So, a few weeks ago, I vlogged. That’s video-blogged. I think. I hate that word, it’s so…dirty sounding. Like actually dirty, not like, “oh dear God don’t say that in front of your grandmother” dirty, but actually dirty, like dirty towel.
Anyways, I vlogged.
The responses, though varied included, “I really thought you were going to have more of a Boston accent. I was disappointed.”
Whoa, whoa, whoa.
Let’s back the train up 1 and 3/4 all riiight.
I do indeed have a pretty wicked Boston accent. It’s probably packed with a lotta Southie even though I grew up far from the city in a ‘burb with cows and and cornfields. My mother insists she has no idea where the accent came from, but everyone I’ve brought home says she talks just like me.
They will also tell you that my accent thicken considerably and often changes when I’ve had a couple of drinks.
Sometimes I’m from Southie.
Sometimes I speak all in French.
It sounds crazy, I know, but it’s true.
Sometimes I’m Southern.
Sometimes I think I’m JWoww.
Don’t even come at me bro, I’m like a praying mantis. After sex, I will rip your head off.
I occasionally assume the persona as well.
I have a problem.
You’re laughing. I’m not laughing.
Accent Addition is a real thing.
It doesn’t mean that I date people that have accents.
Sometimes I do, but that’s not my point.
It also doesn’t mean that I love to listen to them.
I do, but that’s not an addication. It just makes me like every other American.
No, no. This disease is one of an entirely different caliber.
I’m like…a chameleon.
No, I cannot feign an accent on the spot.
In fact, I’m pretty awful at it.
I’ll vlog it sometime and show you.
No, instead, I let them sneakily slip their way into my vernacular and soon I’m talking like I’m the descendant of an Irishman, brought up with the Kennedy’s who spent many a summer on Staten Island and a quick stint in the south. I’m not sure where in the south, but it’s probably near wherever Miranda Lambert grew up.
When I sing, I sound like Miranda Lambert. Nah, not her voice. When I sing, I sound like me. I sang karaoke Sundays at a bar in college and often was asked after, “So where in the South are you from?”
“Um, I’m not. I’m from here.”
“Well where does that southern accent come from in your singing?”
“What southern accent?”
Yeah, see that’s the thing.
I don’t even notice me doing it.
Put an Englishman at my table and I’m serving ‘im drinks and askin’ ‘im questions like if he’s t’irsty, and pointing ‘im to the loo.
An Australian? Same thing.
However, when they are Spanish, and have a thick Spanish accent when speaking English, I don’t react the same way and when people do, I want to strangle them.
I worked with a cook once who figured that if he spoke in English, but with a Spanish accent, all the Spanish speaking cooks and dishwashers would understand him.
Besides the fact that they were Portuguese, he was an idiot. If they don’t speak English, you speaking broken English isn’t going to help. Comprende, hombre?
So, naturally, I googled.
What? I want to know if other people have this problem or if it’s just me and Dana Carvey’s character in Master of Disguise.
No, really. I googled.
Dysprosody. Dysprosody is a neurological disorder that can be linguistic or emotional. Linguistic dysprosody alters one’s vocal identification and effects on one’s verbal communication.
Oh, there’s another.
Foreign Accent Syndrome. FAS for short.
According to the omniscient Wikipedia, Foreign Accent Syndrome is a rare medical condition involving speech production that usually occurs as a side effect of severe brain injury, such as a stroke or head trauma.
Yeah, so I ruled those both out.
I’ll admit the slips of Irishness have long since worn off.
I’m not so stoked about the Staten Island that’s crept into my accent.
But if you buy me a few pints of Murphy’s aftah just two, I’ll be shu-ah to have an enti-ah convahsation without evah using an ‘ah.’
Figyah it out.