Sounding like a Southern Hick a.k.a. Why I Write Instead of Talk

It can't be missed. I have a Southern accent. I may not have tools with me, but I am usually fixin' something each day.  It could be dinner, it could be getting ready to go to work, it could making a phone call.  Instead of speaking standard American the way most politicians do when they lie or repeat empty platitudes, I drop the "g" off the end of words constantly: talkin,' climbin,' smokin,' and runnin'.  It's not all of you,  it's y'all.  Occasionally, I have 'druthers.

I know the difference between varmints and vermin and if you tell me something is o'yonder, I know exactly where it is.  I never figured on living in Charleston and I've got a hankering for some shrimp and grits.  When I was littler, I was whupped on a near daily basis.  I know how to see 'bout that and whatchadoon is a real word to me.

I never really had a choice in the matter.  I was born in Georgia to a mother from North Carolina and a father from Oklahoma.  Mom loves plantations, history, Charleston, and the allure of the "Deep South".  Right Wing Dad loves guns, big belt buckles, rock music, and sharing his opinions with anyone who will listen.  When my parents were dating, my mother said there was a large pothole in her driveway.  She knew Right Wing Dad was coming because the tailgate of his old pick up truck would bang loudly when he pulled in.  The line that Right Wing Dad once used that caused her to melt?:  "You got a kiss for a tired old cowboy?"  Imagine the bravado, confidence, and sheer alpha male manliness it takes to pull that one off.

Mom and Right Wing Dad are still together.  At least, they were when this picture was taken.  

I have a job where I deal with people from all over the country.  And where ever possible, I email and instant message long before I pick up a phone and talk.  Even worse, I despise the video conferences my employer and coworkers all seem to love.  Why? Because I sound like a hick. Truthfully, I am a little bit of a hick, but I'm also fairly intelligent and somewhat educated.  I'm actually an excellent communicator, both in person and in writing.  Where I live, everybody understands "Lemme show ya'll sumpin. That should work, doncha think?" That's Southern and it works well in person-to-person communication.  Especially with "folks who ain't from around here".

But try that over the phone, especially to a Yankee, and tell me how it works out for you.  The automatic assumption is that a Southern accent means a yokel, a country boy, a backwoods hick. Studies have shown that a Southern twang pegs the speaker as comparatively dimwitted.  But, it also seems to indicate a nicer person than folks who speak like a Yankee. Stereotypes based on accent are deep rooted and they have profound consequences.

Numerous studies show that we instantly attach subjective judgments about people’s knowledge and abilities from hearing their accent in speech. A 2011 study found that in categorizing people, a person’s accent carried more weight than even visual cues to ethnicity.  In surveys ranking where in the country people speak “correctly” or “incorrectly,” the Southern states always get the lowest marks.  Strange, isn’t it? That there are "correct" and "incorrect" accents.

I traveled extensively for about 12 years for a job; I've been from Florida to Seattle and most points in between.  While I do have a noticeable Southern accent, it's not an especially thick one. But for many I have met, they think that it is the epitome of a Southern accent. And with nothing to compare it to, it must come across pretty strong.  A partial list of things I've experienced:

• "Wow! Why do you sound so Southern all of the sudden?" ... as if it is something bad.
• Several times people have repeated what I said in their version of a fake Southern drawl and it sounds so idiotic.
• A few times people have assumed that I am prejudiced, racist, and small minded and told me racial jokes or made charged remarks.  This is almost always done in hushed, whispered tones, as if they were confiding in someone who understands and shares their view point.   
• Many assume that I'm unworldly and sheltered. It's amazing to them when I say I have tried different/exotic types of cuisine.  Or that I didn't grow up eating fried chicken, cornbread and collard greens every meal. 
• Countless people ask "Wow...what are you doing out here?" ... as if I am any different from all the other transplants and travelers in the area.

It's always an eye opening experience.  The thing about being Southern is people think it's okay to poke fun or disrespect you. If I were Chinese with an accent and I spoke to someone they would NEVER repeat what I said in their best Chinese sounding effort and laugh it off.  But if you are Southern, it's somehow okay.

This is why I prefer to write to people I don't know. On paper, emails, blogs, I can appear to be at least halfway intelligent. That way, when they do finally hear the Southern accent, it blows them out of the water.  I enjoy that part the best. Especially when you can practically hear their mental wheels grinding to a halt as they struggle to adjust their perceptions. And in the end, I come across as that much smarter.

Lame Duck Day? Yes, this is a real thing

I fully intended to keep this blog strictly (ok, mostly) about Charleston and my time here.  Sadly, I can't say much about the second full week in Charleston.  The refrigerator is still not working, despite three different visits by repair experts.  If this was my fridge, it would have out on it's non-cooling butt ages ago. Lucky for it, it's not my refrigerator, it belongs to the apartment.  The repair guys are set to come back out again today, for their fourth visit.  At this point, I don't know what's left of the fridge to replace.  I think its cursed.  Or possibly possessed.  I jokingly told our property company they should send an old priest and a young priest next time.  I don't think she got my reference.

Fridge woes aside, in sticking to Charleston, exceptions must be made from time to time.  When I found out today is officially "Lame Duck Day", I knew this had to be one of those times.  In my own defense, I could argue that the fridge definitely falls into this category.  There, relationship to Charleston established! Now, how I missed that this day even exists in the first place is beyond me.

Lame Duck Day is celebrated on February 6th of each year.  It has nothing to do with injured animals, but actually refers to the Twentieth Amendment to the US Constitution.  A "Lame Duck" human is a person who is in a position of some kind, and will soon be "shown the door". The best example is an incumbent politician who lost in the November elections. They usually remain in office until the beginning of January.

The Twentieth amendment reduced the amount of time between Election Day and the beginning of Presidential, Vice Presidential and Congressional terms. Originally, the terms of the President, the Vice President and the in-coming elected Congress began on March 4, four months after the elections were held. This served a practical necessity in the past.  A newly-elected official might require several months to put affairs in order only to undertake an arduous journey from his home to the national capital.

This time eventually had the effect of impeding the functioning of government in the modern age. Because there were some that no longer felt accountable to their constituents and took advantage of their position during the long lame duck session, the 20th Amendment to the United States Constitution, also known as the Lame Duck Amendment, was passed to shorten the length of the lame duck term. This amendment went into effect on February 6th, 1933.

Now, Lame Duck Day is unofficially set aside to give recognition to people whose tenure in a position is running out. While aimed mostly at politicians, "Lame Duck" may also apply to leaders, managers, etc, who are retiring or whose term of office is up.  During this interim period, a Lame Duck is usually far less effective, and frequently ineffective. After all, loyalties will soon shift. It's impossible to rally the troops to one more cause or project.

So today, On Lame Duck Day, if you are a Lame Duck, enjoy these final days. Bask in the warm glow of your successes, and the joys and rewards the position provided to you. Kick back a little and have some fun both today and in the remaining days.

If you know a Lame Duck, provide recognition and support. Non-supporters can cut the Lame Duck a little slack today. After all, they will be gone soon.

Lastly, and most importantly, if you are a duck and you are lame, please seek medical attention immediately.

What the hell was I thinking...

I find myself surrounded by a seemingly endless sea of boxes.  I only know what’s in about a quarter of them.  I’m sharing a bathroom with three cats; that’s three cats more than I ever wanted.  The refrigerator has called it quits.  It simply sits now, a 200lb. room temperature paper weight.  The dryer squats in the corner of the spare bedroom unusable, too large for an already small laundry area.  Walking through the new place feels like a series of tactical exercises meant to prepare troops for the conditions of war.  Each time I veer off the safe path through each room, I feel a bit like Indiana Jones, constantly wary of ancient booby trips.  A lapse in attention, even just a few seconds, could easily result in a banged knee or bruised shin.  Even worse, a ravaged toe.  And always in the back of my mind, the nagging concern that I’ve made a terrible mistake.

Completely by accident, Atlanta had been home for the last fourteen years.  From the beginning, I had an intense love-hate relationship with “Hotlanta” or “The ATL” (an alias I loathe, for reasons I can’t even really explain.) However, roughly three years ago, the scales slowly began tipping more towards the “hate” side of things.  And like any good dysfunctional relationship, it seemed it was time to move on, both professionally and personally.  I was offered an opportunity in Charleston, SC, the “friendliest city in the country.”  

The initial salary was much lower then I would have liked.  The potential for growth however, seems immense.  But the seconds thoughts remained.  Leaving a comfort zone and an established routine is not always an easy choice.  Yet, I could feel myself growing stagnant in Atlanta.  One day was blurring into the next and life itself seemed to be on hold.  I wasn’t living so much as I was just existing.  Slowly, a “Oh well, what the hell?” attitude began to form.  I knew what was waiting if I remained in Atlanta:  more of the same.  I was already unhappy and unfulfilled.  Why remain? With some hesitation, I accepted the position.  

And so I find myself in a new place, attempting to squeeze the contents of a three bedroom house into a two bedroom apartment.  Ponds and damp ground are all around me now.  Countless frogs sound off day and night, loud enough sometimes to be heard over the TV or Xbox.  It’s a soothing sound and one I hope I never tire of hearing.  Below me, the neighbor is the stereotypical cat lady;  three in her apartment and feeder of countless neighborhood cats.  When I’m outside, if the wind blows just right, the smell of cat urine from her front porch blocks out everything else.  I dread the coming summer and what the humidity is going to do to that smell.  At least once a night, I hear a quarrel between two or more of these cats; a sound that sends my animals dashing throughout the apartment, trying to find the source of the ruckus.   Despite this, Cat Lady seems pleasant enough.

For better or worse, Charleston is now home.  The second guesses are still there and no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to get the bills to pay themselves.  But some of the best things that happen in life, happened because I said yes to something. Otherwise, things just stay the same.  And deep down I know if I wait for things to be perfect, I’ll always be waiting. 

“The danger of venturing into uncharted waters is not nearly as dangerous as staying on shore, waiting for your boat to come in.”-Charles F. Glassman