All Talk, No Accent

I saw a couple near my home the other day. 

One angmoh man, one Asian woman.

The woman may or may not be an SPG.

And she may or may not be speaking in a distinct Western accent.

The key word here, is distinct because what came out of her mouth was definitely an angmoh accent.

British, in fact. Mainly.

The intonation and even the choice of words were designed to sound like sentences that might come out of the Queen's mouth.

"That's pretty wicked," the Asian woman had said.

The problem is, Ms Asian Who Spouts British Accent had said the word "pretty" like an American, softening the 't's such that it sounds more like priddy instead of prittee. 

I may sound priddy judgemental but I'm definitely sure Ms Asian is putting on an accent.

I really shouldn't be bothered by something so trivial but fake accents has always been my pet peeve. 

It's not so much that I cannot accept people who speak with accents.

I can. If it's natural.

My partner of 20 years J for instance.

Despite having converted to be a proud pink-IC-carrying citizen, and despite having spent his education in Singapore since 11 years old, he still speaks English with an Indonesian accent. 

Perhaps, it's deeply embedded in him -- his entire family including his sister-in-law who's from Surabaya speak like that.

I strongly believe that accents are planted and cultivated very early on when we learn to speak -- and subsequent changes in accents is not natural but by choice. 

Sure, if one chooses to adapt a different accent, that's perfectly fine.

But not when the purpose is to put on a fake front because it's glamarous.

I have a friend whose mission in life is to elevate his own status and show off whatever little he can: His degree, his wealth, his love for art and just how widely-travelled he sounds when he speaks with an American accent because he studied in the US.

Said friend would try very hard to sustain his accent.

But like a heavily made up geisha who uses cheap cosmetics, as the night goes on, his accent wears off, revealing who he truly is beneath that put-on accent. Just a Singaporean boy who attends a non-elite school and sounds exactly like that.

For that friend, he ought to worry about fixing his grammar more than sticking to a fake accent.

And don't get me wrong -- I have nothing against neighbourhood schools at all.

My problem is fake accents, fake identities. 

And I'm also a bit miffed at how we Asians often tend to look up to Western accents as superior.

I always wonder: If I ordered food at a posh restaurant with Hokkien-accented English, would I be mocked by fellow diners and the smartly dressed waiters? If my presentation to my board of directors were delivered in, say, English with a Vietnamese accent, would I impress anyone? Or can I get better service on the phone if I called and sounded like I just got off the boat from somewhere?

Years ago, a Singaporean friend whom I was studying in Australia with told me that if we sounded too Singaporean, the angmohs won't understand us.

"What's more, we should blend in and sound like them!".

That bitch goes around speaking with an American accent on good days.

And while I was there, I did pick up the accent.

In fact, I'm so good with sounding Aussie that if you closed your eyes, you wouldn't expect that those words are coming out of the mouth of an Asian -- a very proud Asian who disapproves of unnecessary Western worship.

During one term break, I took a holiday at the Gold Coast.

I ordered fish and chips and when the young Aussie girl handed me my food, she leaned over and said sincerely -- but with deliberate slowness in case my Asian ears didn't catch her -- that You speak good English.

I know she wasn't being sarcastic. I swear she was earnest because that poor girl must have interacted with 500 Japanese tourists a day and none of them would speak English the way I did -- with clarity and a distinctly Singaporean accent.

But I was young and also priddy guai lan back then so I couldn't bite my tongue.

I smiled, and said with equal slowness that I learnt English from OUR coloniser.

I left that poor and sincere girl to digest my Asian sarcasm.

When my younger brother studied law in the UK and came back during school holidays, he would always speak with a crisp English accent just to irritate me, knowing full well that I'm irked.

I once told him that I will slap him across the face if he didn't stop it. 

My English-accented threat was well received.

Now that I'm more mature, I am also milder.

And when I do come across fake-accent spouters, I go right to the heart of the matter.

I keep asking them about their accent and trace the origin right back to that person's ancestral roots.

My partner J says I have nothing better to do.

"I can't understand you amid your thick Indo accent," I replied him, giving him my best Bapak accent.

 

 

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Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people 

Health is Wealth

My mother, the chatty and bossy Mrs Lee, called me recently announcing she may have the much-dreaded C word in healthcare.

She had gone for one of her regular polyclinic health checkups and while preparing for an ECG, an eagle-eyed nurse spotted a strange growth on Mrs Lee's left breast.

"Anyway, the doctor referred me to a public hospital for follow up, in case it's cancer," Mrs Lee said casually to me over the phone like it's the most common topic to bring up for a Friday evening phone call.

I was having dinner with some business associates and my mind went blank at the word "cancer".

What followed was a whirlwind of texting activities with my siblings.

Brother Barry was drowning -- his work, which has an international scope that covers Europe, kept him and his team extremely busy.

"We are fighting fire," he texted briefly.

As the bigger brother, I took matters in my own hands.

I texted my friend, who runs a private derm practice.

He had very kindly given me a slot first thing on Monday morning.

Long story short, my friend took biopsy samples from my mum's skin and in just a matter of a few days, texted me to say that the results showed no cancer.

It was such a relief for the entire family -- including Mrs Lee who pretended she was very calm with cancer growing on her breast. 

That evening, we had a family gathering -- we had each taken time off to eat with Mrs Lee.

Brother Barry and my sis, and me visibly exhausted from the weekend stress but clearly relieved. 

Over dinner, our mum revealed she had already drawn up a will and had made sure everyone gets something.

Barry, the baby of the family, fought back tears.

My sis, the eldest, made enquiries on Mrs Lee's collection of jewellery.  

That evening, our dinner at Spring Court, Chinatown, was most meaningful.

Our family gatherings have always revolved around Cantonese restaurants and Spring Court happens to be one of a few restaurants Mrs Lee approves.

That night, when I went home after a very filling dinner, I sat on my couch, processing my week.

We had been on a rollercoaster ride -- from the discovery of a potential health problem to living the healthscare over the weekend and discussing plans and backup plans among the family, to holding our breaths at the biopsy tests.

That night, for the first time in days, I slept well. 

Here's wishing all my readers and their loved ones good health.

 

 

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Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people 

Get it Over and Done with

"Everyone and his grandmother are getting it, except me," Stanley said as he set a huge, transparent bowl of tossed salad on his dining table.

I couldn't tell from his tone if he was extremely proud of not getting it, or extremely left out for not getting it.

Also not getting it is our dense friend Carl who had just finished chewing at his sixth fingernail and had paused to get with the programme.

"What are we talking about?" he asked with a hopeful grin on his face, ever optimistic that there'll always be that one kind soul in his life who'd help point him in the right direction when he's lost in a shopping centre.

Stanley looked at Carl and asked "where have all the nails you'd been biting off gone to?"

Carl beamed even brighter as if an adult had just praised him for brushing his teeth at night.

Stanley backed away slowly and returned to his open-concept kitchen to fetch that afternoon's main meal of aglio olio.

Stanley started with a dramatic sigh as we picked up our fork and got ready to dig in.

"I really don't get it," Stanley said.

Carl shook his head on cue. "Yeah Stan. You me both," he said with meaning.

"I mean, everyone we know is getting COVID... it must really either mean we're extremely careful and blessed or simply that we don't have enough friends to mingle with!"

Carl's eyes lit up. "Oh, so that's what it is!"

Stanley and I gave him a side glance and waited. "It's anchovies. No wonder it tastes so familiar," concluded Carl who is in his own world.

Back in our real world, Stanley and I are facing real issues.

My sister, my partner J's parents and his brother are down with COVID.

Stanley's aunty and two of his friends are down with COVID.

A sizeable portion of the Singapore population are all getting COVID, Stanley says, and this shit is real 'cos now your loved ones have it, according to Stanley.

Indeed, it's worrying and not worrying at the same time.

While we know that vaccinations can offer extra layers of protection, your loved ones' health are at stake here.

I first got wind of my sister's condition two weeks ago. 

She casually texted me her positive results.

My sister, who recently got attached, still lives alone in her huge, gorgeous apartment designed for magazine covers. She now has to make sure it's also designed for quarantines. 

I don't worry very much for her because she is a health nut and takes very good care of her body.

The only concern is whether she'd be eating well because she's complained of extreme fatigue and loss of appetite.

"It's too painful to swallow 'cos of her extremely sore throat," I explained to Stanley and Carl who nodded approvingly at his aglio olio. 

To his credit, Stanley didn't take the bait to turn that into a sex joke. 

Because COVID is no joke.

Granted, it's not as serious now, but you still can't help but worry.

My sis had been too tired to talk on the phone and even texting, she says, is taxing. 

She didn't eat in her first few days of home treatment but on the fourth day, she managed to whip up an Instagram-worthy plate of aglio olio.

I can only imagine how much tougher it is for the older folks.

J's parents are both retired civil servants who should be enjoying their fruits of their labour by travelling the world, and visiting J's siblings and cousins scattered all over the world.

Instead, they're now holed up in their homes spitting phlegm every 10 minutes.

The last time I spoke to J's mum she sounded like she had swallowed enough nails to puncture her voice box.

But two years into this pandemic, the world has come to slowly adjust itself and move on.

Globally, some borders are reopening. Domestically, some rules are changing. All this, in step with adapting and progressing.

As we polished off our plates at Stanley's that afternoon, we concluded that as long as we're vaccinated, getting COVID should be seen as just another flu episode.

"Nothing to worry about as long as precautions are taken," Stanley said wisely. 

Carl nodded peacefully on Stanley's couch. 

Here's wishing everyone a speedy recovery -- or future speedy recovery -- from COVID.

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Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people 

A Tooth for a Tooth

I am writing this with a tinge of anger.

Actually, no.

Make that a tsunami of anger.

Recently, my partner J told me something that made my jaw drop.

J had lost a tooth because our regular - but apparently incompetent dentist - had failed to prevent a crack in his tooth from worsening.

It all began last year when J complained of a toothache.

I had accompanied J to visit Dr C, whom we'd been going to for the last 10 years.

We would go for the usual - cleaning and maintaining our teeth.

During our visit then, Dr C said he couldn't find anything wrong with J's tooth.

No crack, no decay, nothing.

So of course we trusted him.

Weeks later, J felt a very sharp pain while having dinner.

He immediately made an appointment with Dr C the next day.

Turns out, the very tooth which Dr C had dismissed as having "nothing wrong" had cracked right down to its root.

It had to be extracted because there was no way the tooth could be salvaged.

I posted this shocking piece of news in our group chat with the boys - Stanley the sex bunny and Carl the dense one.

Stanley was indignant.

"WHAT?!" he wrote.

Carl the dense one, who has no idea how many teeth an adult has, replied with a series of exclamation marks.

"Will J sue?" Stanley asked.

"Oh my god, I am so angry right now," Stanley wrote all in caps.

But of course, J won't sue.

My kind-hearted J - God bless his heart (and all his remaining teeth) - had decided to not pursue the matter although he could have kicked up a fuss.

"It's just a tooth," J told me over video call the other day.

Stanley told me later that if it were up to him, he would return to that clinic and bite that bloody dentist in his ass, missing one tooth or not.

And then came Stanley's next most pressing question - was J disfigured?

Tooth be told, J wasn't, since the extracted tooth is hidden deep in his mouth and isn't visible.

Still, Stanley wasn't pleased.

And neither was I.

I was in anger.

But more importantly, my heart ached.

It pained me to know that J had lost a tooth - a perfectly fine tooth if only Dr C had exercised due diligence and called for a scan which his human eye couldn't detect.

It pained me to see J in such a health crisis I never want him to be in any sort of medical emergency.

Over the next few days, I had been googling facts about missing teeth and whether it was necessary to replace them.

All the literature I read suggested that it should be, or a slew of problems including overgrowth or invasion of teeth into that missing spot would occur.

But all J would do was to assure me that his eating and chewing weren't affected, and "it's just a tooth, dear. We'll see how."

Stanley didn't think so.

"How would your blow jobs be from now on?" my concerned sex bunny friend asked.

The supportive Stanley later told me he messaged J to offer his condolences, to which, J replied that everything is okay and that I had been the one to blow things out of proportion.

Stanley told me he wanted to reply J that "blowing" is indeed one thing he needs to think about carefully in the future, but decided to be a toothless tiger instead.

J's tooth loss got me so upset that for the next few days, all I could think of was that my lovely partner J now has one less tooth.

Of course, to put things into context, it's "just a tooth" as J had comforted me.

It could have been worse - the loss of an eye, or a limb or something.

Which got me thinking.

If J were to need a kidney transplant I would willingly give up mine.

Or if I could have my way, I would even give up years of my life so that J could live longer.

J replied me with a smiley icon when I shared those thoughts with him, and stressed for the umpteenth time that "it's just a tooth lah".

Stanley on the other hand was more appreciative.

"I love it that you're so melodramatic," he said with approval.

"And by the way," Stanley said, "as a gift to my best friend, I have hooked up my ex with your current bf."

For context, Stanley had once dated an orthodontist who brought the screwing, drilling and prodding from the dentist's chair to the dentist's bed.

Said bed was in Orchard Road, where Stanley had on more than one occasion, graced with his bodily warmth.

Anyway, the point is, Stanley and the dentist didn't work out and their whirlwind relationship ended like the fate of a decaying tooth.

The bigger point is, Stanley had actually got in touch with the dentist for J's sake, asking him if he would "do the procedure for my best friend's partner".

At that moment, I had to busk in my simple joys.

That I have a non-fussy, easy-going partner, and a gay best friend who would go all out for me and J.

"Yeah, count your blessings," Stanley wrote to me that night.

"And if you're J, the answer would be 31".

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Adam's stories are based on real life events and inspired by real people