minutes of conversation, she remarked, “I’m so happy that you don’t sound like a Neanderthal.” She was right: thanks to my job as a customer service manager for a U.S.-based nonprofit organization, as well as my American friends and co-workers, my English was still standing; but it was also starting to deteriorate.
Between living in Spanish and studying French, my total vocabulary had no doubt increased considerably. However, the quantity of English words under my command had decreased markedly (a fact which I successfully disguised with the help of Thesaurus.com). I no longer noticed when I Espanglishized my speech: “Sure, I’d love to meet you there. What’s the direction?” (Dirección being the Spanish word for address.) And don’t get me started on prepositions – do you arrive at, in, or to a city? Honestly, I’m still not sure. Yet, it wasn’t until the following conversation with my mother about her upcoming dinner party that I realized just how bad things had gotten:
“So, what time are people going to your house for dinner?” I asked. My mother giggled, somewhat condescendingly, like she was watching an episode of Kids Say The Darndest Things.
“Oh, Amy. In English, we say what time are people coming to your house for dinner.”
“But that doesn’t make sense,” I protested, “I’m not at your house and neither are the guests. Logically, it should be going not coming.”
“I appreciate your argument, but it’s still coming.”
“Yes, Amy, en serio.”
With the decision to dedicate myself to becoming a writer, I concluded that it would be beneficial to immerse myself once again in English. My father was quick to point out, repeatedly, that in New Zealand, I would have to learn a whole new dialect. As much as I hate to admit it, he was right. Differences in punctuation, pronunciation, spelling, and vocabulary abound. For example, Kiwis seem to have an adverse reaction to the Oxford Comma (such as the one used before “and vocabulary” in the previous sentence), apostrophes, and periods at the end of abbreviations (as in Mr). Harbor becomes harbour, theater becomes theatre, organize becomes organise, and so on. I am often accused of being Irish because, as it turns out, only Irish and Americans pronounce their “R’s”. Just what are togs, jandals and singlets, you ask? You’ll just have to go clothes shopping in NZed to find out.
Perhaps my favorite part of Kiwi speak is its “as” (not ass, as). “Sweet as” is probably one of the most common phrases you will hear in New Zealand (and see printed on t-shirts in tourist shops). Basically, it’s just the first half of a simile, and means “cool” or “awesome.” The “as” format can be used with just about any adjective – “It’s cold as outside”, “I’m tired as” – and saves you from having to come up with a clever comparison to describe the situation. Sure, it sounds like people are speaking in incomplete Mad Libs; but while some may call this lazy, I call it genius.
My least favorite part, in case you were wondering, is how excessively polite people are:
“Your total comes to $100.”
“That’s lovely. Eftpos [debit card], please.”
“Your card was declined.”
“Cheers. I’ll use a different card.”
“You entered the wrong pin.”
“Is that your baby? I ask only because it’s hideous. Seriously, get it out of my face.”
“Thanks. You have a wonderful day. Taa.”
They also have a penchant for shortening words and adding a “y” or “ie” to the end of them – brekkie for breakfast, cardy for cardigan – making it sound like the language was invented by two ten-year old girls named Tiffany and Brittany while playing with their Barbies. Then again, if you’ve ever heard a rugby player ask if you’ve seen his sunnies, you might find the practice more charming than juvenile.
What really gets me into trouble is Maori, especially in place names. When a customer returns an item, we have to ask for their address, which often goes something like this:
“Can I ask for your city/suburb?”
“Sure, it’s Paraparaumu.”
“Your papa raises emus?”
“Para-para-umu. How could you miss that?” At least most cities are spelled exactly how they sound.
The other day, one of my coworkers came up to me with a giant grin on her face,
“When it’s time for your break, there are Shrewsburies, Squiggles, and Tim Tams in the staff room!”
“I want you to know you just sounded like a passage from Harry Potter to me. What are all those things?”
“You’re so cute,” she laughed.
Most people find such barriers to communication amusing, and are eager to explain to me the meaning of Kiwi words, phrases, and product names. Unfortunately, when I can’t understand their accent, most people seem to find that offensive. When we learn a different language, we tend to ignore the accent, concentrating on memorizing vocabulary and mastering grammar (this is likely due to embarrassment, as no one wants to speak French like the chef from The Little Mermaid). However, this is a huge mistake. It doesn’t matter how complex are your sentence structures if people can’t understand a damn word you say.
Trust me, there is nothing more frustrating than asking the cashier at the supermarket if you can pay with a tarjeta de crédito while waving your credit card in front of her face, and having her spit at you, “no te entiendo.” On more than one occasion while living in Argentina, I had someone stop me mid-conversation to ask, “what language are you speaking – English or Spanish?” And then there were the infamous “I don’t hear the difference” exchanges:
“Dónde está el libro?”
“Ah, el liiiiibro!”
“I don’t hear the difference.”
Eventually, I resigned myself to the importance of the accent, and set about relearning how to pronounce Spanish words. By that point, it was too late for perfection, but at least I wasn’t humiliated every time I spoke.
Just as Argentine Spanish (Castellano) sounds radically different from Spanish, Mexican, or Chilean Spanish, Kiwi English sounds radically different from English, American, and yes, even Australian English. In “Eh?”, a recent article featured in Your Weekend (the Saturday supplement of Wellington’s Dominion Post), David Killick explains, “Want to talk like a Kiwi? Easy. Put a peg on your nose. Now, change the vowel sounds: A to E; E to I; I to U. Talk in a monotone, and finish each sentence with an upward inflexion, like a question.” So, for all you Flight of the Conchords fans out there, the answer is yis! Kiwis really do talk like that, sort of. According to the article, many New Zealanders themselves struggle with New Zealand English, deeming it ugly and incomprehensible. Even Prime Minister John Key has come under attack for his strong Kiwi accent; although the article is careful to emphasize that clarity, not accent, is the real problem.
In fact, the New Zealand accent may be a solution. I have read elsewhere that New Zealand’s departure from the Queen’s English mimics the country’s attempt to distance itself culturally and politically from its former colonial ruler. Following this line of argument, New Zealand, a young country just now entering its rebellious teenage years, is using speech to establish and assert its unique identity. Personally, I support and empathize with New Zealand’s attempt to create (or find, whichever you prefer) itself, even if I can’t always understand what its saying.
I’ve long since believed that the way you speak says as much about you as your actual words. I finally came to embrace my accent in Spanish because it perfectly expressed my experience in Argentina: I lived there long enough to insert myself into the local community and adopt many local customs and colloquialisms, but not long enough to abandon my native tongue or disassociate from country of origin. Already, I have versions of my CV and cover letter in Kiwi English, and the words “reckon” and “meant to” have been sneaking into my speech more than I would care for them to (as in “What do you reckon the Prime Minister meant to say?”) There’s no telling how much worse it will get. Just do me a favor: if you ever hear me say “cheers” in place of “thanks”, smack me. Taa.