Why, yes, I speak English: le avventure di un indiano in Australia.
Ever since I arrived in Australia several years ago, not a month has gone by without someone querying me on my ability to speak the language. When I lived in Brisbane, many expressed surprise that I did not speak “Spike Milligan Indian”. This is presumably a form of uproariously funny pidgin English, but why on Earth an Indian would speak like an Englishman badly imitating an Indian escapes me.
I was annoyed the first time an African American man called me “sister.” It was in a Brooklyn store, and I had recently arrived from Nigeria, a country where, thanks to the mosquitoes that kept British colonizers from settling, my skin color did not determine my identity, did not limit my dreams or my confidence. And so, although I grew up reading books about the baffling places where black people were treated badly for being black, race remained an exotic abstraction: It was Kunta Kinte. Until that day in Brooklyn. To be called “sister” was to be black, and blackness was the very bottom of America’s pecking order. I did not want to be black.
The story of William McGonagall, il peggior poeta inglese:
In 1877, 40 years into the reign of Queen Victoria, an anonymous letter arrived at the offices of the Dundee Weekly News. It was a message in doggerel rhyme, a tribute to a local vicar who “has written the life of Sir Walter Scott/ and while he lives he will never be forgot/ nor when he is dead/ because by his admirers it will be often read.”
Postato da: IM