Accent Soup

I’m not a Southerner. As much as I want to love sweet tea and argue with Yankees about the War of Northern Agression, I just can’t do it. When I moonlight as a steak waitress in my small North Carolina suburb, I often wait on people who immediately ask me where I’m from; I think they assume I’m a Yankee by the quick pace of my nasally voice. To a Southerner, a Yankee is anyone from above the Mason-Dixon line, usually east of the Mississippi. I think they’re all still mad that the North won the war and the South didn’t secede from the Union. “I’m from Idaho,” I explain, “It wasn’t even a state during the Civil War.” “Y’all are Yankees anyhow,” they respond, “All uh y’all.” I proceed to ask them if they would like a sweet tea. They always do. 

My accent has raised questions about where I’m from for years. Having the privilege of living in three regions of the States and a brief stint in the U.K. during my 22 years, my dialect is a conglomerate of many English accents. If I were to categorize it, I’d call it something like Pacific North-Midwestern with bouts of Canadian and Southern slang. My accent is a melting pot of English-speakers. I speak way too fast and have the Southern Californian filler word “like” perfected. My voice, excruciatingly loud as a result of years in musical theatre, comes out directly through my nose. Too many years of watching Degrassi has turned my “about” into “aboot” and I’m guilty of ending a sentence in “eh” every once in awhile. Throw in some Southern slang like “y’all” and you’ve got me, a woman with no place for her dialect to call home. 

Sometimes my unique accent helps me, but mostly it just confuses people. I speak so fast that my poor grandmother has started to read my lips rather than listen to my words. I’d make a good auctioneer and I can respond quickly on my feet, but more often than not, people respond with “What the hell did you just say?” after I finish a long-winded paragraph. My voice makes me unique and clearly a traveler of sorts; I’ve picked up slang and dialects from most of the places I’ve lived or visited. My brain is always constantly persuaded by the language that it interprets. 

As a writer, I don’t worry as much about how my crazy dialect affects people. Just be glad I don’t have an accent on paper.