You Know What an Accent Means?

16

February 2, 2017 by Katia

accent

Image credit: Unsplash; Averie Woodard

“You know what an accent is, don’t you? It’s a sign of bravery” a friend chimed in on a Facebook discussion recently.

After I immigrated, parts of me shut down, never to be restored. Immigration dictated putting myself – a self doubting introvert – out there in ways that I didn’t suspect I was capable of. It was much like mastering a previously unheard of yoga pose and discovering that your body could arrange itself into an unimaginable shape or move in unexpected directions defying gravity. Here I was attending job interviews on a profoundly foreign territory governed by an obscure protocol or joining online meetup groups and getting together with strangers with the actual purpose of talking to them rather than the far more appealing option of avoiding it. At the very same time I was putting myself out there I was also withdrawing inwards. The sense of curiosity with which I would pick up the phone back home was replaced with unease and the resolution to just let it ring. What may have started ten years ago as a fear of the unknown instilled itself in me and lingers to this day.

Simply put, something – some things – in me, died.

“You have to be careful when you transition from one pose to another with a hop.” cautioned my yoga instructor last week “jumping too often or in a way that is incorrect, could cause shock to the system”.

Maybe that’s what it was: I jumped too often or too abruptly. After all, it felt like I was subjecting my body to a second immigration.

I was born in Israel to a family of Russian immigrants. I was able to watch my family’s cultural otherness from the advantageous perspective of an outsider – a local, savouring the comfort of belonging and the luxury of shared context while also actively partaking in that “otherness”. I spoke a different language at home, constructed different sentences and relied on different points of reference. I often resented my foreign name, Katia, for giving me away when all I wanted was to blend in. When my husband and I decided to relocate, I thought that the exposure my parents gave me to immigration rendered me immune. Turns out the jump was still shocking.

I think it was my mother who first equated immigration to dying. With only three days to pack up and scram they left a communist country in the 1970s back when saying goodbye meant forever. Dozens of friends came. It felt like they were there to pay their respects, as if this was my family’s collective funeral.

When I left my home country I felt like I was attending a funeral too, I just wasn’t sure whether it was my own. Mom was at work – we thought it best to treat this like any other day. Grandma and her sister, two parts of my identity, decided to see me off. When it was time to go we made our way downstairs together, to the minivan that was picking me up to go to the airport. What later became the emblem of leaving was the receding image of those two women, in their eighties, one supported by a walker, the other one gently guiding her. I watched them separated from me by a van, waving, ever so fragile in appearance and ever so strong in fulfilling their part in relation to me as grownups, mindfully making their goodbyes as casual as possible to lighten their weight while also charging them with the essence of what we meant to each other. They did this with deliberate circumstance-defiant cheerfulness, a skill they’ve perfected having lived through WWII, communism and their years in the volatile Middle East. The sight of them walking away back into a reality I knew so well and was driving away from had the flavor of a funeral.

All immigrants go through one form of death or another, choosing an early departure in favour of rebirth. I never regretted moving but I’ll never stop missing my previous incarnation.

Do you know what an accent is? It’s a sign of surviving loss. Sometimes your own.

**

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16 thoughts on “You Know What an Accent Means?

  1. TheJackB says:

    Very nicely done. As an American Jew I always feel American, but I always hear the echoes of my great grandparents fleeing the Cossacks to go to Israel or America.

    Accents have always been around me, it is impossible for me to think of a world where they aren’t.

    • Katia says:

      Thank you so much, Jack! I strongly relate to what you’re describing and certainly feel like the cries of the Cossacks are imprinted in my DNA. And I love what you said about accents.

      • TheJackB says:

        Accents are funny things. I worked for an Israeli company in LA and they used to tease me about how American I sound speaking Hebrew but it went both ways.

        If we went for coffee at Starbucks it was always easy for the Barista to get my name right, but Shachar and Motti, well not so much. 🙂

      • Katia says:

        And this is why some of us keep Starbucks names and alter egos 😀

  2. alexandra says:

    You are incredible. You are inspiration, life, and the purity of soul and compassion. How I love this, how inspiring it is. Just beautiful. Beautiful. I wonder if you’d post it up on medium, it’s so gorgeous.

    • Katia says:

      You know how much this means to me, don’t you? It means the world. I am endlessly grateful for you and other gifts that that this reincarnation offered. I’ve never posted anything on Medium before, but I’d love to find out how. I’ll look into it in the evening. ❤ <3<3

  3. Bilby says:

    What an exceptionally wise friend (who said that smart thing that gave you this topic) that must have been. 🙂

  4. Dana says:

    This is beautiful, Katia. (Btw I love your name!). I suspect many in the U.S. only think of what immigrants are gaining by coming to a new country, and not all they have lost or given up. Thank you for sharing that perspective, my friend.

    • Katia says:

      Thank you so much, sweet friend! I read this to my mom (well, translated this to her and turns out she had no idea I resented my name. Oops. Luckily she’s not the easily hurt kind). I often thought about the point that you’re making about immigrants being viewed as maybe a bit opportunistic and being there at the “expense of” or pursuing some personal gain. I think that immigrants are often driven by a strong sense of “getting away from” rather than “going to” if that makes sense and so many of them are willing to take so little, work so hard and prove themselves (I see that all the time as a recruiter). I am so happy if my post shed light on other aspects of immigration. Love and miss, xoxo!

  5. I’m training to be a beauty therapist and I have a number of friends from different countries. I am in awe of what it has taken for them to come to another country, adopt a new language and try to fit it. I realised how I sheltered I was from other ways of life, other beliefs. I thought I was worldly. Turns out… not so much.

  6. […] few months ago I wrote a post about immigration likening parts of it to death and rebirth and submitted it to BlogHer, a Blogger […]

  7. […] Katia Bishops for “You Know What an Accent Means?” […]

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Between 2014-2015:

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What makes a happy new year? 
This is my story, but I suspect, it might also be yours. 
Lately I haven't been writing much. Forget writing, I can't even produce an entertaining Facebook update. Why? Because selecting the right words requires an effort and I don't have any effs (for effort) left to give. First I stopped posting to my blog, then my blog's Facebook page and eventually my own Facebook profile. I'm making an effort but I find it draining. Who knew that posting funny updates on your profile is not so easy? 
Nothing dramatic is going on in my life. Work's been extra busy with some newly added responsibilities and stress, bedtimes are still long-ish and my sleep is still often interrupted, but it's not nearly as often as before. My "me time" is limited and starts late. The emotional energy I invest in my work, the nature of my sleep and the limited time I spend on myself leave me with little energy to spare. Any energy I have left and then some is invested in my kids.

My kids, whom you all know I adore and admire, are daring, often reckless and very young and inexperienced. Sometimes I'm surprised at the extent of their lack of caution and I'm always, always disproportionately worried. I know that because I'm unlike the other mothers around me. I come from a family of worriers and anxious people. My neural pathways always lead me to a dead end - literally. I catastrophize and imagine the worst outcome. For years I've been able to rationalize and talk myself out of useless, time consuming and energy wasting internal struggles with often imagined worrisome scenarios, but now that words are burdensome and my energy is dwindled, I can't. 
I'm entering this new year happier and more optimistic than I've been in awhile. Yesterday I went to see my doctor. After a lot of internal turmoil and thoughts about cancelling my appointment I came in and blurted out: I think I'm suffering from some form of anxiety. His very calm and matter of fact-ish reaction ("like everyone else in the 21st century") wasn't dismissive, but reassuring. Self care sometimes means looking deeper. 
I wish everyone a happy new year of good mental health. It's the basis for everything.
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