Hello. This voice I speak with these days, this English voice with its rounded vowels and consonants in more or less the right place—this is not the voice of my childhood. I picked it up in college, along with the unabridged Clarissa and a taste for port. Maybe this fact is only what it seems to be—a case of bald social climbing—but at the time I genuinely thought this was the voice of lettered people, and that if I didn’t have the voice of lettered people I would never truly be lettered. A braver person, perhaps, would have stood firm, teaching her peers a useful lesson by example: not all lettered people need be of the same class, nor speak identically. I went the other way. Partly out of cowardice and a constitutional eagerness to please, but also because I didn’t quite see it as a straight swap, of this voice for that. 

Extract form "Speaking in tongues" by Zadie Smith

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M tells me she always speaks the same way. “Even with your family?,” I asked astonished. She says yes. She says she courses in front of her father or her aunts if she wants to. She says that she would be lying if she did otherwise. She cares about authenticity a lot.
I say I can’t. I have a way to talk with my friends, my parents, my colleagues, etc. I use different voices for different people.

She doesn’t say anything but I can see she disapproves what I’m saying. I kind of sense how she feels better with herself for her own gained freedom of being always the same.
I don’t say it either, but I think that what freedom is to her, for me is a lack of flexibility, hence of freedom of being able to be, through language, different versions of our selves.
We drop the conversation.
Very often, our conversations are very rewarding. They make us feel better with ourselves, whether for agreeing with each other, or for the opposite, which helps us finding in ourselves what we like about us better. 

Extract from a morning conversation in my place