I grew up in Kuwait in an Indian family, watching American and British TV programmes such as Mr Bean (ironic as they hardly speak in that one). I went to an Indian school and was always taught in English.
In fact, English is the only language I can speak well. When I was surrounded by my classmates, I felt very clever, reading Pride and Prejudice, able to use big words.
As my older sister chose to go to University in Canada, I moved to Toronto for a year where I attended a lovely school. Sadly, the students there did not welcome me (bar one) and relentlessly mocked my accent. I remember one day how the entire class erupted in fits of laughter when a recording of my voice was played during the lesson (this was a task in which everyone was recorded reading a paragraph from a book). I put my head down on the table and waited until it ended. The teacher tried to stop everyone but when I finally looked up, I even saw her smiling.
My family moved back to Kuwait and I returned to my Indian classmates, suitably humbled, and feeling conscious of everything I said. If I am being completely honest, I still overthink everything, including how to pronounce words, before I speak.
Eventually, I applied to study in the UK. I had to prove I could speak English and had to do a test. I vividly recall calling the University admissions office and saying to them, ‘Can you hear me speak? You can tell I speak English well!’. I still had to do my IELTS and so I paid the money and, unsurprisingly, I did very well.
Years later, I applied to do my PGCE. Guess what? I had to do an English proficiency test again. This was in addition to the numeracy and literacy tests everyone had to do to train. Once again, I pleaded with the PGCE provider. ‘I can speak and write in English well. Heck, I successfully wrote a whole thesis in the language for my PhD! Don’t make me pay for this English test again!’.
Alas, I was told there was no other option and so I dutifully paid for the test and aced it once again. As expected.
Then I started my teacher training and while it was hard work, I loved it. All was going reasonably well until one day, during my second placement, the class clearly did not want to learn and so chose to mock my accent. It had been 16 years since the incident in that Canadian classroom and, yet, I trembled. I don’t remember what happened to the rest of the lesson but I do know that this small incident knocked me and from that moment on, my lessons with that class were sub-par because I was constantly worrying about how I was saying different words.
I spent the next few years practising how to pronounce key terms and, even, simple words. After meeting my husband, I ran sentences by him so he could tell me if I was saying them correctly or not.
The reason I can write about this now is because I finally feel like I am in a place where it doesn’t matter if I don’t pronounce a word like many others around me. In fact, when I am teaching, I actively tell my students about the different ways people pronounce certain words, especially key terms. I make sure I enunciate when I speak.
Having an accent has made me conscious that my students need the practise of pronouncing words out loud so they feel confident too. Even if, in general, my students have a similar accent to each other, when it comes to Scientific terminology, it feels like a different language to them. This is why techniques such as ‘I say, you say’ and rehearsal are so powerful.
It helps everyone feel included and, in the end, my students and I end up confidently speaking the same language.
Image from: The Noun Project by Blake Thompson US
Dr C's Science Classroom 