A message for the English-speaking media.
Author: Jojo Silva
I have a complicated relationship with the English language.
My goodness am I thankful for the opportunities it has afforded me: from teaching gorgeous literary prose to secondary school students to broadcasting on community and national radio.
I am the daughter of two Portuguese immigrants and born just outside Lisbon; it’s my first language and therefore the one I’m most protective over. But I came to England aged six and so have the ability to speak English ‘incognito’. That is, if you hear me handling mundane matters over the telephone or exchanging pleasantries at the cornershop, you’d have no idea that my passport is most definitely not British - even though I sound like I could be Jim and Margaret’s daughter from up the road. My fluency in English felt victorious and when I finally mastered code-switching, I felt like I’d faced big, bad Bowser in the final level of Super Mario 64. I remember a fellow presenter, having heard me on community radio for the first time, commenting on the fact that my surname did not match how I ‘sounded’. I think he was erroneously expecting the sultry sound of Sofia Vergara and I’m afraid I let him down both visually and sonically. There is so much to unpack there but it’s a literary rant for another day.
The ability to articulate myself in English is a privilege and I acknowledge it: I’m sure you know someone in your circle, your groupchat, possibly even your family who misconstrues having an accent with a certain level of intellect - usually a lack of. If you are able to articulate yourself in this chameleonic manner or speak English ‘incognito’, there is less of a chance any Tom, Dick or Harry could pull the wool over your eyes. One step closer to the gift and curse that is assimilation: I spent countless hours watching native English speakers raise their voices to speak to my family members . They were doing their best to string together the sentences they needed to navigate through life in England but all of a sudden, the volume was turned up when conversing with the locals. I’ve always found that odd. I am woman, hear me roar - but from me it will be in perfectly fluent English. I only wish the roar was loud enough back then.
This is why the Gary Cotterill and Ruben Amorim clip continues to really wind me up. Or grind my gears. Or drive me up the wall. All of the above. Firstly, I recognise that my view is tainted by several layers of bias: I’m Portuguese, Sporting Lisbon was my childhood club and I have an affinity for Manchester United. Whilst I recognise the years of graft that it takes to truly “make it” as a journalist, in that moment it came at the expense of elegance, grace and professionalism. Irrespective of success, seniority, reputation - and of course, nationality - I cannot fathom ever demanding that any guest I am interviewing speak in English.
“the stench of imperialism has been left to fester…”
And that’s what it was. It was a demand: it was insistent, it was entitled, it was bordering on vociferous.
Amorim and his colleague exuded nothing but class in that moment, laughing it off and maintaining their stance. They honoured their mother tongue. I respect it. It would have been easier, I have no doubt, to have seamlessly switched into English - especially when the big bad wolf that is the media comes knocking, ready to blow the house down. It seems to me that the stench of imperialism has been left to fester…
“the humility, decency and grace required to orchestrate a great conversation is lost...”
Now, I’m no sports journalist, but I’d like to think that my interview experience over the last decade counts for something. My approach to any conversation is to prop up my guest’s voice: I want them to feel comfortable, to feel at ease, to share their truth, their experience, their perspective in a way that honours the simple fact that they are the expert. If I am able to tease out musings or thoughts that are a different flavour to those shared with the previous presenter or reporter, great. The problem is that the humility, decency and grace required to orchestrate a great conversation is lost and in its place, journalism is slowly becoming a search for the virality needed to stay relevant; it has bled into the transactional with no regard for tact. I acknowledge that press conferences and interviews are two different beasts: the former being a race to extract ‘the point’ in a manner which is efficient. It becomes problematic when Cotterill continues to drill, continues to insist and continues to demand. Nothing about the exchange was efficient.
All it did was prop up the entitlement that reeks beyond borders whenever a conversation about the use of English abroad surfaces again. And make no mistake: these moments, albeit miniscule, erode years of hard work. I think about teachers of MFL/Languages who work tirelessly to promote their subjects and encourage their students to consider the benefits of learning a language. I think about students torn between two cultures or identities and the level of discomfort they may have felt. I think about changemakers who work behind the scenes to ensure that our young people feel they can take up space in the English media as writers, journos, presenters.
Admittedly, I have written this under a cloud of rage that had weighed heavily on me today. All this to say, Mr Cotterill: if you would like to conduct your next few interviews in Portuguese, my schedule’s looking chocka but I can fit in an hour language lessons on weekends. Let’s see how many you need until you’re fluent.