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Do you speak foreigner?

Foreigner English ˈfȯr-ə-nər ˈiŋ-glish

n. When an English person mimics the accent or grammatical structure of another language to help them connect with its native speakers (or to hide the fact that they don’t know the language).

Case in point: footballer Joey Barton and manager Steve McLaren (yes, they are both English – not French and Dutch):

Listening to the recording of one of the interviews for my oral-history project, Guyana50.org, I heard myself asking the interviewee: ‘So yuh mudda would sell tings [at the market]?” The lady in question was struggling to understand me, so I subconsciously shifted my way of speaking in an attempt to make myself better understood.

It’s not the first time I’ve done it. After a while dating a guy from Spain, my good friend informed me that I appeared to be speaking “Foreigner English“. At the extreme, saying things like “We go shop?” – or just adding “no?” to the end of sentences. Ironically it was only when I went away to Brazil for a month and was speaking Portuguese most of the time that I regained my fluency in my mother tongue. I forgot all about Foreigner English and reverted to plain old English. When I got back, they were both amazed that I was so chatty. “You’re like a different person!”

Thinking about it now, I’d attribute this rediscovery of my own voice to the fact that in Brazil I was distinguishing between English and Portuguese, two very different languages – whereas at home it was between English and English-as-a-Spanish-language. My Foreigner English has come back in Guyana because once again the languages (Guyanese Creole and Standard English) have many words in common and so are harder to compartmentalise.

There is, I learned in an interesting seminar at the University of Guyana (UG) the other day, a sliding scale between the basiltect (the rural, ‘deep’ version of Guyanese Creolese) and the acrolect (the urban, version of Creolese – more aligned to Standard English).

Some researchers have even mapped this scale. Below is the phrase ‘I gave him one‘ (UK readers, please get your minds out of the gutter) rendered in 18 different variations (from Bell 1976, via Wikipedia). I don’t really understand phonetic spelling but it’s pretty interesting.

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Anyhow, point is, instead of switching between two distinct languages, people move across the scale depending on who they’re talking to and where. So when people in Guyana are talking to me, someone from England, they will move as close as they can to the acrolect. For some people this is no problem at all – perhaps those who grew up in a Standard English-speaking home or who have studied overseas. For others it’s unnatural and something they have to do consciously, even with serious concentration.

The other day, I heard a Guyanese academic recounting the difficulties of making small talk in England. The effort to not speak Creolese made the conversation feel unnatural. Another friend recently spoke apologetically of “mixing up my Creolese” when speaking to me. Even the President, before giving his speech at a press conference the other day, apologised in advance for his pedantic language: “I learned that medium is singular and media is plural, so excuse me when I say ‘The media are’ rather than ‘the media is’.” (I paraphrase, didn’t note his exact words). Was he trying to show off his grasp of the intricacies of Standard English or pre-emptively quash any sense that he’s being a linguistic snob and grammar Nazi?

As far as I know, Guyanese people don’t expect English visitors to speak Creole, because we both speak ‘English’ right? So why does the Guyanese speaker not understand everything the English speaker says, and visa versa? Because they’re not necessarily both speaking Standard English – the Guyanese person may actually be speaking Creolese.

Guyana, we’re told, is an English-speaking country – the only one on the continent. Yet, depending on their social or family background, someone in Guyana may easily have grown up speaking only Creolese at home, with friends and even in the classroom. They may rarely have heard or engaged in speaking Standard English while growing up (beyond films, music etc). Yet they’re expected to suddenly talk Standard English when they meet a speaker of that language, and to the same proficiency? I’ve been speaking Standard English my whole life, but who expects me to suddenly speak Creole on entering the country?

I’d like to be able to. Put me in the middle of a conversation with two people speaking Creolese and I won’t understand everything. Sometimes anything. So I’m missing out on a huge part of the Guyanese experience and conversation. It’s a definite loss, both for me and for the Guyanese people who don’t speak Creolese either (they exist). Because the language seems so expressive and lively.

So for now, until I am more familiar with Creolese, I find myself trying to make myself understood in certain situations by changing my accent slightly, adopting new Guyanese words like ‘gaff’ (a great word meaning to chat, gossip, catch jokes with someone) or ‘high’ (instead of drunk), and sometimes shifting the order of my words. My sisters have also noticed Guyanese noises of assent and agreement creeping in my voice when I speak on the phone. I say ‘morning’ with an exaggerated ‘r’. When I call out a bus stop, I try to change how I speak to sound less conspicuous. “NEXT CORNER!” I shout. I tried it out on some friends. “You sound Jamaican” they chuckled. Goodness knows what the other passengers think. I imagine them collapsing into fits of laughter the minute the minibus drives off. Should I stop trying to meet people halfway? Is it more authentic to speak in your own voice or in a way that people around you understand?

When you hear someone changing their way of speaking to match another’s, I have to admit it comes across as a bit patronising. But I think chameleoning (I’ve just make that up) and switching between languages shows sensitivity. You just have to be careful to distinguish between the different languages you’re using, or you could end up losing or colouring your natural speech or mother tongue.

At the same UG seminar, one participant reflected on hearing a teacher in Jamaica switch between Jamaican Creole and Standard English. “It was beautiful to see,” he said, several times, in awe of the woman’s ability to seemlessly slide between the languages as the occasion or situation demanded.

I think that’s a pretty good goal. Who wants to see Creolese die out and be replaced by Standard English alone? Maybe some Guyanese do. But I don’t think you have to kill one to preserve and elevate the other. No?

[Featured image: Roland Tanglao, via Flickr/Creative Commons]

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“Good morning, miss” – getting to grips with greetings in Guyana

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Photo: Ethiopia greeting by Rod Waddington, Flickr, Creative Commons

Walking down the street. On the bus. In a shop. I’m constantly greeted by ‘Good morning’ or ‘Good afternoon’ in Guyana. I like it, but as a Londoner, I’m quite disconcerted at being so visible. Are we not meant to pretend we can’t see each other?

I’ve tried it out. Calling ‘good morning’ when I step on the minibus. Nodding and greeting people strolling in my neighbourhood. But I’m still awkward. The words come out too fast, or too quietly. I feel I’m going through the motions if I say it stony faced, but disingenuous if I smile – like I know the person. So instead, I imagine, my face contorts into some kind of grimace.

This is only the half of it. I still have to try to figure out the system of addressing new people. “Call us Auntie and Uncle,” one Guyanese couple I met in London insisted. “That is Miss Sheila,” pointed out an acquaintance over here. “It’s ‘Miss’ not ‘Mrs’ – I’m not married,” corrected another.

Should I call everyone Mr, Mrs, Ms or Miss? Or just if they’re older? And how much older? I don’t want to cause offence (like I did referring to folks as ‘old’, before realising Guyanese people use the term ‘big’). And what if they start using their first name, is that a sign for me to switch or should I persevere?

So, once again, I rush and mumble and hope no one notices.  At least we’re talking English here and I don’t have to think about formal conjugations like ‘usted’ in Spanish or ‘vous’ in French.

Of course we do use titles in the UK – in the classroom, in media reports, in certain work situations, when writing complaint letters… I also remember calling certain family friends ‘Auntie’ or ‘Uncle’ growing up, even though we weren’t related. And if you venture outside London, you will still find people saying ‘Good morning’ – sometimes even inside the capital, though usually only if you’ve got a dog or are out at the crack of dawn.

Formal addressing as a sign of respect is something I only really became aware of when I went to Ghana back in 2005. My colleagues would call our boss ‘Editor’. Mr, Mrs and Miss were frequently employed in greetings. As were ‘sir’ and ‘madam’. Then there were the elaborate and quite satisfying ‘clicking finger’ handshakes.

I was reminded of those days when I started working at BBC Africa a year or so ago. If you failed to say hello to a colleague and ask how they were, they would most probably pull you up on it later. “Well, you didn’t greet me earlier…”

Coming in, flopping at your desk and logging on without a word was not the way to do it. But being an anxious freelancer, always convinced I’m never working fast or hard enough, I worried about spending too much time talking. (‘It’s been minutes now, surely I should get back to work? Someone is probably watching me, thinking I’m skiving’).

So, is greeting etiquette really necessary? Is it outdated? Overly formal? I’m not so sure. As awkward as it is learning the ropes, especially as an outsider, maybe there’s something in it that we miss in London in our rush to treat everyone equally – and in our rush, fullstop. A recognition of the wisdom that comes with age. A nod of thanks to those who have paved the way for us. A gesture that says we can spare two minutes for you.

And if we start greeting strangers in the street and recognising them as people worthy of our time and respect – even as our brothers and sisters – perhaps that might filter into other areas of our lives. And that’s no bad thing.

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Why Rhianna’s ‘Work’ is a human-rights anthem

“Work work work work work work
He said me haffi
Work work work work work work!
He see me do mi
Dirt dirt dirt dirt dirt dirt!
And so me put in work work work work work work!

[courtesy Metro Lyrics]

So probably you’re familiar with the controversy surrounding Rihanna’s hot, new(ish) single ‘Work’. You know, the one Music Week critics called “gibberish“, provoking a fierce backlash – “It’s patois!” stupid, jeered The Voice. This was all back in February. I found out about it last week. At an academic lecture at the University of Guyana (UG). Never let it be said I’m not right on the button when it comes to the world of entertainment and gossip.

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Having enjoyed the previous workshop on writing Guyanese Creolese just a few weeks ago, I was keen to attend – but not entirely sure what to expect from this ‘lunchtime lecture and discussion’, mysteriously titled Caribbean Languages as International Language of Popular Music?

It turned out to be an excellent talk, from which I gathered all sorts of nuggets of information.

For a start, I had no idea that – according to guest speaker Professor Hubert Devonish of UWI – Surinamese creole (or Sranan Tongo) is closer to English creole than Dutch. That the deportation of Maroons (descendants of escaped slaves) to Sierra Leone, combined with expansionist colonial insurgencies, brought Caribbean creole to West Africa – influencing, for example, the English pidgin you find in Nigeria today. Or that Bob Marley was instructed by record producer Chris Blackwell to sing only the choruses of his songs in patois, and ensure the verses could be easily understood by audiences in, say, the UK – where Blackwell was from.

Which brings us back to Rihanna, who is ignoring that advice and singing, well, it’s not exactly clear what – Professor Devonish suggested a blend of Bajan and Jamaican, the latter tending to dominate when it comes to Caribbean culture abroad. (I’ll also add a Guyanese twist to the mix, purely because I also discovered Rihanna’s mother is Guyanese and so I’m claiming her as one of our own. Until she does something truly shaming in my eyes. Like accepting Bob Geldof’s invitation to join the third outing of ‘Do They Know It’s Christmas?’ Don’t think it’s over yet…)

Anyway Rihanna’s choice of lyrics, Professor Devonish argued, signifies her wish to reconnect with and show her pride in her Caribbean roots (just check out that Bajan flag). She says, he noted, ‘Him ah go act like he nuh like it” (the lyrics linked to earlier mistakenly record, ‘Him ah go act like him nuh like it”) – with the mix of ‘him’ and ‘he’ reflecting her own bilingualism in patois and  English. Of course, ‘work’ is a sexual reference, but you knew that right? “Even a child would know that,” laughed someone in the class. Ahem.

So is music the way forward for forging a new pride in speaking creolese? It could be, said Professor Devonish. And I thought back to all the afrobeats artists I’d encountered while working on the sadly defunct ARISE Magazine (whose Facebook page still clings on for dear life) and the resurgence in African pride this engendered among young people of African descent in London and on the continent itself, particularly in Nigeria – home of both afrobeats and the afrobeat well from whence it sprang.dashiki.jpg

African identity wasn’t always something you shouted about when I grew up in London. To be Caribbean was cool. To be African was often to be the butt of some very old and tired jokes. “When I grew up you kept that shit on the down low,” joked comedian Fumbi on ‘You Got Jokes’ (a quick clip here, worth getting your hands on the whole DVD). Now, you can hardly move in London for dashikis (see right), kente-trimmed shirts and headwraps.

Is ‘Caribbean’ going to be the next trend? Will the catwalks be awash with statement t-shirts declaring ‘I love Soca’? Will the charts be full of Chutney? Will Londoners start eating jerk chicken more than once a year (at Notting Hill Carnival, washed down with a can of Red Stripe). Will David Starkey crawl out from under his rock and adopt a Jamaican twang instead of name-checking Enoch Powell and bemoaning that “the whites have become black”? (Just re-watching this makes me angry all over again).

Or maybe, just maybe, the world will cease to see the Caribbean in those simplistic, sometimes reductive stereotypes and instead let each country, each individual, represent themselves and speak their mother tongue without guilt, shame or self-deprecation. And music could be what helps kickstarts that change.

Just don’t let Rihanna be the official spokesperson for it – Bajan Ambassador for Culture and Youth or not – if this video is anything to go by. Although these cringe-making presenters have a lot to answer for too… “Can you teach us some words in your language?… some pretty words”.

Or maybe the girl has hidden layers. After all, one of the dancers in her video is wearing a headpiece that looks suspiciously like the disguise worn by pioneering Ghanaian investigative reporter Anas Aremeyaw Anas. Coincidence?

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Tweet nothings

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In South London, from whence I hail, ‘chirpsing‘ is slang for chatting up or making a move. (Or at least it was in my day.) I don’t know the origin of the verb, but here in Guyana it seems a suitable turn of phrase – given the chorus of kissing sounds that accompanies women and girls as they walk down the street – almost drowning out the insistent calls of the noisy local birdlife.

Every country seems to have their own variation on the theme. When I was in Ghana, for example, it was a ‘sssss’ sound, accompanied by a palm-down beckoning hand. In Brazil, perhaps a long, satisfied ‘Eyyy’ or ‘Oiiii lindaaa’. In London, it’s mostly stone-cold silence and furtive side looks – from the British men anyway.

Comparing notes with girl friends on WhatsApp, one said she had taken to using the middle finger as a response to the snake sounds she was hearing in Kenya. I’m not sure I’d go that far, but how should you respond?

I usually feign deafness and walk on. But words are harder to ignore – and my irritation levels vary according to the language, context and man. “Sexy” generally makes me bristle and feel uncomfortable, as do any comments relating to body parts – although the random “PALE LEGS!” shouted from a passing car in Georgetown the other day did make me chuckle. And someone hailing you “Queen of queens, good morning” – as a friendly man did last week – kind of puts a regal step in your stride. But on the whole, such comments just make you aware that you’re being looked at and assessed like a piece of juicy meat.

You start to notice the correlation between the explicitness of the comments and what you’re wearing. So maybe you dress down, wear something more covered than the nice summer dress you were planning on, walk with your head down to avoid eye contact and make yourself more invisible. Because if you walk proud and tall, and wear what you like, that might be seen as an invitation to approach.

One thing that has always puzzled me is: do men ever actually get a response? Do some women stop, turn around (it’s usually said to your back) and enthuse, “You think I’m a ‘sexy gyal’? OK, here’s my number!” If not, what is the point? To show appreciation? Wield their manly power? Intimidate?

Some people advocate a complete end to what is, essentially, sexual harrassment. Leaving the bathrooms at the Oasis Cafe in GT, I spotted the poster above – under the headline ‘It’s Not a Compliment‘ – showing there’s an appetite for change in the air here. (More on the project behind that poster here).

Some people would disagree and say that’s being over-sensitive. This includes women as well as men. But I think that’s just because we’ve become accustomed to it, and don’t think about how wrong it is till we watch videos like this:

Wouldn’t it be pleasant to walk down the street in peace, instead of on edge? To not have to worry about getting the balance right between not encouraging them and being rude by ignoring them? To not be hassled for just being a woman.

Until that day comes, here are a few suggestions for men who insist on catcalling:

  1. Avoid saying anything related to sex or her body.
  2. Keep it public and daytime – don’t make a woman walking home alone feel even more afraid than she is already.
  3. Be respectful in your approach and choice of language.
  4. Don’t pursue the matter if the woman doesn’t respond – it’s her choice. None of this calling her a bitch, rude or running after her.
  5. If she is offended, humbly apologise.

Or you could, you know, just smile; look the woman in the eye; greet her politely; and let her get on with her day.

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Is wah yuh sayin’?

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“Yu wahn i hot up?” asked the woman behind the till when I returned my cold dhal and roti to the counter at Giftland Mall. I paused for a second, deciphering, then agreed. Yes I wanted it heated up, please.

Guyana’s official language is English. A hangover from its days as a British colony. But sit on the bus, walk down the street, go into a shop and what you’ll hear is something richer, more melodic than anything the Queen could come up with.

“It’s bad English,” Adam Harris, Editor-in-Chief of Kaieteur News, put it when I went to record him for my oral-history project, Guyana 50: Memories of Life in British Guiana.

I wanted to argue back, all fired up as I was from a workshop I went to earlier in the week at the University of Guyana: Writing Creolese the Creolese Way. The session was led by the fiesty and funny Charlene Wilkinson, a lecturer in the Department of Languages and Cultural Studies, who took no time to pull me up on my quiet, mumbling voice. “The British don’t like to open their mouths when they talk!”

The workshop was part lecture, part practical exercise. We took dictation in creolese, read aloud from the transcript of an interview with a Guyanese rice farmer, and shared our reasons for being there. One participant was a poet already using her own version of written creolese. Another was a US aid worker wanting to learn to speak the lingo. There were teachers, lecturers and representatives from the education ministry, one who was somewhat rounded on at the end when she attempted to defend the lack of specific ‘English’ lessons on the curriculum.

It’s a strange situation. A country where the mother tongue of most of the population is not the official language. Where some children learn English for the first time at school. Where teachers (depending on the school) speak to their pupils in creolese, but demand they write their essays and reports in British English. Where a room full of mostly Guyanese people, some of whom grew up speaking only creole, struggle to read a line of written ‘Guyanese’.

Why? Because the creole they know is oral. Some prestigious Guyanese writers, as was noted in the workshop, use the language to good effect – and are complimented for the authenticity and vibrancy this adds. Like Wordsworth McAndrew’s classic poem Ol’ Higue:

Ol’ woman wid de wrinkled skin,

 Leh de ol’ higue wuk begin.

Put on you fiery disguise,

Ol’ woman wid de weary eyes

Shed you swizzly skin.

But should creolese remain a preserve of academia or fiction? In a letter in the Stabroek News earlier this year, Ms Wilkinson put a convincing argument forward for “bilingual and multilingual education” – where speakers of Guyanese are given the right (and respect) to speak their first language, as well as English.

The many responses in the comments box below her letter give some sense of the heatedness of this long-running debate. One that I am only newly aware of. Perhaps Ms Wilkinson should have responded by giving out the questionnaire we were asked to fill in during the workshop, asking us to honestly assess how we would view an English speaker vs a Guyanese speaker: Which do you think is most friendly? Which do you think is most intelligent? Which is more honest? Which is more helpful? Which is better educated? Which has more money? When you start to examine your own prejudices and pre-conceptions, that’s when you realise change is needed.

Or at least a Creole School for Small-Mouthed Brits. Any offers?