Throughout my life, I’ve been met with all kinds of questions, faces, assumptions, as people try to figure out where I’m from. One hint people try to use in order to figure this out, is my accent. When I got to Wesleyan my sophomore year, I loved asking people to guess where I’m from to break the ice. I’ve heard people guess California, somewhere in New England, Canada, and to the keen eye, the basic “international school kid”. The basic “international school kid” accent is commonly understood to be a blended American-British-Australian tone (although I’ve never lived in Australia). I think that having this “international school kid” accent is a common shared experience among those who have lived in multiple countries throughout their lives, often described as a third culture kid (TCK).
A third culture kid (TCK) is defined to be a person who has spent a significant part of his or her developmental years outside their parents culture, and does not identify fully in either their parents or another culture. Third Culture Kids are said to identify in a third culture of expatriatism, constructed from their first culture (home country’s culture) and second culture (host country’s culture). It must be noted that the “third culture” is not a blending of the first and second culture, but a “bridging culture” that intersects different communities and will vary for each person as it reflects characteristics of the first and second culture of each individual.
While people told me I was a third culture kid, the term didn’t exactly sit right with me. To me, it is difficult to identify what this “third culture” even is. Having lived in multiple countries, for me, this “third culture” would be an amalgamation of not only the first, but multiple second cultures.
Moreover, as someone with no first culture my accent acts as an ever changing mask; my accent is how people perceive my identity and conversely influences how I construct my own identity. This mask I wear undergoes constant transformation, often unintentionally, as I endeavor to blend in. This stems from a long-held belief that adapting my accent to match those around me would make me more accepted by others. I often struggle with the implications of this. Does adopting this facade entail deception, presenting a version of myself that isn’t genuine? At Wesleyan, I’ve found the general consensus gathered from multiple sources is that my accent sounds American “enough” to pass as an American at first glance. While at first delighted to have finally “fit in”, I soon came to realize how sad this reality was. Unlike my peers from Chicago, Boston, or Singapore, whose accents convey narratives of their heritage, my borrowed accent lacks depth or authenticity. It casts me into the nebulous void of Nowhere, USA—a place I may not truly consider home. My accent is malleable enough to sound American enough to not stick out, but never enough to convince anyone of the presence of a home.
As I continue to grapple with the complexities of identity and belonging, I recognize the fluidity of my accent as both a mask and a mirror, shaping and reflecting how others perceive me and how I perceive myself. Ultimately, while my accent may help me blend in, it also serves as a reminder of the unique journey I’ve undertaken, bridging cultures and forging my own path in the world.
