She opened one eye, smirked and said, “Mum, she just can’t understand your accent.”
I wanted to tell her it wasn’t my accent – it was Alexa’s hearing problem. But deep down, I knew the truth: even Alexa has gone a bit Kiwi.
I’ve lived in Rotorua for many years, working for a local company in a Kiwi environment where English surrounds me every day. I even take singing lessons in English – yet my accent has stayed with me, like a melody from another place.
There was a time when I wished I could sound more Kiwi. Now I see my accent as part of who I am – the soundtrack of my journey, carrying the memories and experiences that shaped me.
At work, my colleagues come from everywhere: Kiwis, Australians, Indians, and people from the islands and beyond.
Everyone has their own rhythm and tone, and that’s what makes our conversations colourful.
No one laughs at anyone’s accent; we just learn to listen better.
We even have an Alexa in the office. My colleagues tell it, “Play some music,” or “Alexa, stop talking,” and it obeys instantly.
I’ve tried too – sometimes it listens, sometimes it doesn’t. Maybe Alexa’s still learning my accent.
Once I ordered a pizza and, when I gave my name, the ticket came back with a spelling so creative I had to ask, “Is that me?”
The young man behind the counter squinted, then laughed and said, “Oh right, same order!”
My daughter, born and raised in Rotorua, speaks with that distinctive New Zealand rhythm – relaxed, confident, and full of “yeah nahs”.
Chinese isn’t a language she uses much. When my Chinese friends visit, she happily chats with their children in English – like most kids growing up here, it’s simply the language that comes easiest to them.
When we visit family in China, she grows shy about speaking Mandarin.
She worries her accent will sound funny to the locals. I tell her, “Now you know how I feel talking to Alexa.”
Her cousins, who study English at university, love chatting with her in English.
But when she sits beside my mother – her nǎinai, her grandmother – there’s only a smile and a shy “Nǎinai hǎo” – hello, Grandma.
My mum doesn’t speak English, and my daughter doesn’t speak Chinese.
They share meals and communicate through laughter.
Love doesn’t need words – but it’s always nicer when they’re there.
Back home in Rotorua, with the morning mist drifting across the lake and the tūī calling from the trees, I often think about my voice – the one Alexa can’t quite recognise.
An accent isn’t something to fix. It’s proof that you’ve travelled, adapted, and carried pieces of different worlds within you.
I became a New Zealand citizen long ago, but my accent still whispers the story of where I came from – a gentle reminder, like that Six60 song, to never forget your roots.
So now, when Alexa ignores me, I don’t take it personally.
I just smile and think – she may not understand my accent, but it’s the sound of my journey, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
