George Bernard Shaw once wrote that ‘England and America are two countries separated by a common language." I’d say that sentiment applies to the US and Ireland as well, otherwise my Irish husband and I never would have argued over the existence of a ‘brush’ in our flat for an entire five minutes. I kept suggesting he could borrow my hairbrush; he was looking for something to sweep the floor with. It was only then that I realised how odd the American word ‘broom’ sounded. Indeed, it is amazing how a few small words, their sounds and shapes, can make me feel more foreign than even new surroundings, unfamiliar cities, and the ocean that divides me from my old home.

My job involves a lot of communication with strangers. People who ring my office don’t always catch on to my accent at first and get a bit annoyed when I ask them to repeat or spell their names. On a good day I swallow my pride, take a deep breath and ask them to spell ‘Bláithín’ one more time for me. On a bad day I get frustrated, take a guess, write something completely wrong down and get funny looks from my colleagues who explain to me that ‘Kileen’ is in fact a brand of rubbish bags, and that it was probably ‘Cillian’ leaving them a message.

Being exposed to new words, names and sounds isn’t all bad. I love the rhythm of the names of Irish towns: Skibbereen, Kilmallock, Ballintemple. I take delight in the small victories of pronouncing ‘Cobh’ correctly, or learning the Irish word for ‘milk’. Also, the Corkonian accent, which sounds quite musical to American ears, is pleasant to listen to on a warm day in Bishop Lucey Park. (Especially when I can blend in with the locals, when I’m not struggling to spell everything being said.)

There are days, however, when the newness can get overwhelming, when I ache to hear a nice, bland accent from home. I never knew that words like ‘sneaker’ could be heart-warming! I often get pangs of homesickness when passing a group of American women. (It seems there are no American men in this town… only packs of college-age women, travelling in groups of threes…). When I pass one of these packs, I get an impulse to stop them, to ask where they’re from, to ask how they’re getting on… I never do. Americans don’t really seek each other out when abroad, as if too many of us at once would taint the authenticity of each other’s experiences. I know that in stopping a group like this, they’d politely answer my questions, look at each other with that ‘Who in the world is this?’ look, and move on quickly.

Often I am quite shy about my accent when speaking with Irish people, and despite the stereotype of the ‘loud American’, people often have to ask me to speak up. The sound of my own voice has become awkward to me. In my voice I hear McDonalds commercials, new reports on war, and mindless television comedies. These are the things I don’t want people to think of when I speak to them, but I fear that they will. My voice has become something to hide, out of my own insecurity.

It is for that reason that one of my most sublime moments in Cork was walking down Summerhill last June on an incredibly sunny day. It was the first time in months that I didn’t have to wear a jacket, which gave a beautiful sense of warmth and freedom to the day. I was headed into work when a young man passed me, speeding down the road on his bicycle. As he passed, he yelled out ‘A salaam ‘alekum!!!’ as a greeting to the entire neighbourhood. His voice was like a bell: it had a crisp, friendly resonance that rang through the street. He was certainly unconcerned with its foreignness! His greeting was a surprise, a delight- a moment in which I wasn’t confined to being the only foreigner. I was in a place where many different lives came together, where many lives could (and would) be spoken.