Each of us has a word or a turn of phrase that we’ve caught flack for our entire adult life. Some of us more than others. Being a Texas transplant settled in the Northern Rockies, I have plenty. It turns out speaking American is a complex thing with oodles of regional nuances. And I use the dirty, little word ‘nuance’ knowing a great deal of our fellow Americans have purged it from their lexicon.
If you’ve not been blessed to share the more intimate spaces of your life with an individual from the Great State (or Grater State for some), you may not be awares of the pronunciation rules for the city of Wichita Falls. This quirk doesn’t fall in the same category as Amarillo (simple gringo mispronunciation), or even Colorado’s more baffling and bull-headed mispronunciation of Buena (bew-na) Vista. No, no. This is an actual pronunciation rule that applies to all us slack-jawed Troglodytes unable to properly variate our syllables. (The wife constantly gives me hell for this, and you’d be surprised how often the topic of Wichita Falls comes up.)
You see, if you are from my neck of the woods, you pronounce the city one of two ways: either Wichita Faws, or Wichitall Falls. Consarnit, even with considerable effort, I struggle to get it right.
Then there are the more classic regional pronunciations for words like crayon (‘crown’) and creek (‘creek’). (What? Northwesterners are the ones that get this one wrong by calling it a ‘crick.’)
Recently, the wife brought home a library (‘lie-berry’) book by the title of “Speaking American” as a means of generating some dinner table conversation. The book attempts to break down American regions by pronunciation of a handful of contested words such as y’all and you guys, or soda, pop, and coke. It’s an entertaining exercise. The only problem is that there are more nuances (there is that annoying word again) to our speech patterns than simply where we grew up (even if you grew up mostly in one place).
It turns out that I often speak like a two-hundred-year-old New Englander…or a grizzled 1800’s prospector. It only took me the slightest moment of introspection to deduce the source of these speech patterns as being the early writers for the classic animated series, The Simpsons. I can only assume that a few of these guys were East Coast intellectuals transplanted to Hollywood. Folderol, I simply can’t help internalizing the crusty voice of old man Burns. As a result, I have no idea whether something is a garage or a car hole; a scam or a flim flam; cattywampus or whopperjawed; a sprinkle or a spritz.
When it comes to my dialect, I’m a train wreck of an American. Partially due to the fact that I’ve travelled. Partially due to my cursed liberal education. And I blame the rest on Monty Burns.
As for the rest of y’all, I can only assume that in any way our speech differs, you’ve got it wrong. Yep. My way is the only right way, you bunch of goldbricking roustabouts! (I actually do talk this way on a daily basis.)
At the Desk This Week
My desk is still collecting dust for the most part. I’m working outside the home and enjoying some nice weather to work in the yard. My grapes won’t vinedress themselves. Other than a visit from a neighbor’s rabbit, who managed to eat several small plants out of the garden before we could wrestle him up and return him to his owners, I’ve enjoyed my small world of non-tragedy here in Idaho. My heart goes out to all of you who have not been able to enjoy such a quiet week of simple work and reflection. May peace find you.
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