Thursday, August 26, 2004
Southrons: smarter than we let on
By The Erudite Redneck
Met a Virginia gal yesterday who was a livin’ example of a life lesson the Lord and unfamiliar circumstances blessed me with back when I was in Congress.
I was in Congress – as a press intern for a House member from Georgia, back in the mid-'80s. His name was Patrick Swindall (apt, since he served on the House Banking Committee). He won his seat in the Reagan landslide of ’84, the first Republican from the district, near Atlanta, since Reconstruction. Ben Jones later beat him for the seat -- Ben Jones, who played “Cooter” on the “Dukes of Hazzard,” and I swear I am not making any of this up, you can check the records on-line, I’m sure.
This gal from Virginia made me think of some uppity Georgians. Not unlike myself, she grew up so far back in the sticks it’d take at least a half-dozen prepositions to get to her house. It was way back down over in to the hills of southwestern Virginia, so close to Bristol Motor Speedway you could probably hear the races on clear nights -- and that’s twice as many prepositional zigs and zags as it takes to get way down upon the Suwannee River.*
She just wallered syllables and words around in her mouth 'til they tumbled out so natural-like it made me want to pour a cup of the way she talked and drink it. She’s 27, and in the course of my visitin’ with her, she had cause to mention her “mommy,” which Loretta Lynn has always called her mama. Loretta is from Butcher Holler, Kentuck, of course, as everyone knows, but she and the sweet-talkin’ gal are from the same neck of the woods culturally and coal-mining-wise. I swear, I just wanted to hug her, all innocent and cousin-like if you know what I mean and some of you do.
Some people – and I use that term loosely because what I mean is Yankees and stuck-up Southerners who have got above their raisin’ – hear her talk and dismiss her as an ignorant yokel, hick, fool or worse. Well, she is a yokel, and a hick – and it takes one to really know one. But she’s no fool, and no dummy.
Despite her unhurried manner of speakin’, she was fleet of thought, and that apparent contradiction is what drives Yankees and uppity rustics plumb crazy. She had served in the Air Force, which even startled me a little because she seemed so slight and dang-near fragile, bless her heart, although I’m pretty sure she could’ve torn my head off, climbed down my neck hole and ripped my heart out with her bare teeth if I crossed her.
She was disarming, in other words, which is why I was reminded of the lesson I learned in Congress.
The folks in Swindall’s office were suburban Atlantans, with one or two from the Washington, D.C., side of Virginia, both of which are Southern only in the technical sense. My twangy, ain’ty way of talkin’ had them thinkin’ I was a yokel, hick, fool or worse, and I was, and am, none of the above. I just talk that way because I grew up around people who talk that way.
Heck, when I was 20, workin’ at a radio station in Arkanas, the program director sat me down one day and gave me a good talkin’ to because I sounded like such a hick on the air. What pushed him over the edge was a Valentine’s Day promotion we were runnin’ where the first caller could have a bouquet of flowers sent to his or her sweetie. A bouquet of flowers, properly pronounced “BOO-KAY UV FLOW-ERS.” It came out of my then-still-Copenhagen-dippin’ mouth as “BO-KAY UV FLYERS.” Turned out that not only did I have a face made for radio, but I also had a manner of speech made for writin’.
But I’ll be damned if I’ll let others’ hang-ups persuade me to pretend otherwise and talk like I’m from central Nebraska or wherever it is they train most national TV news anchors.
Besides pure-dee regional pride, there’s one other reason I will employ my natural dialect, as needed, in the course of life, and this is the lesson I learned in Congress:
I’m in the information bidness. When people think you’re dumb, they always tell you more than you ask for, more than you really need, and more than you can use. Research bein’ the secret to almost any kind of writin’, letting people think you’re a dolt, if you can stand bein’ talked down to some, is a great way to get ahead and stay ahead.
*Dr. Erudite Redhead and I had pretty good discussion as to whether “way” is a preposition. I think it is in this sense. The following backs me up on it. It’s from a Web page at the University of Texas, and they ought to know: “A preposition is defined as a word which shows a relationship in time, space, cause or manner between the object of the preposition and another word in the sentence.”
END
Met a Virginia gal yesterday who was a livin’ example of a life lesson the Lord and unfamiliar circumstances blessed me with back when I was in Congress.
I was in Congress – as a press intern for a House member from Georgia, back in the mid-'80s. His name was Patrick Swindall (apt, since he served on the House Banking Committee). He won his seat in the Reagan landslide of ’84, the first Republican from the district, near Atlanta, since Reconstruction. Ben Jones later beat him for the seat -- Ben Jones, who played “Cooter” on the “Dukes of Hazzard,” and I swear I am not making any of this up, you can check the records on-line, I’m sure.
This gal from Virginia made me think of some uppity Georgians. Not unlike myself, she grew up so far back in the sticks it’d take at least a half-dozen prepositions to get to her house. It was way back down over in to the hills of southwestern Virginia, so close to Bristol Motor Speedway you could probably hear the races on clear nights -- and that’s twice as many prepositional zigs and zags as it takes to get way down upon the Suwannee River.*
She just wallered syllables and words around in her mouth 'til they tumbled out so natural-like it made me want to pour a cup of the way she talked and drink it. She’s 27, and in the course of my visitin’ with her, she had cause to mention her “mommy,” which Loretta Lynn has always called her mama. Loretta is from Butcher Holler, Kentuck, of course, as everyone knows, but she and the sweet-talkin’ gal are from the same neck of the woods culturally and coal-mining-wise. I swear, I just wanted to hug her, all innocent and cousin-like if you know what I mean and some of you do.
Some people – and I use that term loosely because what I mean is Yankees and stuck-up Southerners who have got above their raisin’ – hear her talk and dismiss her as an ignorant yokel, hick, fool or worse. Well, she is a yokel, and a hick – and it takes one to really know one. But she’s no fool, and no dummy.
Despite her unhurried manner of speakin’, she was fleet of thought, and that apparent contradiction is what drives Yankees and uppity rustics plumb crazy. She had served in the Air Force, which even startled me a little because she seemed so slight and dang-near fragile, bless her heart, although I’m pretty sure she could’ve torn my head off, climbed down my neck hole and ripped my heart out with her bare teeth if I crossed her.
She was disarming, in other words, which is why I was reminded of the lesson I learned in Congress.
The folks in Swindall’s office were suburban Atlantans, with one or two from the Washington, D.C., side of Virginia, both of which are Southern only in the technical sense. My twangy, ain’ty way of talkin’ had them thinkin’ I was a yokel, hick, fool or worse, and I was, and am, none of the above. I just talk that way because I grew up around people who talk that way.
Heck, when I was 20, workin’ at a radio station in Arkanas, the program director sat me down one day and gave me a good talkin’ to because I sounded like such a hick on the air. What pushed him over the edge was a Valentine’s Day promotion we were runnin’ where the first caller could have a bouquet of flowers sent to his or her sweetie. A bouquet of flowers, properly pronounced “BOO-KAY UV FLOW-ERS.” It came out of my then-still-Copenhagen-dippin’ mouth as “BO-KAY UV FLYERS.” Turned out that not only did I have a face made for radio, but I also had a manner of speech made for writin’.
But I’ll be damned if I’ll let others’ hang-ups persuade me to pretend otherwise and talk like I’m from central Nebraska or wherever it is they train most national TV news anchors.
Besides pure-dee regional pride, there’s one other reason I will employ my natural dialect, as needed, in the course of life, and this is the lesson I learned in Congress:
I’m in the information bidness. When people think you’re dumb, they always tell you more than you ask for, more than you really need, and more than you can use. Research bein’ the secret to almost any kind of writin’, letting people think you’re a dolt, if you can stand bein’ talked down to some, is a great way to get ahead and stay ahead.
*Dr. Erudite Redhead and I had pretty good discussion as to whether “way” is a preposition. I think it is in this sense. The following backs me up on it. It’s from a Web page at the University of Texas, and they ought to know: “A preposition is defined as a word which shows a relationship in time, space, cause or manner between the object of the preposition and another word in the sentence.”
END
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The curious thing about this to me is that when I talk to you on the phone, you sound perfectly natural. Normal. In fact, I think all those other folks (Northerns and other reprobates) talk funny. I suspect this means I sound like a hick, too. All I can say to that is yeehaw, y'all.
OK, RedNeck, under your term, is there a word in Anglish that CAN'T be a preposition?
That's pronounced cay-nt.
That's pronounced cay-nt.
I have to laugh that you got a "talking to" by someone in Arkansas, of all places. About 15 years ago, DH was offered a job with a sister-company in Harrison, Arkansas. He had been there several times on business, but I had never been there. Of course, he wouldn't accept the offer unless I had a chance to look the place over and look at houses.
We were there only a week, but when we got back and I heard myself on an answering machine, I could hear that I had definitely picked up the Arkansan accent in only 7 days.
(As a sidenote, we had decided to move there, but the offer changed after our trip and DH wasn't as happy with the new offer, so we didn't move. Such a shame--the best apple pie I've ever had was at Devito's in Harrison--yum!)
As for the letting on that you're not as bright as you really are, I learned that one in medical offices. I worked in an HMO for four years as a medical assistant. I never tell my own doctor or her staff that I have a medical background. I get much better information that way. If a doctor finds out, they think I know everything they're talking about. Playing it dumb is a very smart thing to do. :)
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We were there only a week, but when we got back and I heard myself on an answering machine, I could hear that I had definitely picked up the Arkansan accent in only 7 days.
(As a sidenote, we had decided to move there, but the offer changed after our trip and DH wasn't as happy with the new offer, so we didn't move. Such a shame--the best apple pie I've ever had was at Devito's in Harrison--yum!)
As for the letting on that you're not as bright as you really are, I learned that one in medical offices. I worked in an HMO for four years as a medical assistant. I never tell my own doctor or her staff that I have a medical background. I get much better information that way. If a doctor finds out, they think I know everything they're talking about. Playing it dumb is a very smart thing to do. :)
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