“Do You Want A Snake?”

Dad speak: “Do you want a snake? How about a sneakers?”
Translation: “Do you want a snack? How about a Snickers?”

My parents, born and raised outside of the US, learned English as a second or third language. My father, born in Argentina and raised in Israel is a polyglot, speaking many languages with the oddest of accents. He doesn’t distinguish between snake and snack.  As a snake breeder, he would scare the bejeezus out of my friends, offering then a snake, as he held a real one in his arms. When friends came to sleep over, he would put shits on the bed. Toilet papers were used to clean up messes. I remember growing up, ashamed of his accent. My friends and classmates laughed at him. They laughed at me.

My mother wasn’t much better. Her thick Hebrew accent penetrated every word and every syllable. Her business English didn’t cut it when talking to children. She’d be lacking the most basic of words, reverting to Hebrew, making her incomprehensible to my childhood friends. Children are a cruel race and the fact that my parents were alien to them made me an easy target.

It’s been years since I’ve last been ashamed at my parents. I love them for who they are and for the work they’ve put into raising my brother and me, despite their mistakes, as well as because of them.

Now, living in Israel, I’m the one with an accent. Most times, it’s so slight most people don’t even realize I was raised abroad, but every now and then I’ll get some one who claims that it’s obvious that I’ve got a very American accent. I cringe when people tell me that. Not because I’m ashamed. Quite the contrary. Because of love. Because I love Israel and it’s my home and more than anything, I want to belong. I don’t want to be tagged as an outsider because of silly matters such as how I pronounce my r’s or g’s.