No—today, I’m here to write about differences in
pronunciation and vocabulary, all of which are normal and natural. A language
evolves with the culture and people of the region in which the language is spoken.
If you think about it, it’d be pretty much impossible to find a time in history
during which a single language was spoken the same way by everybody, without
some sort of regional accent or vocabulary.
Languages often will adapt in ways that simplify production—things
that are easier to say will likely win out over time. It’s not that we human
beings are lazy; it’s that we’re efficient. If we can find a quicker, easier
way to do something and yield the same results, we will.
Contractions are a good example of this phenomenon. It’s
much easier to say “it’s” than it is to say “it is.” I’d much rather say “I’d”
than have to take the time to sound out both syllables in the phrase “I would.”
How cumbersome would everyday speech be if we had to speak to everyone as
though we were writing a doctoral thesis? This tendency to simplify language is
a great thing. As long as the social situation allows it, it’s much more
efficient to produce the two-syllable phrase “Wanna go?” than it is to produce the
proper, five-syllable “Do you want to go?” We conserve our own energy when we
lower the level of formality with which we speak.
I don’t think it matters that people in one region might say
“mount’n” instead of enunciating the whole word “mountain”. We can’t reasonably
expect people to pronounce a hard “t” in “Saturday” or “water” when the tap of
the tongue makes a smoother, easier-to-produce sound that is recognized by
other speakers as a variant of the “t”. And don’t tell me that there’s only one
“t” sound. Any and every language will have slight changes in pronunciation of
any given letter depending on the sounds that surround it. Think about it—do
you enunciate the “n” in the word “pink”? Do you say “peen…k,” with your tongue
touching up behind your teeth like it likely does in the word “bean”? Or does
that “n” blend in with the “k”, giving you a sound more like the “ng” in “sing”?
Stefanie doesn’t like it when I point this out, but I am
often fascinated by differences in pronunciation in her family. I’ve noticed
that she and her dad both occasionally pronounce voiced, word-final consonants
as their devoiced equivalents. For example, I have heard them both say the name
“Jacob” with a sound resembling “p” at the end, or “JAY-cup,” instead of the
way I usually say it, which sounds like “JAY-cub.” Likewise, I’ve heard the
word “sacred” pronounced “SAY-crit,” instead of the “SAY-crid” that I usually
say.
So—who’s right? I don’t think either of us is. Sure, the way
I say it may be more common, but is there anything inherently wrong with
devoicing a consonant at the end of a word? I’d say that it’s actually easier
to say “JAY-cup” than it is to voice the “b” at the end. It could very well be
that the devoicing of the “b” originally happened simply because someone’s grandparent
pronounced something in a way that saved them a little bit of energy. And I don’t
think there’s anything wrong with that.
What’s even more interesting to me is not that they say it
this way; it’s that they don’t say it that way all the time. I’ve heard Stef
say it both ways. It’s fascinating. In no way do I think that they are wrong
for pronouncing those things the way they do. I’m more interested in knowing
why they pronounce it differently—in how far back the difference in
pronunciation goes. How was it learned? Was it Mom or Dad (or both)? What
circumstances led to them changing the way they said it? I’m genuinely fascinated;
they’re not “weird” or “wrong”.
You know who is weird and wrong? Canadians. Just kidding.
Sort of.
I spent the last few days up in Saint John, New Brunswick,
and I’m tickled by the many differences in the ways people in Canada (at least
in this part) say things.
Sure, you get the stereotypical “eh” thrown on the end of a
sentence—that’s nothing new. And I’m sure we all know how “about” sounds like “aboat”
over there, and how they apologize by saying “sore-y.” But I had no idea how
different the “a” sound in my regional accent is from the one up there in Saint
John. In California and many other parts of America, the sound represented by
the “a” in “father”, the first “a” in “pasta”, and the “o” in “dollar” is different
from the “a” in “apple”. In Canada, the first “a” in “pasta” is pronounced like
the “a” in “apple”. PAAAsta.
I first realized this when members from the Nissan
dealership who came for training talked about how they worked not for “NEE-sahn”,
but “NISS-ann”. Niss, like kiss. Ann, like of Green Gables. With or without an “e”.
NISS-ann. Ha! I was about
to have a field day with their accent. Time to ask a bunch of questions and see
how they say things. Here’s what I learned:
“MAAAZ-duh” is another Japanese car manufacturer.
“TACK-os” are a type of Mexican food made of tortillas and
some kind of filling.
Yes, they eat TACK-os. And drink JAAAvuh. Awesome.
“So,” I wondered aloud. “How do you tell the different
between an iPod and an iPad?”
“Oh, shut it!” One guy yapped. “We can say both of those.
iPod. iPad. And how come you Americans say ‘scallops’ when it’s actually
pronounced ‘scollops’?”
Foiled! My theory that they didn’t distinguish between the
sounds was instantly shot down. But “scollops”?!? What the heck?!? How is it
that that one word made it through with the sound, but all the others made it
through with the other one? After hearing various French-language PA
announcements at the airport, my current theory is that Canadian “a” sounds the
way it does because Canadian English inherited the sound from French. I’d love
to know of examples or exceptions that support or disprove my theory.
The pronunciation of those two “a” sounds differs throughout
America, as commonly recognized in thick Bostonian or Chicagoan accents. One
time, while in Holland, Michigan, I mentioned to a used car manager at Toyota dealership
that something cost some amount of dollars. I don’t remember what, exactly,
because he immediately latched on to my pronunciation of the word “dollars” and
started teasing me relentlessly. “DOE-lers?” he said. “What are you, Canadian?”
“DOLL-ers,” I replied, with the “o” sounding like the “o” in “pop” or the “a”
in “father”.
“You’re saying ‘DOE-lers,” he snarked. “Here in America, it’s
pronounced “DAAA-lers,” his “o” exactly like the “a” sound in “apple”.
“DOE-lers. Sheesh. Go back to Canada. I’m gonna go sell some
TY-otas.”
Far be it from me to undertake the impossible task of
explaining the nuances of regional accents to a guy who sells used “TY-otas”
for a living. I guess I’d better go back to Canada.
Canada has a lot of things that are different than us. They
eat French fries covered with brown gravy and cheese. Their common potato chip
flavors include Ketchup, All Dressed Up (huh?), and Roast Chicken. They call
bathrooms “washrooms”. Their green traffic signals mysteriously blink
sometimes, and they don’t seem to have suicide lanes—at least not in Saint
John.
Another thing they don’t have is drinking fountains. Here’s
an actual conversation I had yesterday with some ladies at the dealership I was
working with in Saint John:
Me: I’m parched. Is there a drinking fountain here?
Lady 1: A what?
Me: A drinking fountain. You know—the little fountain that
you drink water out of?
Lady 1: I don’t know what you’re talking aboat.
Me: You know, the little plastic or metal boxes that come
out of the wall that dispense drinking water and are typically located near the
restrooms—I mean—washrooms?
Lady 2: Could you show me a picture of one?
Me, 10 seconds later, pointing at the google image search
results for “drinking fountain”: Here. Do you have one of these?
Lady 2: Ohhhhh, a water fountain—like the ones for kids! What
are we, an elementary school?
Me: Do you not have one of these here?
Lady 2: Nope.
Me: Have you guys never seen one of these at a business
before? Or a park?
Lady 1: Never at businesses. I think maybe they used to have
them about 20 years ago in parks and elementary schools.
Lady 3: But then they had problems with pigeons getting in
them, so they tore ‘em all oat.
They were dumbfounded by the idea that almost every business
establishment in the U.S. would have a drinking fountain. But then again, I was
dumbfounded about the “scollops”. I
guess we just dumbfound each other. ...Dumbfind?
You may find me dumb for writing about all this stuff. I hope I don’t offend anybody by anything I’ve
written today. If I do, well—sore-y aboat that.
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