On my first day at uni in Perth, it was the middle of winter. I wore a fleece hoodie, a pair of tights and flip-flops. It was common for people to wear flip-flops everywhere in Singapore’s tropical weather. When I moved to Australia, I found myself unable to break the habit, despite the distinct chill in the air.
At uni, we were given a tour of the underground film studio where most of my first-year film classes would be held. As we made our way up the stairs and out of the studio, I heard a sharp voice behind me: “Someone’s wearing thongs.” Perplexed, I looked around. What was she talking about? In my head, “thongs” referred to G-string underwear. I flushed. Was she talking about me? I quickened my steps, eager to get away.
It was years later when I finally realised that “thongs” is the word for flip-flops in Australia.
I was 20 at the time – a newly arrived student who was determined to fit in. I had cousins who had grown up in Perth, and spending time with them made me painfully aware of how different we sounded. “Don’t stick with the other Asians,” was the advice they gave me. “Mix with the locals, or you’ll never fit in.”
To me, befriending the locals meant I’d have to eradicate as many of our differences as possible
It didn’t help that I was an introvert who had difficulty making friends. To me, befriending the locals meant I’d have to eradicate as many of our differences as possible – and that included changing the way I spoke. Singlish, a Singaporean English creole spoken natively in Singapore, is almost like a whole other language. An amalgamation of Chinese, Malay and a variety of dialects, to the untrained ear, Singlish can sound like gibberish.
So when I moved to Perth, I quickly began elongating my vowels and speaking in slow, rhythmic tones like the people around me. It was a far cry from the quick, sharp, staccato way of speaking I was used to. But I was determined to build a new life, a new identity. I didn’t know it then, but what I was doing is called “”.
The process of code switching was like putting on a mask the moment I walked out my front door
Eventually, I began to think of Singlish and Australian English as two different languages, and I felt like a different person when I was speaking each of them. The process of code switching was like putting on a mask the moment I walked out my front door. Translating my Singlish thoughts into speech was like writing an essay each time I had a conversation. Talking to classmates and tutors at uni became a chore. I stumbled over words and my sentences came out awkward and disjointed. I felt like I was talking to them from behind a glass wall.
Once, at youth group, I was on the phone with my dad. “You come pick me up at 11pm lor. Ya. Okay. Bye,” I said.
“Was that an Asian accent?” one of my friends asked.
“Yeah,” I said sheepishly.
“Why don’t you speak that way with us? We’re all Asians, anyway.”
Even though they were mostly of Malaysian and Singaporean descent, they weren’t Asian the way I was. They’d all grown up in Australia or moved to Australia when they were young children, and so had long since assimilated. They spoke Aussie English organically, fluidly – it was as easy for them as breathing. I wasn’t ready to let my guard down just yet.
Years later, on a trip back to Singapore, I visited my old youth group. I was looking forward to being among people I’d grown up with as teenagers. Most of all, I knew I could let my tongue reign free, without the need to code switch. We gathered in a circle, sitting cross-legged on the floor of someone’s apartment. It was time for sharing. When it was my turn to speak, I heard my friends snickering beside me. I paused and shot them a look. One of them patted me on the back.
Simeon visiting a breakfast place in Singapore. Source: Supplied
“We tell you later,” she whispered, still smiling.
Afterwards, they told me I’d spoken with an “ang moh” (white person) accent.
“Have meh?” I retorted. “Where got sia?” I could hear myself laying on my Singapore accent thick, as if in doing so I could prove I was still as Singaporean as they were.
“Have!” she said. “Is okay lah. You stay in Perth so long already, sure have an accent.”
Was I losing my Singaporean accent? The thought of it stung. It was then I realised how much it meant to me. It was a huge part of my identity, after all.
Why change the way I speak when there’s nothing wrong with it?
Recently, I found myself sitting among a group of immigrants with whom I shared much in common. Like me, Joshua* came to Perth as an international student years ago. Now in his late 20s, his accent remains largely Malaysian.
“I refuse to conform to the way the people speak here,” Joshua said. “I don’t say, ‘I reckon.’ I say, ‘I think.’ … I mean, why change the way I speak when there’s nothing wrong with it?”
Having lived in Perth for eight years now, I’ve found my community among other immigrants who juggle two accents. I still code switch sometimes, but mostly only when I’m at work. With friends, I speak in whatever accent comes out of my mouth, switching between Singlish and Aussie English without thinking about it. I care less about how I sound to others. After all, this hybrid mish-mash of accents is a true reflection of the many-layered person I have become.
*Name has been changed.
is a writer and photographer who loves telling stories about the people around her and her personal experiences. Her writing has appeared in Journal, COZE, Wave After Wave and in the 2021 Year Twelve Mock Exams.
