I don’t know about that accent, son. Just where did you come from?
Those thirteen words come from an Alan Jackson song. They describe a driver’s encounter with a State Trooper.
The lyrics seem simple enough. But they’re plenty evocative.
They remind us that no matter how we present ourselves, our voices can give us away.
The way we speak differs in the northern, southern, eastern, and western United States. The intonations vary even more if we hail from Canada, England, or Australia.
And it only takes a few words for us to get pigeonholed.
It’s as if a veil has been lifted. Once we open our mouths, others can tell where we’re from. And with that knowledge, they can seemingly deduce who we are.
This can be disconcerting. But it can also be fascinating.
I have long been obsessed with accents. It’s been a passion for most of my life.
While other kids were paying attention to music or dance moves, I was focusing on the way those around me talked. I was entranced hearing the same word expressed so differently off two people’s tongues.
I’m not quite sure where this obsession came from.
Perhaps it spurred from all the times my father — who grew up in Pennsylvania — put on a fake New York accent when emulating his in-laws. There’s a chance it came from the hours I spent within earshot of my mother’s Australian colleague. Or maybe it emerged from a reckoning with my own childhood speech deficiencies.
Whatever the case, I picked up an ear for accents early on. And as I got older, I added nuance.
Soon, I was able to tell a Boston accent from a New York one. I could differentiate a Georgia drawl from a Texas twang. I even mastered the difference between the British and Australian dialects.
Such abilities weren’t limited to English either. As I grew proficient at Spanish, I also picked up the various dialects of that language — Iberian vs. Caribbean, Mexican vs. Argentine, and so on. I would overhear someone speaking in Spanish and understand not only what they were saying but also where they were from.
This was a passion of mine. But I didn’t find it to be anything out of the ordinary.
That is, until Inglorious Basterds hit movie theaters.
Quentin Tarantino’s 2009 film about a vigilante group of Nazi hunters might as well have been about dialects. The first scene features dialogue that covers three languages — French, English and German. A major plot point stems from a peculiar German accent. Another plot point involves a creative interpretation of Italian.
Tarantino’s love for accents was so blatant in this movie that it struck me as odd. Then I remembered that some of his other films also had prolonged discussions about language.
In Pulp Fiction, a boxer and a Colombian cab driver commiserate on the meaning of American names. In Kill Bill, a retired Japanese sword maker complements the protagonist’s pronunciation of the word Arigato.
No one else seemed to put this much focus on accents and dialects. Sure, some people would mock a Southern accent, or joke about Pahking the cahh in Boston. But that was where the nuance stopped.
Tarantino and I were on another level.
What does an accent say about us?
Not much really.
Sure, we have those well-worn tropes about the dumb redneck or the pretentious Englishman. But genius and elitism aren’t limited by geography.
There are smart people in Alabama, and there are pretentious folks there too. And anyone who’s watched a Premier League match knows that there are plenty of Brits who are neither prim nor proper.
With that in mind, this accent encyclopedia I’ve been building seems like a waste of effort.
What good is it to understand the difference between a drawl and a twang? And who cares if I can describe a Michigan accent?
There is seemingly no point in reading into someone’s region of origin. And yet, I find it irresistible.
You see, I consider accents to provide critical building blocks in communication. Detecting them is the first step in building a connection with someone else — whether they’ve from your region or one far away.
As an introvert, such details are a lifeline. While I generally struggle to talk to people outside of my circle, accents can provide a nifty conversation starter.
Those I speak with might not have the same exuberance I do — particularly if they’re trying to shed the stigma of their origins. But their accent gives us both an opportunity to delve deeper, rather than blathering on about the weather.
So yes, tracking accents might seem like an obscure activity. But it has its virtues.
Several of my friends have small children.
These infants and toddlers haven’t yet found their voice. They’re too young to have that figured out.
And yet, I can’t help but wonder what they’ll sound like as they get older. Will they sport a twang or a drawl? Will they drop their r’s or sport a Midwestern hokeyness?
I would suppose not.
Kids tend to emulate their parents, and my friends have made great strides to remove any semblance of a regional dialect.
But even beyond that, the odds are against the next generation developing strong accents.
Regional dialects blossomed in a different era. An era when people were confined to the echo chambers of their cities and towns.
There was no defined American accent. There were only thousands of interpretations of it.
But as technology has improved and travel has evolved, such schisms have evaporated. And the dialects have faded away as well.
Today, we live with entertainment at our fingertips. Anyone can watch anything, anywhere. And as we watch, we emulate.
The more we emulate, the more we converge on a single standard. A standard that sheds any semblance of the dialects of our ancestors.
And so, most of the newest generation is set up to sound alike. It won’t be easy to tell if they’re from Ohio, Oregon, or Oklahoma. There will be no audible difference between young adults in St. Louis and San Diego.
This is likely a positive development. But it still distresses me.
I will miss hearing the distinct dialects of America, and of the world beyond. I will miss the regional hallmarks, the markers of individuality. I will pine for the ability to travel the globe through a simple conversation.
So, in the meanwhile, I will soak it all in. I will cherish each accent I encounter, and the doors unlocked by the experience. I will take nothing for granted.
The way we speak might seem quaint. But trivial? It’s anything but.