The Irish brogue is as charming as you think with a lilting quality that speaks of storytelling and music. The elders have a sandpaper edge to their speech, and there are variations in their accents depending on where you are or where they’re from. Our Irish Writing faculty speak closer to the Brits as some have spent time teaching in England, but another hails from Belfast, and occasionally repeats himself or spells out the word so our slow American ears understand.
On the first day when our Perspectives in Irish Writing class discussed what it means to be Irish, the professor said that they don’t understand how Americans only have about five accents when they have a different one for every county.
Dubliners are possibly the least accented to my American ears, but the further I wander from city centre, the more the sounds change. The people here are patient with “Pardon,” “I’m sorry,” “could you repeat that" as I train my ears to the cadence and sounds of their speech. At times, though, they choose to be less comprehensible, such as having a personal conversation on the train. Getting better at understanding means I’m sometimes privy to their conversations, which is a writers dream.
Nearly every time I open my mouth outside of campus, people pause and say… “American?” Once I was mistaken for Canadian and I was so pleased to be lumped in with America’s friendly northern neighbors that I said yes. My son was mistaken for an Icelander once, I’m not sure why, but he took it as a compliment.
The American accent is often a transition into a larger conversation, which is part of why I’m here. I want to know the people of Ireland not just skim the surface. On days I’m not in class, I go for walks to stretch my legs and mentally debate the next lines or paragraphs in my work in progress.
On one of my rambles, in the evening after the sun set and people were walking their dogs, I passed an older man who lives near where I was staying.
He’s been sitting on his stoop watching his cats and enjoying a pint. He tells me he has three cats, all black and white, and proceeds to introduce me to the cats who give me the cat side-eye, having no interest in this American.
Due to the pint or two already in his system, I have to employ my close listening skills. Sometimes I let my misunderstandings go. Do I need to understand every word to get the gist of it? He tells me that he lived in America for ten years, in San Francisco, and my American accent reminds him of his—what do you call it, he muses aloud—his ex. She worked for Tiffany’s, yes the fine jeweler, which explains how they could afford San Francisco.
Many people I speak with tell me that either they’ve lived in America when they were younger or that they have kids or cousins who live in America. I think many are baffled as to why I am here. To be fair, many of my friends are baffled as well.
As we wind down our conversation, I give him my name and ask his. He replies Shirt.
“I’m sorry,” I say, because surely I’ve misheard him.
Shirrt, he says again, with a UR sound like shirt with a long pause on the R.
There are only so many times you can ask someone to repeat what they said before you look like a daft American, but names are important. The most beautiful sound to our ears is our name. So I repeat the name and ask if I have that correct.
He says, yes, Shuurrrt. S-T-E-W-A-R-T. Schtuurrt.
Ah, of course. Stewart! Now, every time I see a black and white cat, I’ll remember the man named Shirt.
Join me on my journey. I have no idea what I’m doing or where I’ll end up. That’s occasionally part of the fun.