Recently commentators tried to get his surname right. But it turns out Aussie Rules footballer Orazio Fantasia isn't too fazed if his surname is pronounced in the anglicised way — Fan-tayshia — or the correct way, Fanta-seea.
It must wear you down after a while, the constant mispronunciation of your name. For many people, giving in and rolling with the anglicising is understandable. But isn't it nice that we are at the stage now that you don't have to if you don't want to?
In Anglo Australia it wasn't the done thing to pronounce a word using its non-English sound. A word incorporated into the language was spoken as its spelling would sound to us, and if the alternative was a ways from the sound of the original, that was just tough.
If you did speak a non-English word as it was spoken in its language of origin you were ... well, a bit of a wanker. Putting on airs. I remember this attitude well from my childhood and teenage years. In many instances the idea still stands. In other areas, it's eased up a little. For example, if I went to a restaurant and ordered the pahehyah with choritho, I may be looked upon as a wanker by some of the patrons, but as a knowledgeable foodie by others.
Maybe it's partly the cooking show influence that's made it a little more acceptable to pronounce the names of dishes in the traditional way. For other things, however, not so much. For example, you might be fine with my pahehyah, but if I called the building we were sitting in a restahroh or a cuhfeh, my wanker status would hit stratospheric heights.
I've thought a fair bit about this whole pronunciation thing in recent years during my habitual viewing, despite my best intentions, of the low-grade human sausage factory that is My Kitchen Rules. On MKR, there is an enormous amount of social cachet that comes from not just cooking your heritage but also speaking it. If you are cooking Nonna's risotto, extra authenticity points are to be had if you pronounce it rissawtaw.
This propensity irritated me for quite some time. After a while, I began questioning myself as to my irritation's origins. Where did it come from? Was it that inherited displeasure of people putting on airs and being wankers? Was it jealousy that I do not have an exotic culinarily heritage? Perhaps a