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Many of us speak with some version of the Southern Accent. Some of us aren’t aware of it, some of us worked diligently to suppress it, and some of us aren’t even from the South originally, yet find ourselves saying “g'bah” instead of “goodbye.”  Everyone who lives or has ever lived in the Southeastern United States understands that the Southern dialect is unmistakable.  

The Southern Accent has long been synonymous with simple-mindedness and ignorance, but intellect has nothing to do with it.  Our drawls are a product of several merging cultures; largely Southern England, Northern Ireland and Scotland.  If anything, our dialect speaks for our history of diversity rather than degenerating IQs.  For example, the old-Southern, dropped “r’s” are a result of settlers from Southern England who took up residence in Alabama, Georgia, Mississippi and Louisiana.  The over-pronounced, hard “r’s” come from the Irish and Scottish who settled further inland around the Appalachian Mountains.  In reality, it’s as simple as geography and anthropological evolution.  Despite all linguistic hoopla (that I will save for the language experts) about the way Southerners contort the English language, this is our voice, these are our words, and it is a deeply personal thing.    

Growing up in Mount Olive, Alabama I never had a chance to compare my speech to that of someone who didn’t I wasn’t just learning to speak without an accent, I was falling madly in love with the English language.share the same dialectal traits until I moved to Nashville when I was 11.  The Nashville City School system was diverse and I made friends with people from all over the world.  Suddenly, as if someone turned on fluorescent lights in a cave, I started to hear a distinct difference between my speech and all my friends’.  

I don’t remember the exact moment when I realized I had a Southern Accent, but I do remember the word that started that neural fire.  Walk.  My friend Brooke “walked,” but I “wawked.”   Not only that.  Brooke “talked on the phone” and I “tawked own the phowne.”  Brooke loved “dogs” and I loved “dawgs.”  

I started paying attention anytime someone uttered a syllable.  I dissected vowel sounds  (did my mother “fill” like going to the grocery store or did she “feel” like it?).  I compared my “i’s” to Brooke’s “i’s.” (Ah laaahk waaaht raaassss vs. I like white rice.) Why did I not pronounce the “g” at the ending of “running?”  Was it Monday or Mun-dee?  And “wudn’t” wasn’t the way you said “wasn’t” and it’s not pronounced “dittun” - but “did-ent” and it wasn’t UM-brella but um-BRELLA!    

 In this child’s-view comparison, I picked up on the cadence, the rhythm, the duration of vowels - and what’s more - I discovered how to change them in my own speech.  I made it my quest to pronounce every word "correctly".  I studied the speech in television shows, picking out the differences in how I spoke versus a news anchor, versus MTV VJs, verses Alex Trebek, versus Fred Savage.

And I relished it.  I loved finishing my gerunds with that ringing “g.” I loved the new sound of my i’s.  I read poetry aloud at night just so I could practice, just so I could hear those crisp consonants and shortened vowels.  I wasn’t just learning to speak without an accent, I was falling madly in love with the English language.   

In my enthusiasm, I made the mistake of correcting my mother one evening at the dinner table.  

“Mom, the word is pronounced “five” not “faaahve.” 

She stared me down.  “Says who?”

“The rest of the world.  I’m speaking proper English.”  I said, like a true precocious child on the verge of adolescence.

“So we don’t tawk raaht?”  

“Not exactly.  You have a Southern Accent.”  

“So yur too gud fer yur family then?”  

This is the part where I learned that it wasn’t only an accent thing, it was a pride thing.  

To many, the Southern Accent is a badge of honor, branding us as different, separating our culture from from the rest of the country, symbolic of our approach to the everyday.    If anything, the unconscious presence of my Southern Accent reminds me of my roots...We take our time tawkin’ about how much we laaahk waaaht raaass because we’re not concerned with rushing off to the next topic.  We’ll take the time to discuss with anyone and everyone about how much we laaahk waaaht raaasce because we’re friendly and like to show we care.  Feelin’ blue?  We’ll make you some sweet tea and encourage you to sing the blues if you laahk.  

To answer my mother’s question, no, I wasn’t too good for my family or the Southern Accent, I just wanted to speak well.  Pronouncing the g’s at the end of my gerunds, and minding my i’s did not exorcise the Southern out of me.  Instead, it created a sense of intense awareness and appreciation about how unique our culture is.  (I am, after all, writing this article about the Southern Accent.) 

Nowadays, I embrace my natural tongue.  I certainly don’t wawk and tawk like I used to, but I definitely let some “g'bahs” and “I laaahks” slip out from time to time -- and I love it.  I enjoy the ease of those extended vowels and take comfort in the occasional forgotten “g” at the end of a word. If anything, the unconscious presence of my Southern Accent reminds me of my roots, it reminds me of our culture - the culture of the American South that, despite a stained past, continues to evolve while keeping its complex charisma intact. 

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