‘An Irish accent carries a level of privilege here in Australia’

The power of the Irish accent is something I’ve only come to realise since leaving Ireland. It has less power at home, for obvious reasons, given that too many of us feature one for it to be in any way remarkable.

In Ireland, the accent is a way of fitting in, though it obviously differs so widely depending on which part of the country you come from that tourists are consistently shocked and deeply confused. It’s a signifier of belonging unless, that is, you’re from deep in the bowels of Cork, in which case you’ll use your accent in the time-honoured way – to be as hard to be understood as possible in a protest against Corkonian subjugation. Also to make sure that everyone knows you consider the Irish State a foreign, colonial power in your native country (of Cork).

And fair enough, given the way the Irish Government has been behaving of late.

In London, Irish accents pepper streets, pubs and restaurants liberally. Often, we don’t even need to speak in order to announce ourselves to one another. I’d see a guy in a Limerick jersey on the escalators on the way down into the depths of Tottenham Court Road tube station and give him a solemn nod. The sort of nod you’d give someone at home when you pass them on the street and you don’t know them but you do know who they are through their uncle Wally, who once sold your brother an ill-advised blue Subaru in 2006. The guy on the escalator sees the nod, and he gets it. I think of it as “the Irish nod”.

‘I love this place, I have my children here, there is nothing else I’m looking for in another country’

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I suppose that when you write that in the pages of a national newspaper, it all sounds a bit conspiratorial and deep state, as though we’re both Corkonian agents in deep cover. But being Irish abroad can be a touch like that and it helps that I’m not from Cork (though I hope that won’t be held against me once they do achieve independence).

In England, the Irish accent garners two general responses.

A glowing “my best friend/auntie/granny/husband/wife is/was Irish”. The accent reminds people of that trip they took to Dublin one time, when they saw someone play a bodhrán (so authentic!) and ended up at the house party of some girl named Caoimhe (“pronounced ‘Kwivvy’ I think?”) and somehow it turned out to be the best night of their life. The other response is a sort of glassy-eyed real-time realisation that Ireland is not in fact in the UK these days. This is usually followed by a series of mildly insulting history questions while you fight the urge to read them a lesson on colonial hegemony and assure them that no, you don’t actually personally know Gerry Adams. Yes, you do remember those glasses he wore and yes, it was unfortunate that they had a brief fashionable resurgence a couple of years back.

It often happens when I meet people here that mine is the first Irish accent they’ve heard in some time

Both sorts of reaction tend to frequently result in accent mimicry, which is quite tedious considering that London’s distance from Dublin is more or less a drive from Limerick to Kilkenny and then on to Dublin (stop in Kilkenny for a nice lunch to break up the drive). Within the UK and Europe, we all live in close quarters and there are established stereotypes through which we view our neighbours, and they us.

Here in the Australian capital, Irish people are a small minority, particularly among people who have emigrated within the last decade. It is a great place to live, but feels largely as yet undiscovered or forgotten by new Irish immigrants. Most people emigrate in their youth and are naturally more drawn to places such as Sydney, Melbourne and, to a lesser extent, Perth, because of the work opportunities, larger populations, milder winter and livelier social scene. It often happens when I meet people here that mine is the first Irish accent they’ve heard in some time.

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I recently had a chat with someone from Malaysia who is also a blow-in to Canberra, and had never heard an Irish accent at all. “Are you French?” he asked me interestedly. I wasn’t French and never have been as far as memory serves, but geographically speaking, France is much closer to Ireland than Malaysia is to Australia. About 10 times closer in fact. Why would he recognise an accent from what must be to him a tiny, almost theoretical little place on the other side of the world?

Here, my accent signals to people whose entire lives are conducted without intimate knowledge of Europe that I am vaguely European. I get English (not my favourite but from this distance the subtleties are not relevant to people and that’s fair enough). Scottish. American, sometimes. And now French. My grandmother would have attributed the latter to me giving off notions of some sort – “Sure it’s not the poor man’s fault, and you with a crease ironed into your trousers like you’re sauntering into the Louvre.”

When someone does recognise the accent, which happens occasionally, it is always a positive reaction.

Even at this distance, in a city where Irish people are harder to come by, there’s occasionally cause to dust off the Irish nod. I have it holstered anyway, just in case. The very occasional guy in too-short GAA shorts with a big sunburned head passes you and you just know. There are still plenty of Australians of Irish parentage here. It’s a tiny delight to see their face change when you speak to them and realise that the voice which was just standard at home – which to you is just your boring old voice – evokes for this stranger a beloved parent who is now gone, or a beloved teacher or friend they once knew.

Possibly one with a big sunburned head.

The accent carries a level of privilege here in Australia – or at least in the part where I live – because it either acts as a means of connection with new people, or is sufficiently foreign to carry with it no preconceptions.

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