Nobody can hear their own accent.
I learned this when I first moved out of Virginia at age eighteen. I crash landed in New Jersey where I attempted to set up my new life. I'm looking for an apartment, and the realtor asks: "So, where are you from?" Well, that was an easy guess: I'm apartment hunting and I don't know the area, of course she knows I'm not local.
I'm setting up my new bank accounts and the teller asks: "So, where are you from?" Huh. That was a pretty darn good guess that time... maybe she asks that of all the new customers?
I'm at the grocery store. Buying milk. And eggs. And bread. And the cashier turns to me and asks:
"So, where are you from?"
"God dammit! How do you know I'm not from here?!"
Thus, I learned: I speak in a Southern accent. It doesn't matter that for all intensive purposes I was raised in Washington, DC. I grew up south of the Mason-Dixon line and speak with the intonations that betray it.
Which brings us to Bostonians: Once again, everybody here claims the right to "normal" speech. A guy who's pronunciation sounds like he's impersonating JFK will sit there telling me how thankful he is he never picked up that Boston accent. And if I point out the differences in the way we talk, I brace myself for the declaration: "This is the spot where the Pilgrims landed; we're the original Americans; this is how everyone is supposed to talk!" (Only when spoken aloud it doesn't have even half of those R's.)
And I won't argue the historical details, but somehow I seriously doubt that everyone disembarked the Mayflower broadcasting "Pahk the cah at Havahd Yahd!"
Normally this failure-to-communicate is a pretty trivial problem. But understand that I work for a power company; our plants generate electricity and sell it to the utillity National Grid, who then sends you exorbitant energy bills. It turns out that when dealing with enough juice to electrify Cambodia, it's surprisingly important that everyone understands each other, as I learned the hard way a couple of weeks ago.
It's 2 AM when I get an urgent call to come out to a switch-yard for some unexplained trouble (the trouble is never explained; the dispatchers know how I love surprises). I arrive and find twelve guys from National Grid emergency crews waiting for me in a huge 121,000 volt substation, so I put on my Game Face and try to pretend I know what the hell Im doing:
Morning guys, what do we have going on here?
Well, we were doing an inspection of our equipment and we got some knocking on 'B' phase of your incoming potheads
Dont feel bad if you dont understand that. I didnt either. But I wasnt about to admit it.
Really? Knocking on 'B' phase, you say?
Yeah, knocking right up near that bus insulator.
I have absolutely no idea whats going on.
Knocking? Is this some sort of utility slang? Is this some electrical phenomenon that Ive never heard of? Electricity doesnt knock! What the hell are these guys talking about? But here I am, the only one from my company, all alone, standing in the midst of a dozen senior linemen, who've all spent more years trouble-shooting than I've spent breathing; Ill be damned if Im gonna come out and just broadcast my ignorance. I need some clues!
So. This knocking about what time did you hear it? Can you imitate it? What did it smell like? ...Was it bigger or smaller than a breadbox?"
For ten minutes, I'm going around the circle of guys, interviewing everyone. For lack of anything else to make me appear competent, I'm about to start doing it all again, when all of the sudden B phase erupts into a series one-hundred-thousand volt sparks like it's the goddamn 4th of July! And all the National Grid guys: There she goes! Its knocking again!
I still don't know if I was more angry or terrified: What the holy jumping Jesus?! Thats not knocking, you idiots!
Then, while standing there bathed in the searing ultraviolet light of this ongoing electrical Apocalypse, it became clear to me: They were saying "Arcing!"
But they were saying it in goddamn Boston-ese!
Aaaahhhhking on 'B' phase!
And the closest English word my silly-southern-brain could make out of that was knocking!
So the next time you're using your computer, and the power flickers and dies, erasing hours of work on your Master's thesis that you predictably failed to back-up, and you sit there livid with frustration, cursing the power company and their damn linemen to the depths of Hell: Rest assured, there's an equally frustrated Southerner working out there in the field, cursing right along with you.
I learned this when I first moved out of Virginia at age eighteen. I crash landed in New Jersey where I attempted to set up my new life. I'm looking for an apartment, and the realtor asks: "So, where are you from?" Well, that was an easy guess: I'm apartment hunting and I don't know the area, of course she knows I'm not local.
I'm setting up my new bank accounts and the teller asks: "So, where are you from?" Huh. That was a pretty darn good guess that time... maybe she asks that of all the new customers?
I'm at the grocery store. Buying milk. And eggs. And bread. And the cashier turns to me and asks:
"So, where are you from?"
"God dammit! How do you know I'm not from here?!"
Thus, I learned: I speak in a Southern accent. It doesn't matter that for all intensive purposes I was raised in Washington, DC. I grew up south of the Mason-Dixon line and speak with the intonations that betray it.
Which brings us to Bostonians: Once again, everybody here claims the right to "normal" speech. A guy who's pronunciation sounds like he's impersonating JFK will sit there telling me how thankful he is he never picked up that Boston accent. And if I point out the differences in the way we talk, I brace myself for the declaration: "This is the spot where the Pilgrims landed; we're the original Americans; this is how everyone is supposed to talk!" (Only when spoken aloud it doesn't have even half of those R's.)
And I won't argue the historical details, but somehow I seriously doubt that everyone disembarked the Mayflower broadcasting "Pahk the cah at Havahd Yahd!"
Normally this failure-to-communicate is a pretty trivial problem. But understand that I work for a power company; our plants generate electricity and sell it to the utillity National Grid, who then sends you exorbitant energy bills. It turns out that when dealing with enough juice to electrify Cambodia, it's surprisingly important that everyone understands each other, as I learned the hard way a couple of weeks ago.
It's 2 AM when I get an urgent call to come out to a switch-yard for some unexplained trouble (the trouble is never explained; the dispatchers know how I love surprises). I arrive and find twelve guys from National Grid emergency crews waiting for me in a huge 121,000 volt substation, so I put on my Game Face and try to pretend I know what the hell Im doing:
Morning guys, what do we have going on here?
Well, we were doing an inspection of our equipment and we got some knocking on 'B' phase of your incoming potheads
Dont feel bad if you dont understand that. I didnt either. But I wasnt about to admit it.
Really? Knocking on 'B' phase, you say?
Yeah, knocking right up near that bus insulator.
I have absolutely no idea whats going on.
Knocking? Is this some sort of utility slang? Is this some electrical phenomenon that Ive never heard of? Electricity doesnt knock! What the hell are these guys talking about? But here I am, the only one from my company, all alone, standing in the midst of a dozen senior linemen, who've all spent more years trouble-shooting than I've spent breathing; Ill be damned if Im gonna come out and just broadcast my ignorance. I need some clues!
So. This knocking about what time did you hear it? Can you imitate it? What did it smell like? ...Was it bigger or smaller than a breadbox?"
For ten minutes, I'm going around the circle of guys, interviewing everyone. For lack of anything else to make me appear competent, I'm about to start doing it all again, when all of the sudden B phase erupts into a series one-hundred-thousand volt sparks like it's the goddamn 4th of July! And all the National Grid guys: There she goes! Its knocking again!
I still don't know if I was more angry or terrified: What the holy jumping Jesus?! Thats not knocking, you idiots!
Then, while standing there bathed in the searing ultraviolet light of this ongoing electrical Apocalypse, it became clear to me: They were saying "Arcing!"
But they were saying it in goddamn Boston-ese!
Aaaahhhhking on 'B' phase!
And the closest English word my silly-southern-brain could make out of that was knocking!
So the next time you're using your computer, and the power flickers and dies, erasing hours of work on your Master's thesis that you predictably failed to back-up, and you sit there livid with frustration, cursing the power company and their damn linemen to the depths of Hell: Rest assured, there's an equally frustrated Southerner working out there in the field, cursing right along with you.