by Karla Barrera

“I’m sorry, where are you from?”

I was cut off mid-explanation. The question caught me off guard, not because I was interrupted but because of how it was asked. I had been sitting next to this girl all semester, sharing small conversations, but she had never asked that before.

There was a curious edge, almost demanding. I must have looked confused because she quickly added, “It’s just your voice. You have such a weird accent.”

I was 14, had freshly moved from Mexico just five months earlier and that was the first time anyone had ever pointed out my accent in such a blunt manner. I had always known I spoke differently. English was not my first language, but until then, I had not felt self-conscious about it. That moment changed everything.

My accent has been many things over the years: a source of insecurity, pride, curiosity and connection to my roots. More than anything, it has been a mirror reflecting who I am and where I come from. But accents are more than just a way a voice sounds. They shape how we are seen, how we see ourselves and the stories we carry in every word.

Recently, I had the opportunity to live in Paris for six months. The city was full of beauty, chaos and culture, but what stuck with me most was not the food or architecture; it was the accents.
Paris is a global crossroads. I met people from all over: New Zealand, Thailand, Poland and even fellow Mexicans. We all spoke at least two languages, our native tongues and French, some more fluently than others, but our common ground was English.

Everyone’s English sounded different, thick accents echoing their mother languages. Mine stood out too, but for different reasons. I speak English like someone raised in the U.S., with traces of Southern California slang.

My friends said they could tell immediately, “You’re American, right?” That always made me laugh, because back in California, people often still asked about my “Mexican accent.”

In Paris, though, no one cared about my Mexican roots. What mattered was my English and the fact that it sounded American. Suddenly, I was not the immigrant girl anymore. I was the American.

That shift came with a whole new set of assumptions. In cafés and restaurants, I would try my best to speak French, but waiters often switched to English. When they heard my accent, their tone sometimes changed, friendliness disappearing in seconds.

One time, after I finally admitted I was from the U.S., a waiter smirked and said, “Oh, so Trump, huh?” That was his first association, not my culture, not my story, not even my effort to speak his language, but politics.

After that, I sometimes avoided saying I was American at all. My Canadian friend Ryan and I even joked about it. I would tell people I was from Ontario, studying geography at the University of Waterloo. It felt harmless, but there was always a little fear in the back of my mind. What if someone actually went there?

Pretending to be Canadian was not really about hiding. It was about avoiding the assumptions tied to my accent. Whether I was Mexican in California or American in Paris, people heard my voice and filled in the blanks for me. They thought they knew where I came from.

To better understand the complex feelings around accents, I spoke with Professor Mariusz Ozminkowski from Cal State Fullerton, who shared his experience as a multilingual individual navigating his life and career with a noticeable accent.

Originally from Poland, Ozminkowski has been teaching communication, media and politics since the late 1990s and has published several articles. When I asked how he feels about his accent, he gave a candid response.

“For business and career, I would like to have a mainstream accent,” Ozminkowski said. “As a person, I don’t care.”

Back in Poland, Ozminkowski hosted a radio segment where he conducted interviews freely. But after moving to the U.S., he stopped because he felt radio stations preferred “good and clear English,” making it difficult for someone with a strong accent. Professionally, he sees having an accent as a disadvantage.
Yet, with a laugh, he also joked that having an accent can be “good with the ladies,” showing how accents can carry a mix of stigma and charm.

When I asked what advice he would give to someone speaking a new language with a thick accent, he said simply, “Don’t worry. Do whatever is necessary.”

His words remind us that while accents affect how we are perceived, they should not stop us from expressing ourselves or pursuing our goals.

I eventually answered the girl and told her I was Mexican. Maybe she sensed the surprise in my voice because she quickly added, “You sound like a princess. I love your accent.” I think she was trying to save herself after her blunt question.

For a long time after that, I wished I could lose my accent. I worked hard to sound more like everyone else, to fit in better, to not stand out. But after almost eight years living in the U.S., my accent has almost disappeared and now I find myself wishing I could get it back.

Because accents are more than how we sound. They are part of who we are. They carry the stories of where we come from, the journeys we have taken and the cultures we belong to. At the end of the day, everyone in the world has an accent. It is just a matter of where you are and who is listening.

Our accents reflect our unique backgrounds and histories. They shape how we see ourselves and how others see us. And no matter how much we try to change them, they remain an integral part of our identity.

So instead of trying to lose our accents, maybe it is time we learn to embrace them as badges of our stories, resilience and our place in this beautifully diverse world.