Being an Essex Girl

And confronting the accent

I'm sat in the notoriously rowdy Wetherspoons pub at Stansted Terminal eavesdropping in on (tho let's be honest, it's hard not to hear) a collection of boozed up stag parties throwing banter and non stop “lad jokes”. Apparently 4pm on a Thursday is prime time for the lads to get the beers in and start the lengthy, loud journey of carrying their boozy asses off to another country where they will continue to be boozy and loud and laddy and… let's be honest, obnoxiously intoxicated.

But my sense of knowing these men extends beyond the appearance and ability to chug down pints. It's in their voices.

I know these men. They're the spitting image of my copious cousins and Uncles. Their laugh is familiar, their red puffy faces I have seen before (in fact I'm almost certain I spot my cousin at the bar but after following him like a weirdo, it turned out to be another Mark or James or Michael not related to me) and their ability to drink beer is something my Uncle's and their kids, and the kids before, and the kids after them know all too well. But my sense of knowing these men extends beyond the appearance and ability to chug down pints. It's in their voices. The known sound of the Essex accent - an accent that became the soundtrack of my upbringing but was simultaneously bashed out of us children by my own mother from the moment we left her womb (I'll come on to that in a mo)

You see, I'm an Essex girl. I grew up on the coastline, north of the county (which is no where near Southend tho everyone loves to assume it is) and the Essex accent that was home to my ears got a pretty bad rep over the years. It's origin spans across many decades; morphing together a heavy farming twang with the London East End Cockney accent as folks traveled further out of the capital city and closer into the rural fields of Essex. What developed was a vocabulary with no H’s, no T’s, wide mouthed A’s and a slur of slang that takes some of cockneys finest phrases and sprinkles it with farmers charm. “Goo’ Lad”, “ye goda be ki’din me”, “ge’ a beer in ya” are just a few of the well known phrases popping off around me, broken up with loud hearty laughs and a general chorus of singing, foul jokes and a request for more beer.

It brings back sour memories of being in my Uncle’s pub - drama escalating one drink at a time

Part of me bloody hates it. I hate the drink, I hate the loudness, I hate the intoxicated joviality, I hate the slurred voices and the rolling eyes, I hate the non stop flow of liquor and the pumped up testosterone that seems the be encouraged by anything behind the bar including tequila (which my stag-lad neighbours are currently throwing back in between pints). It brings back sour memories of being in my Uncle’s pub and witnessing family members fall over, pass out, puke up. It reminds me of drama escalating one drink at a time and sloppyness replacing sweet loving times together.

But if I stop projecting for a second, a part of me doesn't mind it. I appreciate knowing these lads are having fun, that they’re off on their own adventure, that they're in unity and the man pack is thriving. If I question what it is that makes me “hate” them, I realise its mostly sensorial (I'm not a massive fan of loud noise) and it's also a little bit of trauma from the aforementioned family gathering that took place in pubs and spiralled into alcoholism. It's also a lot to do with my mother.

Despite the fact that she was born in London to the sound of Bow bells (which accord to her means she's a “real” cockney) and spent the entirety of her life living in Essex, she has a deep resentment for the counties dialect. Only yesterday she sent a remark in our family WhatsApp group about how she liked someone “despite their Essex accent”. And so growing up with an influential figure telling me that the accent of our county was something to be ashamed (and to ALWAYS pronounce our H’s and T’s and to NEVER swallow our vowels or say ‘like’ or ‘what’ or ‘yea’) most definitely warped my mind into thinking Essex sounding people are “the worst”!

It took most of my twenties to understand I wasn't mortified of being from Essex

It's sad to feel this sense of shame and I'm working on it. It took most of my twenties to understand I wasn't mortified of being from Essex and to actively stop avoiding telling people about my heritage. I stopped hanging out with people who told me being from Essex was something to hide and I slowly learnt to marry my appreciation for my county with a pride from the people I have grown up alongside. Including the un-consanant-ed joviality of drunk men.

As I get to this stage in my writing, the biggest group of men in the bar get up to leave. Their departure invites a quieter, more spacious, lighter, calmer, less fired up atmosphere. I feel my body relaxing, my ears listening to quieter sounds. Until the next group of over excited 30/40/50 year old men pile in and the beer laden raucous loudness starts all over again.

As I start to zone out of their laughter, I wonder how you relate to your upbringing? Run through the questions and have a think with me honeys.

Have you ever felt a sense of shame for where you are from? Why - who planted the seed?

What stigmas have you bought into without questioning their origins?

How could you reframe your mind to stop stereotyping and start appreciating (or as I like to put it 'seeing people through the eyes of love'!).

Sent with warm wishes, as always

Bx