20 OCTOBER 2023 | THE FOREIGN SERVICE JOURNAL SPEAKING OUT Nikolina Kulidzan is a public diplomacy–coned Foreign Service officer and a writer. Her work has appeared in The New York Times, The Sun magazine, a Best New Writing anthology, and has twice been nominated for a Pushcart Award. She has served overseas in Singapore and Beijing, and in Washington, D.C., in the Operations Center and the Bureau of Global Public Affairs. She is the current president of Americans by Choice employee organization (abc@state.gov). The views stated here are the author’s own and not necessarily those of Americans by Choice or the U.S. government. I all but skipped down the uneven Alexandria sidewalks. I had recently returned from an overseas assignment and was still cherishing every moment back in the neighborhood. I was almost to my car when my eyes locked on a bundle of silvery-brown fur. The tiny pup’s eyes were mere slits, but his paws were comically large. Without even glancing at the humans at the other end of the leash, I reached down to pet the pup. “What’s he, like, eight weeks?” I asked. At one point, it occurred to me that I should have sought permission, and I apologized to the humans. They were gracious and waved off the apology. With two dogs under age 2 at home, both adopted at our last post, I was a recently minted dog person. I gave the new puppy parents some unsolicited advice, wished them good luck, and headed for my car. And that’s when it came. The question. “Where are you from?” b For 25 years, I had been answering that question patiently and politely, pushing aside the discomfort it caused me and the knowledge that more often than not, the inquiry would be either a conversational dead-end or an opening for the inquirer to share their opinions on my place of origin. But that day, I smiled and said: “I’m from here.” Stumped but only briefly, the young woman rushed to clarify: “Oh, I thought I heard an accent.” “There are people with accents here, too,” I said, still wearing a smile, hoping that would lessen the sting. In the car, I recounted the event to my ever-supportive husband. He thought I had been uncharitable, and he phrased it less charitably than that. A friend we met for dinner agreed. And after some reflection, so did I, because as a matter of personal policy and in response to the social issues of our day, I believe we should be asking more questions, not fewer. We should be starting conversations, not shutting them down. Making attempts to understand people who look, sound, behave, and think differently, not ignoring, shutting out, or shying away from them. Even so, I felt entitled to my curt, smart-alecky response. I was being neighborly, only to get reminded I’m an outsider. I was born in a country that no longer exists, and by the age of 18, I had experienced war, refugee life, and immigration. For me, answering this seemingly innocuous question is a topic more suitable for the therapist’s couch or a hefty memoir than a breezy sidewalk exchange. But my identity struggles aside, the question is problematic because it implies that I and the rest of my fellow accented Americans don’t belong. And that’s hard to hear for those of us who have worked so darn hard to earn our place in this country—we’ve paid exorbitant international tuitions and worked backbreaking or soul-sucking jobs to get a green card. We have fought in wars or worked around the clock to evacuate American citizens from the epicenter of a pandemic, left our families and customs behind. Don’t tell a person with a French accent that you ate a baguette once, or an Australian that you envy their beach life. Go Ahead, Ask About My Accent BY NIKOLINA KULIDZAN
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