Note: A Britisher’s View made its debut on Dec. 22, 1988 with the column below.
Being British and living in Brooklyn is quite a cocktail. Heady, strong, and positively a taste in real experience.
Those of you born to these parts cannot comprehend the delights and difficulties, both in equal measure, of an outsider trying to live an ordinary life in your extremely diverse and dynamic borough. Where I come from, Croydon, England, we are all cogs in the great wheel of civility and rectitude, but I am definitely beginning to realize that taking a back seat has severe limitations, and coming forward as you Brooklynites do has its sweet reward. So next time you feel weary of soul, remember the progressive society you live in and rejoice in your glorious freedoms.
Of course there are disadvantages to living life on the flip side of the pond. The language barrier is bold and definitely well barricaded. Although the same tongue, Brooklyn English and its British counterpart are poles apart. Neither is superior, although worldwide people seem to think that even a pinhead with a British accent has a huge IQ level. I am living proof that this is simply not the case.
Waitressing part-time in a Greenwich Village restaurant I was to discover with some embarrassment that my spoken word had distinct disadvantages.
“I’d like the zucchini, please,” ordered a customer. Always willing to oblige and thinking it to be an order for a delicate Italian aperitif, I inquired, “Would sir like it on the rocks?”
Sir was mystified and said he would prefer it fried. The horror was all mine when I discovered that “zucchini” was a pseudonym for the British “courgette.” Of the same veggie family, but yet so far apart when one doesn’t know what the blooming heck a zucchini is, or for that matter, a courgette.
Then there was the bog-paper episode. Noticing that my room mate was out of toilet tissue I asked her if she had any “loo rolls,” blissfully unaware that not all Americans were familiar with the slang term.
“I think I may have one buried somewhere, but I’m not sure,” my roomie answered to my bewilderment. Minutes later the apartment was filled with the dulcet tones of Lou Rawls belting out “My Lady Love.” Although an ardent fan of Mr. Rawls, my request had been for something equally soothing but a trifle softer.
Months later, still struggling with my language deficiencies, I respectfully acknowledged that a new friend’s apartment was “very homely.” The chill of her gaze still plays havoc with my nerves. It had not occurred to me to precede my comment with the British definition of “homely,” which is cozy, comfortable, homelike. Upon discovering the word “homey,” my luck bleakly rekindled, but putting my foot in my mouth, refuted back home, was fast becoming a way of life here in Brooklyn.
Fortunately I nearly always found people to be good humored and encouraging rather than insulted or aloof. That, I have learned, is the pulse of Brooklyn. The ability of its people to instinctively know the difference between sincerity and horse manure, an art form perfected by the powered to the pinhead. My husband, born and bred in Brooklyn, put it best: “If you’re okay, we’re okay.” Now that’s profound, in any English!
Follow me on Twitter @BritShavana
