I’m in a philosophical mood tonight–you have been warned–because I spent the afternoon communing with ghosts.
No, I’m not being followed around by Dr. Malcolm Crowe and trying to get him to realize he’s dead so he’ll leave me the hell alone. No, I’m not trying to get people to crossover into the light because our apartment building was built on their graves. No, I haven’t been watching too much American Horror Story (in fact, I barely got through season one and then they kept Dylan McDermott and got rid of Connie Britton. I mean, really?).
Instead I’ve been looking over old pictures of old friends and old haunts posted on the Hayden High School group on Facebook.
This got me thinking about old friends and it occurred to me that, in many ways, friends are very much the same as ghosts. They always inhabit the same time and place. They are always linked to the same emotions. They are always the same age. They always do the same things. They always talk the same way. They always wear the same clothes.
Meeting the same people years later is not the same as meeting your old friend. They are a mere hint of what they used to be. My best friend from when I was growing up in Colorado now makes brooms for a living and speaks with an Arkansas accent. My best friend from university is paid to watch soccer and has also become a talented artist. The kid I grew up with builds hot rods and barely had time to see me that last time I was in the USA.
They are different people and although it’s fun to reminisce, I need to get to know them again now that they are not who they were. Now that they have much more interesting stories to tell about experiences we didn’t share.
I suppose this feeling is part of the fun of aging and becoming more experienced and learning more about the world. It’s the same as going back to your kindergarten or your elementary school and realizing how small it actually was but remembering in your bones how big it felt. I had the same feeling when I managed to sneak back to Hayden High School after having been away a few years. I remember Mr. Wenzlau, who taught history and social studies, smiling at my reaction–Yes, I spoke out loud as I’ve never learned to keep my mouth shut about things like that–and telling me, in so many words, that I’d seen more of the world and wasn’t the same person. (I remember thinking “Living in Salina-f&#%ing-Kansas counts as seeing the world?”)
It’s also, I suppose, a remnant of the glorious feeling we had when we were children that everything would always be the same. Friends wouldn’t move away; friends wouldn’t die; we really would be best friends forever. And maybe we will be. Maybe we are.
We just have to convince that old ghost in our heads to leave us the hell alone so we can move on.
It’s funny how moving from here to there makes you see large portions of your stuff as crap.
I spent the day packing and moving crap. More specifically, I spent the day binding old crap and setting it in the hallway so that someone else can throw it away. I put crap I’ll need into boxes so that someone else can carry it to a new building. I also carried some other crap to my new desk.
I’m in the process of moving offices because, for the past year, the school I work at has been building a new building around the old one. This involved first tearing down two-thirds of the old building, often while we were in it. (The rubble decorating this site shows off some of that destruction.)
This has got me thinking about the number of times I’ve moved in my life and how my perception of my stuff changed each time. I remember living in places when I was little, but I don’t actually remember moving to them. The first move where I remember moving stuff was when we moved from Denver to Hayden, Co. That one doesn’t count, though, because we simply moved our trailer from one place to another. Serious decisions were therefore not required–at least by me.
Then we moved from our trailer to a house. What I remember most about that one is how all the stuff from the seemingly smaller trailer didn’t seem to fit in the larger house. (I suspect this is why I’m a Doctor Who fan: I lived in the TARDIS.)
We then moved from Colorado back to Kansas. I don’t remember making any serious decisions then. The moves after that were pretty basic: home to fraternity, fraternity to apartment. Everything I owned could easily fit into my car. Serious decisions were therefore not required.
The first time I had to make serious decisions was moving from the apartment to Albania. Imagine how hard it is to pack for a two week trip. Now multiply that difficulty out to two years and you’ll understand the decisions I had to make. (Spoiler: “He chose poorly.) In Albania I had to move four times (long story that will take many posts to explain) and each time began to reconsider how much crap I had. Then I left Albania and managed to shed a lot of crap, especially as a lot of my crap had worn out thanks to two years in a developing country.
I spent two years in Mississippi and had my first realization that I might actually be an adult when, for the first time ever, all the crap I owned couldn’t fit in my car.
From Mississippi I moved to Nou-Machi, Japan “for two years”. Three years later, I had my most expensive move, I moved from quaint, quiet little Nou-machi to megatropolitan Tokyo. To imagine how expensive this move was imagine driving the 21 miles from Salina, Kansas to Abilene, Kansas and then back again. Every mile, open the car window and toss out a 100 dollar bill. By the time you get back to Salina, you will have spent less than that move cost me (including moving crap and getting an apartment).
Finally, I moved my wife into the apartment, found an infant on the front step of my in-laws’ house (for the record: this is the official story we tell her; officially the second was found four years later under a bridge.) and then moved everyone to our current location just outside of Tokyo. That move involved a pretty serious purge of crap. (For the record, I kept the wife and child although I’m still not sure why they kept me. And to the person/people going “mmm hmmm” right now: Shut up.)
Now I’m moving out of the desk I’ve worked at for 14 years and after all this I’ve learned to toss out a lot crap. Not as much as I should, though. My new desk is already full of crap.
Eventually, and I know this because it always happens: I’ll need some of the crap I threw out.
I spent part of the day at the 15th Annual World Fountain Pen Festival. Despite the temptation, I didn’t feed my addiction. I was more like an alcoholic walking around a bar picking up glasses and sniffing them.
For this addiction, I can definitely blame my father as he’s the first to slip me the drug. Someone had given him, I think as part of a set, a Cross Century fountain pen. He didn’t want it and I’d never tried a fountain pen before so I accepted it.
The first hit was free. (This is the replacement, though. It wasn’t free.)
It was love at first, er, write. (Something like that.) To use it, I was forced to do the thing that none of my teachers had been able to make me do: hold my pen correctly. I used to have a claw grip. Hold your pencil normally, then pull the tip toward your palm and write with the pencil vertical and the tip directly under your index finger knuckle. Feel free to grip the pencil as tightly as possible. Writing that way gave me impressive calluses on my middle finger and my little finger but didn’t do much for my handwriting.
Using the Cross was more comfortable and, for a while, although it would eventually become barely legible, my handwriting improved. I kept that pen longer than any other pen I’d ever owned but eventually lost it. I quickly replaced it and still have the replacement. Then, while I was in the Peace Corps, I bought a couple cheap Chinese Hero pens, that are direct copies of the Parker 51. I wrote a lot with them, but found the nibs too thin. I still have them and they still work. (Not bad for 15 cents apiece.)
This one’s been used. There’s one in the box that has never even been taken out of the plastic.
Then, while I was at Ole Miss, I bought an early Retro 51 fountain pen (200 series?). It had a thicker barrel and a bit more weight. I used it a while–and still have it, by the way–but then a friend introduced me to fountain pen crack: the Pilot/Namiki Vanishing Point. A fountain pen that acts like a clicky ball-point pen. There’s no cap. You just click it and use it. Let me say that again: you click it like a ball-point pen, but it’s a fountain pen. Genius. I used them so much that the barrels began to break. I still have them, but don’t use them. Instead I use a more contemporary version.
An okay pen that has always felt creaky when I used it. Nice weight, though.
They look like pens, but they are actually coated with a drug that makes you want more. And more. And more.
Unfortunately, about the time I got the Cross, I developed a sudden aversion to lending my pens to other people. Nothing wins friends and influences people more than having a pen in your hand and saying “No” when asked “Do you have a pen I can borrow?” The few times I did lend my fountain pens, the borrowers gripped them by the nibs and got ink all over their fingers. Oddly, they blamed this on me which neither won friends nor influenced people. (Although saying “Don’t ruin the nib you moron” might have contributed to that, too.)
I quickly learned to carry spare pens to loan to the unwashed masses lest they become inky and, well, forced to wash. This led to the spectacle of me holding a pen but saying, “just a minute, I need to find a lesser pen for you to use” (something like that) when asked “May I borrow your pen?”.
I then moved to Japan, which is the Mecca of stationery and pointy writey things. And, of course, I must try them so I can experience Japanese stationery culture, or something. This means I have roller balls and gel ink pens. Pens with glass tips. Pens with brush tips. Actual brushes, and an old brush and ink kit that looks kind of like a pipe.
Also, just about 40 years since my father gave me that first hit of Cross, I have several fountain pens, some of which actually work, with a couple more on order (damn you Kickstarter!) I also have several bottles of ink occupying space on my desk.
As for the pen show, it wasn’t as much fun as the Pointy Stabby Things show because everything was being sold by store clerks and not by the actual makers. (The one maker who was there was constantly busy and I never got a chance to talk to him.) They also didn’t seem keen on photography. Sailor Pens’ relatively famous custom ink blender was there, but there was no other ink for sale. I did get to try a bunch of pens but didn’t buy anything. I am, however, casually checking out the prices on the internet. Just for curiosity’s sake.
Three years ago today. Friday. I was wasting time at home as final grades weren’t due until Saturday morning. I was in post-marking malaise and already pondering asking someone else to check my marks so that I didn’t have to go in. At 2:46 in the afternoon we started to feel the tremor. We’d felt a big one two days before and, well, there were always big ones happening and we’d grown fairly complacent. We even tried to guess the size before the official news report.
I felt it first, as I was sitting down. My wife was standing it didn’t feel it until the ceiling lamps started swinging. Unusually, it got stronger and didn’t stop. As everything began to rattle in our first floor apartment we decided to head outside.
Idiot me didn’t even think of taking a camera. Or, for that matter, an emergency kit (more on that later). The large tree near our building was rocking back and forth and we could hear it cracking. The cars in the parking lot were dancing. The tin roof of the bicycle shed was rattling. I felt dizzy and had to hold on to a sign to keep standing. At about three minutes one of our neighbors joined us. She’d been on the third floor.
I remembered that, about four years before, after a big earthquake in Niigata, our in-laws had sent us an emergency kit. I couldn’t remember where it was. Finally, after four minutes. It all stopped and we went in to watch the news. Then we started to get the aftershocks; one was strong enough to send us back outside.
We watched news about the tsunami and then about Fukushima Number One. Telephones and cellphones were down, although data plans were still usable. Even though the internet was working, email was having problems. Oddly, Facebook was working, but in strange ways. One of my friends was stuck at school. Her husband worked in Tokyo. Each could contact me via Facebook, but they couldn’t contact each other. He eventually walked the 13 miles to be with her and escort her back home.
Japanese tv stopped showing commercials and started running Ad Council PSAs instead. This was creepy, especially as the “AAAAAACEEEEEEE” jingle got stuck in everyone’s heads. (The jingle was eventually pulled, too, although the spots kept running.)
The emperor, who usually remains silent while the government operates, went on television with a quiet, yet surprisingly powerful “don’t give up” speech.
We learned, eventually, that the quake had literally moved the Earth by shifting it 4-10 inches (10-25 centimeters) on its axis. It had also moved Japan’s main island, Honshu, eight feet (2.4 meters) East and dropped the coast around four feet (1.2 meters). The sound waves from the quake were detected by satellites in low orbit.
We then entered a phase where the government was denying what was happening in front of our eyes (explosions at Fukushima) and the big shots at TEPCO started citing, in mumbles no less, incomprehensible technical bullshit that pissed off even the docile Japanese press. The anti-nuclear industrial complex started screaming, and have been screaming ever since, about how we were all going to die; in fact, we were already dead. All of the above have since been discredited and it’s no joke to say we trust the thousands of people who now own Geiger counters (including a colleague of mine) more than we trust anyone in an official work uniform.
The Japanese became a lot less trusting of government. They also discovered the absurdity of having incompatible electrical systems in the same country (Western Japan in on a 60hz system; Eastern Japan is on 50hz.) Back in the day, when I visited my friends in Niigata, there was a crossover point where the lights suddenly went out for several seconds as the grids changed. (Yes, that’s right, incompatible power grids in the same COUNTY.)
As for us, we were about as lucky as people could get. Our apartment is apparently in a geologic sweet-spot that limited much of the shaking (which is why we didn’t feel it at first.) Not even a single book fell off a shelf. We had ways to get food, but only because some transportation was still working. We avoided the rolling blackouts and the worst that happened to me is I had to walk home seven miles from school when rolling blackouts shut down our train line for 10 hours.
The hardest part was the aftershocks, which lasted the rest of the year. It was impossible to relax. I remember my wife and I talking about that and me saying “Nothing is normal, right now. Nothing is normal.”
This video shows the larger quakes that occurred two days before and three days after. It’s worth watching it all, but the real action starts at 1:18 or so. I recommend watching it full screen, so you can see the date and time:
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This video shows all quakes for the entire year. The real action starts at around 1:40. Note the line at the bottom that shows how rapidly the number of quakes increased.
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Finally, this video shows the quake and tsunami as filmed by a number of survivors:
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Now: The aftershocks ceased a long time ago and although we’ve been more diligent with our preps, we’ve started to slip back into complacency. I know where my emergency kits are now, though, and I carry one every time I go to Tokyo.
Last year, there was another tsunami warning, and the announcer didn’t mess around. He basically started shouting for people to get to high ground. His tone was “Do you remember 2011? Do you want to f&#%ing die?” which scared us, even though we live a long way from the ocean.
Only the oldest member of the Fukushima 50 has died, and that from esophageal cancer unlikely to have been caused by radiation exposure. (Thyroid cancer is more likely from radiation exposure.)
The government is still run by idiots who manage TEPCO in an idiotic way. Relief funds seem to have been spent everywhere EXCEPT the areas in need of relief funds. They’ve supported the whaling industry, Tokyo Sky Tree, fighter pilot training, wine and cheese events, turtle counting, and a contact lens factory.
Everyone thinks there was no looting after the quake and tsunami (there was) but the worst looting is happening now.
Note: Edited 3/11/2014 to add links to AC Japan videos.
In a recent comment on a recent bit of blather, my friend Steve Brisendine reminded me of our first trip to London which, naturally, has me thinking about beer.
For me, that trip was a big deal. At the time the farthest I’d been out of the United States was a trip to California complete with a foray to Tijuana, Mexico. Suddenly I was walking in places I’d read about in novels and history books and tracking down traditional English cuisine (fish and chips, curry and Chinese.)
While we were in London we saw lots of theater performances, old churches and random museums and adopted very weak English accents. (Steve is better at cockney; my specialty is upper class twit.) We also took a few walking tours, such as the Sherlock Holmes walk–which must be really annoying now with everyone wearing trench coats and going “Mind Palace” “Mind Palace” and “I’m certainly not a more Aspergery Doctor Who.”
The most difficult part, though, was trying the warm beer. After sticking with cowardly lager for a few evenings out, we finally decided to try a half pint of best bitter. (Best, at least in the mid-80s, meaning it had the highest percentage of alcohol; bitter meaning it was a pale ale.) I remember us staring at the half pints for a minute before trying them.
We were immediately smitten–it wasn’t actually warm and it didn’t lose its flavor as it sat on the table meaning it could be sipped slowly and thus conversation was possible at a lower price. Many full pints were quickly ordered and consumed and much feeling in our feet lost although we were able to stagger back to our rooms. We then spent the rest of the trip acting like drug dealing cult members trying to get the rest of our tour group to try the bitter. We bought lots of half-pints with promises to buy other drinks as necessary. (The first hit’s free. It won’t cost you anything.)
When I got back home, I immediately started experimenting with different dark beers which, while they were weak when compared to best, had the advantage of being the only beer no one in my fraternity house was likely to steal.
There is one key thing introverts need to know about marriage. The vows are pretty straightforward: love, honor, cherish, obey, listen to as necessary, surprise with steak on occasion, warm your damned icy feet before getting into bed, for richer/for poorer, in sickness/in health, full of crap/not full of crap etcetera, etcetera till death do us part. (At least those are the ones I remember.)
The part that introverts need to pay attention to is the “to have and to hold from this day forward … till death do us part.” They need to realize that the other person will be around them for a very long time, in the same house, touching your stuff, sharing your stuff, questioning why you have so much stuff that runs on batteries, questioning why you want to buy more stuff. Add children into the mix and introverts are, well, having some issues.
From what I’ve read here and there, and things from here and there are always right, extroverts gain energy from social interactions. The more people there are around, the merrier the extrovert becomes. Introverts, on the other hand, expend energy during social interactions. The more people around, the more energy that’s spent. It’s no joke to say that introverts need time to recharge after extended social interactions, especially if karaoke and/or family are involved or an “interested and perky demeanor” is required. (For the record: I don’t do perky. Instead, my goofy is spot on. It’s quite natural, actually.)
This hit me a couple years ago when, for various complicated reasons, my three lovely ladies stayed home during the summer rather than heading off to the in-laws. Eventually, we traveled together to the in-laws where I had to interact with even more people and maintain an “interested and goofy demeanor”. In the past, I’d be working in the summer and would eventually make my own way to the Japan Sea coast, or just stay home and visit over the new year’s holiday. It was a nice break for everyone, especially this introvert. A couple years ago, though I found myself getting stressed and anxious and developing a kind of cabin fever where I couldn’t focus on anything for more than a short time. That feeling carried on throughout the rest of the year. I couldn’t figure out what was going on.
I eventually realized that it was the first year since I’d started at university, that I hadn’t had had any time alone. I’d always had at least a week to recharge. This time, though, the introvert in me had spent all its energy and wasn’t getting the chance to recharge.
I explained all this to She Who Must Be Obeyed who recited the “full of crap/totally full of crap” vow (something like that) but accepted that even though I like my in-laws and love my family, I don’t always like being around them. Absence doesn’t just make the heart grow fonder, it makes the heart stronger, at least for a little while.
One of the early side effects of living in a developed foreign country is that you are the happiest person in the land. You glow. You are imbued with a teenager level of knowledge and wisdom that lets you know everything about the country and lets you see things the old, bitter veterans have never noticed before and clearly don’t understand.
Everything about your new home is better than your old, decrepit country. It’s cleaner, healthier, nicer, safer, cooler, more beautiful, more cultured and, in general everything is just more awesomer. Anything that’s bad is, just, well, that’s just something you’re going to have to get used to–it’s not YOU it’s ME–and it’s probably just your lack of language ability causing a miscommunication.
This lasts about three months.
At that three month mark all those niggling little annoyances become big annoyances and full blown culture shock. Suddenly the country you’re in is the most ass-backwards, low-life, 19th century wretched hive of scum and villainy you’ve ever had the displeasure of living in. It’s not ME it’s THEM idiots. Everyone is racist and all those people you thought were cool are just racist metro-sexual scumbags who’ve been lying to you and withholding the truth from you the entire time. You’ve been making all these efforts to communicate with your new language skills but clearly the racists and their racist ears can’t hear a foreigner, however brilliant, speak.
This feeling lasts two to three months and then suddenly the country you’re in isn’t that bad again. It’ll never be as cool as it was, but it’s pleasant. A few months later, the culture shock comes back, but not as bad. That cycle goes on and one, with slowly leveling swings between happy and culture shocked.
Even after all these years, I still experience bouts of culture shock. Normally, it doesn’t bother me that when I’m at the front of a line, especially at a train station, no one in Japan believes that’s the right line. I’ve even seen station masters look confused about which line was which when they saw me. I also find that Japanese are hyper-sensitive to little pronunciation mistakes. When I say the name of the school I work at: Rikkyo, I get lots of puzzled looks. This is because the pronunciation has a slight pause “Reek-kyo” and the “o” is long. If either of those features is left out, puzzled looks ensue, even though there’s no other school with a similar name. It’s like saying “I work at Princetown University in New Jersey” and having people go “where?” even after you’ve pronounced it several times.
However, when I find either of these things making me angry, I know I’m in culture shock. I usually try to relax at home and, whenever possible, try to watch a US news program. Several minutes of suffering that vapid and superficial emptiness, especially if it’s CNN International or NBC, usually reminds me that things could always be worse and I start feeling better. At least until the next time.
And now, a disturbing look into the mind of a teacher at the edge of sanity.
I’m now down to one final set of tests to mark and am full on and well into The Walll. It doesn’t help that, for various complicated reasons not worthy of explanation, we’ve chosen to include essay sections on our tests. This subjects the reader to such gems as “My mother is name’s is Letitia” (not the mother’s real name) and “She is like a soccer” and the more appropriate to an HBO series or the late great Jerry Springer show: “My mother has my five childs.”
The Wall is a moment you reach when you physically and mentally cannot read another word of student writing. You stare at the scribblings on the page but cannot comprehend the words and you soon cease to care. You begin to question most aspects of life itself and whether or not anything has any meaning whatsoever. (It’s rather like reading Ulysses or The Scarlet Letter or watching The Room.)
Of course, this could also be because I’ve had a marathon session of True Detective running in the background. (Point of Information to all TD actors: Refusing to speak in a normal tone of voice with normal inflection does NOT actually make what you’re saying have depth anymore than filming slums in washed out tones counts as cinematography.)
Yes, part of the hitting The Wall is letting outside influences influence you. (Especially when I realize I’m a tall man with a scarred face who used to live in the South…)
Also, at this point, you begin to have ethical dilemmas. At first you’re worried about fairness. Is this essay better than the last? Have I marked consistently? That gives way to revenge fantasies: Well this kid was an obnoxious twit in class, that makes his misspellings worse than this other kid’s misspellings. You are tempted to write but, if you’re lucky, refrain from writing “Have you considered public school? It’s easier.” or “The world needs ditch-diggers, too.” That gives way to moral absence: Should I just mark all the essays with random scores and count on most of the students not bothering to follow up? (And if they do follow up, should I lower their scores for questioning me?) That gives way to hallucination: Is that a mistake or do I just think it is? Does it matter?
That eventually gives way to bourbon and haste. (Note: It’s not bourbon time yet as I have to work tomorrow.)
That’s enough of that for now. It’s clearly time for a break. I also have another episode of True Detective to finish before I sleep. (Like I tell my students: Speak up! Enunciate!)
Because I’m still in the middle of marking exams, and because I’m collecting a fourth batch tomorrow, English teaching has been on my mind.
Even though, as mentioned before, I’ve lost most of my native accent, the one vocal quirk I’ve kept is the one vocal quirk I shouldn’t have.
When I was attending Edison Elementary School in Hayden, Colorado, I remember one of my teachers–I think it was Miss Trimble when I was in, maybe, 6th grade–explaining that the “wh-” in words like “what” and “where” should be pronounced as “hw” making them “hwat” and “hwere”. This was done in order to distinguish them from “watt” and “wear”. This is the reason words such as “who”, “whole” and “whore” have an “h” sound and aren’t “woo”, “wole” and “wore”. (For the record: she probably didn’t use “whore” as an example.)
Although I ignored and then forgot most of the useful things I was taught in elementary school, like, say, math, for some reason I retained that and incorporated into my way of speaking. A sentence like “Watch where you wear those clothes lest your father whine and wail and drink a bottle of wine before butchering whales in Wales” is to me “Watch hwere you wear those clothes lest your father hwine and wail and drink a bottle of wine before butchering hwales in Wales”.
Now it turns out that this was the way most of the English speaking world once said these words. However thanks to something called the “Wine-Whine Merger” (which could be the name of a country music album) most of the English speaking world now pronounces those words the same. (For me, “white wine” is pronounced “hwite wine” or “pinot gris”.) There are a few pockets where the “Wine-Hwine Merger hasn’t been completed, mostly across the US Southern states–although I don’t remember anyone speaking that way when I was at Ole Miss or visiting friends in Georgia–and, apparently, large portions of Scotland, but I’m from Kansas and grew up in Colorado so I shouldn’t speak this way at all.
Oddly, only a couple students have ever called me on this–one of them a couple weeks ago– and asked “Why do you speak like a complete fool?” (Or something like that.)
I, of course, took full responsibility for the way I speak by blaming my Miss Trimble.
Back in 2,000, before the turn of the millenium, I dragged my in-laws and my wife to the USA for our second wedding ceremony–for the record, there were three total in two hemispheres. While we were there, we went to Kansas City to visit my friend Steve Brisendine and his family.
We were staying in a hotel and I had to call him and let him know our hotel phone number so we could arrange mind-numbing consumption at KC Masterpiece. (This was a compromise as we thought the shouting at Gates would scare the hell out of them.)
After a half-hour of listening to me carefully recite the numbers, Steve paused, perhaps to splash water on his face to wake up, and said something to the effect of “I can tell you’re used to talking to people who don’t speak English.”
Talking funny is one of the unusual side effects of living overseas, especially if you’re a teacher.
First, to communicate with your students, you begin to speak slowly and carefully. The challenge is to retain normal intonation: “NOW-OO EV-ER-Y-ONE LIS-TEN TO MEEEE” is not particularly helpful to your students. (Neither, it should be added, is a rapid “Y’alllisnup”) Eventually, your native accent begins to erode. Professor and musician Dan Strack wrote the song “You’ve Lost Your Native Accent” (Sung to the tune of “You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling” ) in honor of this. (He also included, ominously, the line “you’ve lost nearly half your vocabulary”.)
In my case, my Kansas twang, stretched “A”s (It’s not Kansas it’s KAAANsas) and dropped “G”s (it’s lovin’ not loving) disappeared and I now have a broadcaster’s voice that would be right at home on CNN or MSNBC (unfortunately I can’t work at either place because I’m only a partial moron not a total one.)
I also, despite my best efforts, I still speak numbers slowly. In my defense, that’s often necessary when talking on the phone with airlines and banks in other countries.
The effects of this are especially brutal on people from England, Scotland and Australia, who, despite admirable resistance, eventually begin sounding a lot more like me.
Then there are the odd grunts and sighs you pick up. I also find myself bowing a lot when I go home and the occasional arigato slips out.
I do have one quirky way of speaking that’s stuck with me, but that’s fodder for another entry. (Hint: Who What Where When Why Which and Whore.)
