My Southern accent often calmed emotion-wracked Americans asking for assistance at U.S. embassies and consulates overseas where I worked. Americans living in one of Saudi Arabia’s oil hubs in Dhahran, many from Texas and Oklahoma, seemed especially to appreciate the accent.

Callers knew right off that they were speaking to an American, perhaps reminded of folksy icons like Gomer Pyle or Sheriff Andy from Mayberry.

The problems of Americans living overseas often landed on our doorstep. Americans became ill, were arrested, or lost passports. We performed notary duties, visited prisons and hospitals, and explained why we couldn’t issue a particular visa to an unqualified foreign relative or friend. I have counseled Americans in all sorts of conditions, from abused wives to those busted for alcohol in strict Muslim majority countries.

Through it all—the calls to stateside relatives, the emergencies at one a.m., the terrorist attacks—my colleagues and I strove to remain calm and unflappable. No matter how I may have felt inwardly, my Southern accent was a definite aid.