Blending in By Lunchtime
I started life in Mobile, Alabama where the weather is warm, the people are kind, and “Please” and “Thank you” are the first words out of a well-brought-up Southern child’s mouth.
When I was in third grade, my father was transferred to New York where the weather was cold, the people were considerably less polite (and proud of it) and I went home in tears when I got yelled at for saying “Yes, ma’am” to a friend’s mother. (Back home you’re immediately reprimanded firmly but gently if you forget to say that. Southern ladies do not yell, ever, and certainly not at children).
I felt like a goldfish in the piranha pool until I learned the cardinal rule of being the new kid: As long as you blend in by lunchtime, you’ll be okay. This rule has stood me in good stead during many moves all over the United States, Canada, Europe, and Asia in friendly and hostile environments, military and civilian.
In New York: I learned that Coke=soda or pop (pronounced po-wap where we were) – I never was entirely sure which was which or why, (it was hotly debated) but I did learn who said it which way and remembered to say it their way when I was in their presence.
In Maine: “You can’t get there from here” really is a phrase as my mother and I found out when we got lost on our way back from – we actually never found out where we were, come to think of it. But when my mother asked a guy walking down the road how to get back to our new town, he said “Ya cahn’t get theyah from heyah” and kept walking. To which Mom replied “Why not? We got here from there.” To which he replied “You ain’t from aroun’ heyah, is ya?” To which my mother replied “We are now.” Apparently that was the right answer, because he did give us directions to a place from where he assured us we could get there from there. And so we did.
In England: Cars have bonnets instead of hoods, boots instead of trunks, and biscuits are not biscuits (white fluffy things served at breakfast back home) but cookies. It was a bit jarring to be referred to as “You Yank” since I’m from the South (and that’s an insult back home) but it was meant in good grace as a generic reference to Americans, so I took a deep breath, smiled, and refrained from shooting the offender.
In Canada: Eh? (pronounced like the letter A) and added at the end of each sentence isn’t really a question (unless it’s repeated and followed by a quizzical look).
In Japan: Ohio is not a state at all, but means “good morning.”
In Spain: they run in front of the bulls on foot instead of riding behind them on horseback. It helps to be drunk.
Take the DP challenge – it’s a hoot (Southern for “highly entertaining”).
http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/04/29/weekly-writing-challenge-a-manner-of-speaking/
I liked reading this because it reminded me of moving from Western NY where I grew up, down to Savannah, GA, when I married a soldier. Culture shock but in a really fun way. Then I went to Ohio for a couple years later but am now in NC for the foreseeable future. When I moved to NC I hadn’t heard Southern speak in 2 years, and I remember saying/thinking, “I have to get my Southern ears back on!” 🙂
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There really is a different rhythm. When we would go home for the summers my cousins would say “Why do you talk so fast?” It always took me a day or two to adjust.
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Very good. When visiting Disney World I asked an American where was the end of the queue? he didn’t understand what I was asking because I didn’t know that you don’t queue, you line!
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Oh, Andrew, that made me smile. I had the same thing happen in reverse in London.
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I don’t know how many times I’ve been called “Yank” while traveling. It didn’t bother me much, but I always wondered how southerners took it. I don’t think I could possibly be drunk enough to run in front of a bull. Maybe I’m not a good candidate for the running of the bulls.
Lovely post. I enjoyed this a lot.
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Oh, trust me, I was not doing the running. I was observing the madness from a balcony that wasn’t nearly high enough to suit me – still close enough to almost touch the bulls and smell the sweat and sangria. I do love Spain, though. My great-grandfather came from Barcelona. It’s in my DNA.
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