“I see you have adjusted well and picked up their language.”

I let out a slight chuckle, struggling to find words to fill the awkward silence that engulfed the Zoom call. I had not realized that I was overemphasizing my r’s and my medial t’s to sound like d’s, but her comments reeled me back in. My aunt is happy to talk to me, but she is not pleased by the American accent I am picking up. I promised her, and myself, that I would not adopt an American accent. However, here I was on this call, pitching my voice higher, tilting my a’s and t’s, and quickly gliding over my vowels.

If I did not have to, I wouldn’t change my accent. It is a habit I have picked up to be able to make conversation — few people can understand what I say and even fewer have the courage to ask me to repeat what I have said. Not many people have the bandwidth for the discomfort that comes with asking me to say something again, so they find it easier to go with neutral conversation fillers. Just to hurry things up and end the conversation.

I get it. For most of my schoolmates, it is their first time interacting with someone from Kenya. I understand that it is difficult for most of them to make out what I am saying. I am aware that it is not their fault that they can’t easily comprehend what I say in my accent. If anything, had I not grown up consuming so much American media, I probably wouldn’t understand what Americans say, either.

However, this does not stop me from feeling a little bit of resentment. Resentment because while I am putting in the effort to understand others, they do not seem to be putting in the effort to understand me. I feel resentful because my accent prevents me from fully participating in class, resentful that people fail to acknowledge my contributions during class discussions, not because my contributions are wrong, but because of my accent. I feel resentful because British and Australian accents do not seem to be a challenge for my peers, but my Kenyan accent — the one that goes through all the vowels, enunciating everything clearly — is difficult to decipher. I feel resentful because I know if people took the time to listen to me — if people were willing to listen to me — then my accent would not be such an issue.

Although I struggle to sound American, I fear I will pick up an American accent at the expense of my Kenyan one. It often crosses my mind that perhaps at some point I will not be able to code-switch; I will have a full-on American accent and there will be no traces of my Kenyan accent left. That there will be one less thing that helps me identify with my country, and that perhaps after a few years, I will go back to Kenya and be considered a foreigner in the place I call home. That my hard r’s and softened t’s will reek of Westernization.

Despite all this, I take delight in having an accent. It is an identity; that thousands of miles away from home fellow Kenyans can spot me on the T or even the subway in New York. The conversations with my Kenyan friends, our deepened vowels, stressed medial t’s, and soft r’s, are a piece of home that I have here with me. Most importantly, having an accent has made me a better listener. Having to put in extra effort to make my point has made it easier to put in the effort to understand others’ points. It has made me realize that I did not often listen actively to what others said. Now, I listen to understand, not merely to respond.

I hope that I will learn the American accent. It will make flirting at parties much easier and will give me back my sense of humor. I also hope that I will not lose my Kenyan accent; that I will be able to revert back to it when I need it. I hope once I land at the Jomo Kenyatta International Airport, I will fit right back in; that the place I call home will not think of me as foreign.

Joshua Ochieng ’24, a Crimson Editorial Editor, is an Economics concentrator in Quincy House.