Two summers ago, while on vacation in Jamaica (a destination that had all sorts of odd connotations for me that are completely and utterly unrelated to this story, but suffice it to say, I was not a fan of the sign “What happens in Jamaica, stays in Jamaica”), myself, the ex and two friends in our group decided that it would be fun to go on a zip-line adventure (it was, in fact, a blast but that is also completely and utterly unrelated to this story). With us on this excursion was a family, all of whom were sporting a charming drawl about them. For some reason, our friends were wondering where the family was from, but didn’t want to ask, so someone randomly assumed Mississippi.
In one of my prouder moments (and yes, I am aware that it is sad that this is one of my prouder moments), I informed him that there was no way on God’s green earth that they were from Mississippi. They were from Tennessee or West Virginia…maybe Kentucky. And of course my surety was greeted with skepticism.
Now, I don’t like talking to strangers, but I do very much like being proven right, especially when I am doubted, so I turned around and, with the kind of warm smile I never have to use in Jersey, asked the mother where they were visiting from.
I so wish that the end of this story is that I have psychic powers and I know what each and every one of you is thinking as you read this, because that would be awesome. But the actual point is that I have a soft spot for accents. I blame Daddy.
Ever since I was little, there have been days where he has slipped into a drawl or a British accent and just stays there all day. And really, you can’t help but join in. Sometimes a random 5 minutes of conversation will be with a pirate twinge to it. They are most certainly not all good, not even close.
I myself have a Jersey City accent I picked up from Dahling that varies in intensity from mild to holy crap, depending on who I’m talking to and how pissed off I am. In fact, my first memory of college is going to pick up my room keys from the check-in table and having a very large guy ask, as soon as I opened my mouth, “Yer not from around here, are ya?”. But four years in Virginia, which by the way is where I learned to distinguish drawls, gave me a bit of a twang (and a penchant for using the words y’all, folks and darlin’). For some reason the word “frequently” always comes out with a Scottish brogue and the word “Irish” with an (appropriately) horrible Irish brogue.
But get yourselves ready, because it is Friday (, you ain’t got no job and you ain’t got shit to do) and some folks I read have encouraged me to believe that Friday is reader input day. What’s your accent like? (Cause everyone had one) What little out of character accents sneak into your speech? What accent do you adore?
…dawg, cawffee, wawter. There, had to be said.