The Case of the Missing Accent

by Sharon Dickens  

     For a girl raised in Louisville Kentucky, there’s a certain mystique surrounding New York. It has an alluring sense of romance, independence and sophistication that isn’t always present at home.  I admit I’ve spent a lot of time in my life fighting the stereotype that goes along with being raised in one of the Southern United States. Therefore I’m already aware that when you finished reading “a girl raised in Louisville Kentucky” an image of a thick slow drawl most likely emerged in your mind – but that’s all right because I’ve made my peace with stereotypes. You sort of have to eventually. I’ve been asked all of the usual questions from fascinated strangers whenever they detected a hint of “the South” and had perfected all of my answers. You know … “Yes. I have indoor plumbing.” “Yes. I wear shoes everyday.” “No. I’m not engaged to my cousin.” “No I do not eat fried chicken every day. I’m a vegetarian … Yes. Yes there are actual vegetarians living in Kentucky. Seriously. Yes there are.” Four years ago at the age of seventeen I finally learned the lesson that how others see me doesn’t have to impact how I
define myself (took me long enough, right?) and all of this while in a New York subway.

     In 2002 I found myself on the way to the subway with my friend Morgan and my very southern mother. Morgan and I were in town for college interviews and my mother – well she couldn’t bear to let me go to the Big Apple alone. I remember her reasoning: “For Christ’s sake there is so much crime there!” while we watched our local news about a woman being raped. I’m not sure that a mugger would have been deterred by my mother’s presence, however there she was two steps behind me. Even though it wasn’t my first trip to New York and even though I could feel what felt like the breath of my mother on my neck I could still hear the independence of young adulthood not too far away and it felt as if every step that I took underneath the busy streets of Manhattan sent a surge through my body, bringing me closer to the sound.

  I was in love with New York so much that I cannot remember what Morgan and I were talking about as we were herded into the subway car. It was one of life’s hazy moments where it’s easy to lose yourself. I only remember what snapped me back into reality - the southern drawl of my mother eloquently pointing out that I had somehow lost my southern accent. I’m not sure how one loses an accent but it appears to be easy to do as I hadn’t realized it was gone. So there, over the rumble of the crowded strangers I tried to explain to my mother how time in boarding school must have diluted my drawl and that I was most likely only imitating subconsciously what I had heard aloud everyday. You know … birds of a feather, all that jazz; blah blah … it didn’t matter because absolutely none of it
was getting through to my mom. I helplessly watched her blank expression hoping to end the conversation as soon as possible but she wasn’t letting me off easy.

  So I did the only thing I could do. I just stood in silence and watched my mother’s spirit sink. I watched as she looked around at the faces on the train and tried to hold back her tears while the subway bumped along. There was nothing to say – or so I thought – I was in awe that something which had been a source of embarrassment in my past meant so much to her. As if she felt my accent was her last connection to me and when she discovered it was gone she thought she had lost her youngest child completely. I didn’t understand it but I empathized with it. I watched my mother trying to compose herself but she couldn’t hold her thoughts back any longer. In a broken Kentucky tone loud enough for everyone to hear she erupted “Well, I think it’s important for you to keep your roots!” I could feel the blood rushing to my cheeks and I quickly glanced around to meet a few faces with amused snickering eyes.

  There it was – all the southern sarcasm, judgments and stereotypes I had tried to avoid, and in a very public place. In an instant I was demoted to an ignorant Southerner in the eyes of more than a dozen New Yorkers. And their eyes lingered for more than an uncomfortable minute or two. Only this time I had no comebacks. When the moment passed and everyone went back to reading their papers and minding their business, I had nothing to say. I had spent so much time defending my accent, and
really myself, against ignorant comments and stereotypes that I hadn’t prepared myself to actually defend speaking without an accent. I could have busted out laughing, I glanced at my mother and she cracked a smile and started to giggle, realizing how ridiculous the whole thing was.

  As a child I prayed for the day when someone would praise my good diction or be unable to decipher what region I was from by my speech. At that moment I realized how little those childish things matter. And at that point I could’ve been whomever I wanted and spoke however I wanted. And to this day I still could care less about whomever feels the need to tell me how they think I should talk or even
on a larger scale who they think I should be. With an accent or without an accent, ten pounds heavier or lighter, long hair or short, an artist or a lawyer – it didn’t matter - I felt free for the first time in a very long time and I walked out of the subway very different than when I walked in.

       

Sharon Dickens is a freelance writer and photographer who currently lives in Louisville, Kentucky, with her three dogs and maintains that it is in fact possible to be a vegetarian living in Kentucky.