Recently I had to call my financial institution to resolve
an online banking issue. These types of calls are usually about as fun as
getting hit in the kneecap with a sock full of nickels. So, as I made my way
through the dozens of automated prompts to get to an actual living, breathing
human, I was experiencing a fair amount of anxiety. Eventually, I pressed the
right sequence of buttons and a representative got on the line and said: “Hello,
this is John. I’m going to be your banking concierge today. How can I help you?”
Right away I smiled.
You see, as soon as John started talking, I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt,
that he must have grown up very close to where I grew up. In fact, the more he talked,
the more convinced I was that not only was this guy originally from Brooklyn,
but quite likely grew up in the very same neighborhood as me, so specific was
his accent. The more he spoke, the more nostalgic I became.
John was tenacious in trying to resolve my issue. In fact, he said, “I’m not
going to get off the phone with you until we get this fixed. I don’t give up.” I
found his persistence reassuring and his accent comforting. There were moments
of downtime while he was waiting for something to update on his end. During
these silences, I wondered if I should ask him where he was from. I was
conflicted, because asking this question could go one of two ways: 1) he
happily tells me where he’s from and we start having a conversation about the
old country, or 2) he gets annoyed that I’m crossing a personal line during a
business call and is less inclined to help me.
People have varying reactions to being called out for their accent. The truth
is that many times, people don't think that they have much of an accent since everyone they grew up with talked the exact same way; so if it’s
called out, they may get annoyed. I certainly wasn’t aware that I had a
Brooklyn accent until I moved away from Brooklyn. The first couple of years
that I lived in Arizona it was very common for people who I just met to ask me where
from New York, or where from “back East” I was from. This rubbed me the wrong
way at first—like a secret part of me was discovered. But soon I owned it, and
was happy to reveal my background, which many people seemed to find exciting or
exotic. The longer I have lived away from Brooklyn, the more subtle my accent has become, so these days it is rare that any new person that I meet asks me about it anymore. If they did, though, I
would be fine with it. But how would John react?
Eventually, John reached a point while working on my issue where he said it
could take up to 15 minutes for the online platform to be updated, but he would
stay on the line with me to make sure it worked. Fifteen minutes is a long
time, so I decided to go for broke.
“John, I’ve got to ask what part of the world you’re from, because I’m pretty
sure we grew up in the same neck of the woods,” I said, holding my breath.
“I’m from Brooklyn,” he said, with a chuckle.
“Me too,” I said. “Bensonhurst.” Mentioning my specific neighborhood opened the
floodgates.
“I’m from Gravesend. I grew up on East 3rd and Avenue U during the disco era,
when everybody wore chains, and all your friends were named Tony.”
I told him where I grew up, which was about two miles from him. For the next
few minutes, we waxed nostalgic about the old neighborhood. We talked about
going to rival high schools—Lafayette for me, Lincoln for him—and about how
cool it was that we could walk to anything we wanted or needed when we were
kids. He told me that he loves it in Arizona, but he misses being in a place
where he knows everyone in the neighborhood. I was just about to turn the conversation
to the virtues of a good slice of pizza when he said, “Okay update your screen
and I think you’ll see what you need to.”
I updated my screen and saw that my issue had been resolved. I was grateful for
that but was a little bit sad that this conversation was about to come to an
end. It was a Saturday morning and I had nowhere to be, so I could have talked
to John for hours, but he was at work, so I’m sure he had to help more customers.
I thanked him profusely and told him I enjoyed talking to him.
“Yeah,” he said. “We did some banking; we did some bonding. It was fun.”
It was, indeed, fun. It kind of makes me want to grow my Brooklyn accent back,
because not once has anyone ever called me out on my Chandler, Arizona accent.
