-INTRODUCTION-

It always starts the same.

“You have an accent. Where are you from?”

What a kind-hearted and well-intentioned, exhausting and exasperating question. I’m never going to call you out on it in person, because I know you mean well, and my people-pleasing tendencies push me to ignore the comment and avoid hurting feelings, just like you pretend not to be home to avoid the LDS missionaries at your front door.

But you’ve actually ticked me off.

Allow me to explain.

Back story: I’ve been living in Spain for fifteen years, and my Spanish is -almost- perfect. I am a language professional and hold the highest language-proficiency certification offered by the Cervantes Institute, technically qualifying me as “bilingual.”

Side note: I don’t think true bilinguals exist. It’s nigh impossible to have equal linguistic competence in all areas of life in two languages. Much like a PETA-sponsored butcher shop, I suppose that, in theory, it could be possible, but the odds are low.

Anyway, back to me.

My point is, my Spanish is good. So good, in fact, that I make my living thanks to my Spanish skills.

And yet, despite this fluency, my home-grown, corn-fed, Stars-and-Stripes accent sometimes wakes up and strangles my tongue, flattening my vowels and softening my R’s, when I’m a) stressed, b) tired, or c) imbibing (although to be fair, under this circumstance, my English also devolves, so perhaps that’s neither here nor there).

-CASE STUDY-

One day, not so long ago, I woke up after sleeping like crap. I had a major contract to handle, with three different people depending on me to score the deal to pay their bills. I also needed to pick up a suit from the dry cleaner’s for a wedding the following weekend, then stop by the grocery store to stock my embarrassingly empty fridge (you can only justify takeout so many times before your adulting credentials get taken away). I had a grand total of one hour to squeeze in the aforementioned tasks.

In other words, I firmly met the potato-mouth criteria points a) and b) listed in the introduction.

I hopped into a taxi, greeted the sixty-something driver in a green-wool sweater vest one size too small, stated my destination, and immediately began firing off emails to the potential client, engrossed by my phone. I had to get them written before running my errands.

No sooner had I sent the first email than the driver spoke.

“You have an accent.”

Oh, boy. Here we go.

“Yes, I do,” I responded perfunctorily, attempting to focus on my next email.

“Where are you from?”

I looked back up. “From the States.”

Wait for it, wait for it…

“Oh! I went to Miami once.”

Boom! There it is.

“Cool—” I tried to answer as he launched into a diatribe about a city I have never visited for what was left of the taxi ride. My emails were, obviously, left unfinished by the time I reached the neighborhood dry cleaner’s front door.

Rushing inside to the scent of steam and detergent, I pulled out my receipt and slapped it on the counter, smiling at the woman behind it. If I got a move on, I could make it home in time to send the emails I was unable to write in the taxi.

“I’m here to pick up a suit,” I said, drumming my fingers on the countertop.

She took the slip of paper, then moved to walk to the back to, presumably, retrieve my garment. Suddenly, she stopped and turned on her heels.

“You’re not from here, are you?”

Please, not again.

Deep breath.

OK, let’s just get this done and over with.

“No, I’m from the States,” I responded directly, saving her the trouble of asking me the next question I already knew was coming.

“Oh!” She returned to the counter, putting my receipt right back where I had left it for her. “I watched a documentary on Chicago last night.”

“Cool! Listen, I’m in a bit of a rush, so if you wouldn’t mind—”

“What do you think about the violence in Chicago?”

“Well, I actually have never been before. I was just saying that I’m in a bit—”

…and I was treated to a five-minute long discourse from Maricarmen on race relations in the US.

After saying goodbye somewhere around five times, I finally managed to make my way out the door.

At least the grocery store was within walking -or in this case, running- distance.

So I ran, my plastic-bagged suit flapping behind me in the wind, scarcely slowing my pace when I whizzed past the shopping carts at the front entrance to the market.

I Road-Runnered the produce aisle, zoomed through the fresh fish and meats section and screeched to a stop at the back of the 10-items-or-less checkout lane. I had half an hour left to get home and answer those deal-breaking emails.

The woman in front of me, holding a dozen eggs, sensed my urgency and graciously motioned for me to move in front of her.

Nodding, I mouthed a “thank you” and took her place in line.

Bless that woman.

“Hello, good morning,” I said to the cashier while handing her a 50-euro bill.

“Morning! Where are you from, sweetheart?”

Here we go again.

At this point, I met criteria a) and b) and was now wishing I met criteria c).

But instead of nabbing a mini-bottle of liquor from the magazine stand beside me and getting plastered, I opted to plaster my best fake American smile on my face (a skill I have mercifully maintained after all these years).

“The US.”

She had my change in her hand, but made no move to give it to me.

“Oh! My nephew is living in New York. Do you—”

And at that exalted moment, the woman behind me once again came to my rescue with multiple CRACKS, dropping her carton of eggs in one great splatter. The cashier jumped from her chair, tossed me my coins, and went to help with the clean-up. Despite the woman’s shrieking, I could have hugged her eggy yolk-soaked self.

Thanks to her mishap, I -barely- made it home in time to lock down the contract.

-DISCUSSION-

Were these questions and subsequent remarks about my origins ill-intentioned? Certainly not, hence why I begrudgingly entertain them. But they are irksome and reek of a lack of awareness.

You see, a foreign-born person’s accent, much like hair color, is an immutable part of the self. Hair can be dyed, as an accent can be camouflaged, but at the most inopportune times, the roots can show.

This circumstance does not require commentary.

A mental exercise: in a world where most everyone is blond, you have dyed your natural black hair the same yellow color. One day, you step into my sweater-vested taxi driver’s car.

“That’s not your original hair color, is it?” he says by only way of greeting.

“No,” you wearily reply, for this is not the first time you have been asked this question.

“What color were you born with?”

“Black.”

“Oh! I dyed my hair black hair once…” he prattles on.

His question comes from a good place; he is sincerely excited that a dark-haired individual has come to break the tedium of the usual sea of natural-blond passengers. His organic curiosity is piqued by someone different.

What he doesn’t realize, is that he is person number 274 to make the exact same comment this week.

That, and it’s irrelevant.

Beginning a conversation with a remark on an innate trait (hair color, height, birthmark…or an accent) of an individual is a tiresome, lazy grab for conversational low fruit. It’s more unoriginal than commenting on the weather in an elevator. We can try a bit harder.

While I was pressed for time in the case study above, I do enjoy small talk and random interactions with strangers under normal circumstances. Ask me about anything -anything!- other than where I’m from.

Preferable topics include, but are not limited to: literature, the latest blockbuster, an item of clothing I happen to be wearing, the length of your toenails, or a comparison on the operation of our respective digestive tracts. Use your imagination!

-CONCLUSION-

My place of birth is decades behind me. I’m firmly entrenched in Spanish life, and can much better relate on that level. If you happen across a stranger who speaks a language fluently and is clearly running day-to-day errands (read: they obviously live in the country), persistently discussing where they happened to be born is at best boring, and at worst, irritating.

I’m writing this from the perspective of a North American in the land of Quixote and his windmills, but this lesson is universal. It is also applicable in the USA when interacting with non-native English speakers amidst its fields of amber waves of grain.

Myopic insistence on an individual’s accent ignores what is sure to be the vast spectrum of everything else that makes them a person. People are so much, so very much more than an accent.

Caveat: there is one group of foreigners in Spain that you can, and should, ask the forbidden question. Who is this group?

Tourists!

But not just any tourists.

The UCLA sweatshirt-clad twenty/thirty-somethings are the ones who are dying to tell you about Napa Valley and how “Eat, Pray, Love” inspired them to come to Madrid to guzzle cheap sangria over a dish of crusty, dried-out paella.

Look for the ones whose words drip vocal fry, punctuating every other sentence with an “Oh, my GOD!” (The tone must go up a pitch on the “God” to meet the criteria). They will be delighted to drunkenly tell you, their server, their Uber driver, and anyone else who will listen, about where they are from. They may even attempt to practice high school Spanish with you, over and over and over again (¿dónde está el baño? *giggle giggle*)

But if you see me?

Ask me anything but where I’m from.

I just want to pick up my dry cleaning.

Por favor.