Accents Speak Louder than Words

By: Ania Perrin, Class of 2018, Psychology Major

In asking students to consider the many possible meanings of the words “literate” and
“literacy,” we are requesting that students dig deeply into their own memories of readings,
words, and understanding, but also to think about other ways in which we can be literate. In this
essay, Ms. Perrin does a beautiful job marrying a more prosaic idea of literacy (how words are
pronounced and understood) with the much bigger ideas of cultural literacy, and the familial
literacy that comes of first seeing one’s parents through adult eyes. With her strong use of scene
and dialogue, Ania effortlessly brings the reader along on her journey to literacy, in all its messy
incarnations. –Professor Lindsay Ferrara

was ten years old when Nadia and I slept over our friend Kaitlin’s house. A vibrant red

I couch stood in the family room, a bright purple table in the dining room, and there was

yellow color-schemed wallpaper throughout the mansion - a bold vision of striking beauty,

powerful yet invitingly accented by the flamboyant furniture found within. Kaitlin’s mother

awoke us the next morning. She was kind enough to prepare a breakfast of pancakes, waffles,

and fruit. As we tasted the mouthwatering food, Kaitlin’s mother said that one of us was about to

be picked up. “I have no idea which of your mothers is coming,” she said with a smile. “I

couldn’t quite make out what she said on the phone.”

“Did the woman have a heavy accent?” Nadia asked.

“Yes, she did. Is that your mother?”

“Oh no, that is Ania’s mom. My mother does not have an accent.” Nadia said. She took

another bite of the chocolate-chip pancakes stacked on her plate.

“What are you talking about, Nadia? My mother doesn’t have an accent. Your mom does!

Your mom is Mexican.”

“Yeah, but your mom’s accent is heavier than my mother’s.”

 “No,” I said. “That’s impossible. “After living with my mother for ten years, I should be

well aware of her accent.”

Later that morning my mother came to pick me up. I said goodbye to the girls, but

Nadia’s remark remained in the back of my mind. I climbed into the BMW, exchanged kisses

with my mother, and freed myself of the bulky sleeping bag. As we drove off into the woodland I

conversed with my mother to see if I was able to identify her accent. We talked about the

sleepover, what junk food I ate, and how long it would take my body and mind to recover. To my

astonishment, I was unable to distinguish her accent from mine.

When we arrived home, my stepfather Edward greeted us. While Edward helped my

mother with the bags, the two of them spoke about the drive we had just taken. I was suddenly

struck by the way my mother mispronounced each English word. I could no longer be in denial.

Though my mother looked the same as she did before; though her tone of voice did not change,

her English was foreign to me. I listened closely to her broken words; I observed them for quite a

long time, then, asked her to speak directly to me. She turned around. It seemed that my odd

request bewildered her. We starred at each other and I gave her simple words to repeat back to

me, and, for whatever reason, she didn’t refuse my strange demand.

“I just noticed you have an accent.”

“Of course I do, dear. I’m from Colombia, what do you expect?”

I knew where she came from. It was easy for me to hear my relatives’ accents, however,

I was under the false notion that my mother was different. She had been in America since she

was eighteen and I was convinced that she did not possess an accent. After so many years, she
should have adapted to the way we speak. To others, her broken English was not a big deal. But,

to me, it felt like I had just heard my mother’s voice for the first time.

I grew accustomed to my newfound discovery of my mother’s accent. However, there

were specific words she mispronounced that were particularly irritating: lettuce, beach, focus,

and “the;” all simple words that any toddler could say, yet she pronounced them differently.

Lettuce became letters; beach turned into the word that means female dog, and focus was

mispronounced as another derogatory word in the English language. Her mispronunciations

agitated me, specifically the word, “the” which she would pronounce as, “de.” Though I tried to

correct her numerous times, I eventually gave up and came to accept her accent as a part of who

she was. At the same time, I had trouble with accepting her accent when she spoke to others.

One beautiful summer’s morning, years after realizing my mother’s accent, my friend

Andrew came to my house to prepare snacks for a relaxing day at the beach. We gathered fruits

and chips from my pantry, assembled them in a tiny cooler, and planned our activities for the

day. My mother came into the kitchen wearing her go-to beach outfit, which consisted of pink

shorts, a white oversized shirt, and her short hair tied up in a messy bun. She grabbed the car

keys from a drawer in the kitchen, turned to us and said with a huge smile, “lets hit the beach!”

Andrew burst into uncontrollable laughter. My mother knew why he was cackling away and

joined in on the fun. I, however, was not amused. In fact, I was so embarrassed that I punched

Andrew in his arm, and hoped that his joyful tears would turn into tears of pain. Unfortunately,

my action backfired and Andrew’s laughter grew painfully louder.

“I love your mom. She is so funny,” Andrew said after calming down.
 His words soothed my anger. I began to giggle and acknowledged that he was laughing

with my mother, not at her. I proceeded to hug my mother to let her know I once again accepted

her accent as being part of her.

Though my mother was often praised for her accent and people thought it was just as

beautiful as she was, there was hint of sadness and anger in her voice when she complained

about those who judged her for the way she spoke. It was difficult for me to have two languages

conflict with each other every day. I would wake up to the mispronunciations of the English

language spoken by my mother, then listen to an articulated version at school. I went home

feeling as if my mom was a societal outcast. Her accent immediately categorized her as a

foreigner. Only later did I realize that my conception of the way she spoke, my idea of how she

was viewed by others was simply a product of my own self-conscious issues. I never truly

accepted or appreciated my mother’s accent until I watched Sofia Vergara on Modern Family.

While I sat on my snow-white couch, spread out comfortably under a blanket of pillows,

and flipped through channels, I paused every so often to see if anything was worth watching.

Nothing caught my full attention until I came to ABC’s the “Modern Family.” Just like Andrew,

I burst into an uncontrollable laughter whenever Sofia Vergara mispronounced English words.

My eyes were glued to the televisions screen; it was impossible to avert my eyes during

Vergara’s hysterical scenes. I was mesmerized by her character’s self-confidence in comparison

to the other characters on the show.

I made a connection between my mother and Sofia Vergara, which helped to overcome

my embarrassment of my mother’s accent, and in fact, I became proud of it. My mother knew

that many people viewed her accent as a restriction, but she didn’t allow that to get into her head.

She continued to live her life without limitations. Her accent adds soul to the way she speaks.
Beautiful body movements accompany each word that comes out of her mouth. They are often

expressed through hand gestures or the way she tilts her head when she laughs. When I was

younger, my mother’s accent limited my ability to fully appreciate her beauty. Now, I’ve come

to love it. I cannot imagine her speaking any other way. She’s fluent in the discourse of life and

her language emanates from her soul.