I was standing outside the Australian High Commission in London last May, volunteering during the federal election, when the question came as I knew it would, from a fellow expatriate. “What part of Australia are you from? You have a broad accent.” Then, a weird look.
Recently, actor Margot Robbie, who was born in Dalby, Queensland – and stars in a screen adaptation of the English classic Wuthering Heights, currently playing in cinemas – revealed to The Graham Norton Show she’d needed a dialect coach back when she appeared on Neighbours, as her accent was so strong. “They [the producers] were like, ‘You’re just awful to listen to’,” she recalled.
For nearly three decades, I’ve endured questions and taunts about my voice. I date this back to the emergence of a certain flame-haired fish-and-chip shop proprietor turned MP from Queensland. It was after Pauline Hanson came on the political scene that I began being singled out for my ocker twang, firstly by a boy in year 11. Ever since, many have asked me to “please explain” why I sound like I do. Not that I think I owe them an explanation.
I’m from northern NSW. My mother is Canadian but to this day, after living in Australia for about 40 years, she is asked: “What part of America are you from?” My father is from Sydney and I suppose you’d say he has a more normal, professional-sounding voice.
When I moved from the country to Sydney in the late ’90s, comments about my tone became more common, particularly during my first few years there. I started doing community television. But I was later told that the main presenter, an elderly Australian woman, couldn’t stand the sound of me and I’d have to go for elocution lessons before I was allowed on air again. I gave up after a few lessons. Why did it matter if I didn’t sound like I came from Sydney or Melbourne? Were these the only places that existed in our country?
It got worse when I started working. As soon as I opened my mouth one day, a colleague asked, ever-so tactfully: “Have you just come down from Queensland?” A male sports reporter told me in front of the male sports editor that I spoke like a certain sitting MP. Later, we all heard her, when she made history as our first female prime minister. She sounded just like me, while speaking on the world stage.
Repeatedly, by friends as well as strangers, I was asked to say “look at moi”, as did TV “bogans” Kath and Kim. Looking back, I wish I’d told them what my famous namesake Aimee Lou Wood, star of the White Lotus series – who was once mocked for something else personal, her teeth – said to an interviewer last year: “Cool, and now I want to stop f—ing talking about it.” Instead, I always went along with it, even though I wondered why how I sounded mattered so much. Australia was supposed to be a diverse, classless society. And wasn’t what I was saying more important?
When I moved to the UK in 2007, though, I soon realised my accent was my best weapon. It came in handy as a doorstopping reporter in London. It literally opened doors for me. Sounding like the Australian version of a “chav” was disarming. When I met people, they not only leant in, some told me they liked the sound of me. While working on one newspaper, I took a call from its proprietor, the Australian-born media mogul Rupert Murdoch. He didn’t mention my accent but it seemed it was doing me no harm.
After living in Africa for several years and brief stints in Asia and Canada, my accent has softened. But I’m glad I haven’t lost all trace of it, especially since taking up comedy last year. With One Nation on the rise, I suppose my accent might be mistaken for parody. But I’ve decided, after all the years of being laughed at, I’ll be the one making the joke. I’ve used it in stand-up sets. I’ve finally found my voice.
Amy Fallon is a journalist and media consultant.
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