I've never thought of my name as particularly strange, odd, or Dutch for that matter. In fact, I remember, at a very young age, being grateful for the fact that my name was not only internationally accepted, but also fairly common in various countries. This gratitude wasn't so much related to any sort of linguistic awareness on my part, oh no, it was directly correlated to the fact that I, unlike my less fortunate (but more creatively named) younger brother, never had any problems finding a necklace, bracelet, rock, or keychain with my name on it regardless of which country I was in.
Now since I am kind of weird about privacy and this blog (I sincerely hope no one has seriously entertained the thought that I have two boys named "Ozzie" and "Jimmie" respectively), let me just tell that my name is old, very Jewish, and one I share with both a woman described in the biblical apocrypha as seducing and then beheading the enemy, as well as a woman playing a somewhat overworked mother in one of the corniest sitcoms to come out of the 1980s. It's popular among Dutch girls born in the 1970s, as well as a large number of Jewish girls living on the east coast of the US, while its abbreviated version seems to have been quite the fad among women born during the 1930s and 1940s.
At any rate, I've never had any problems with my first name, spelling, pronunciation, nada. Well, that is, until I moved to Georgia. Ever since moving here, whenever I introduce myself, the conversation always ends up going something like this (and for the sake of privacy, I'll be ancient seductress, OK? I mean, I suppose I could have picked 1980s sitcom actress, but that's just ridiculously long),
"Hi, I'm husband-dear, and this is my wife, ancient seductress*"
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Ancient seductress*"
"How do you spell that?"
"A-n-c.."(you get the idea)
"Ooooh, OK. Seducy!"
"Uhm, no, Seductress"
Yes, annoying. And also slightly confusing, since I've never had this problem before. Ever. The only issue I've ever had to battle is people abbreviating my name without asking first. Now, to be fair, the problem has really only been with truly native Georgians. Most military folk, academics, and people who have lived or traveled out of state get my name the first time around. But whenever I visit local events, churches, or restaurants, getting my name straight always turns into a ridiculously elaborate song and dance. I'm not sure if it's the fact that my name simply isn't very common in the south, or people are so used to hearing girls' names ending in "y" or "a", but it's a very strange experience to have to repeat your name two or three times before people realize what it is.
So this past Sunday, after another unsuccessful attempt to get a southern couple at a church we were visiting to grasp my name on the first try, I decided that this was just getting ridiculous.
"I think I'm going to change my name to something easy and simple." I told husband-dear
"Yeah, like your middle name."
I scowled, "My middle name is four syllables long. I don't think so. No, something simple."
"Simple. Because your first name isn't simple enough."
"Apparently not. I think I'm going to with Katie."
"Katie?"
"Yes, Katie. It's simple, short, and everyone gets it."
"Katie. Oh-kay."
Obviously, I wasn't entirely serious, as the thought of having to explain, after that first meeting, that my real first name wasn't Katie, but that that was just a name I had made up to ease the art of initial introductions, was too weird even for me. But as we headed out to brunch, I decided to give my little experiment a go anyway. After all, Georgian maitre d's' inability to understand my first name on the first attempt has always been a real source of frustration. I mean, why should anyone have to go through the trouble of spelling their name, or even worse, have to resort to giving their husband's name because "Ancient Seductress" is just not a name these lovely locals have ever heard before? We can't all be Madisons, Michelles, and Brittanys. So, I figured, if I couldn't introduce myself to people who might turn out to be new friends as Katie, I could at least ease the pain of getting my name put on a wait list.
"Hi, welcome to IHOP, how many in your party?"
"Six"
"Okay. And what's your name?"
The moment of truth, "Katie"
"OK. And how do you spell that?"
Oh.
My.
Stars.
Showing posts with label Y'all sound weird: The quirkiness of language. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Y'all sound weird: The quirkiness of language. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
Friday, January 27, 2012
How to sound southern. Or just country.
If you're anything like me, you really like to blend in, and you will do just about anything to not stand out in a crowd. At least not on first sight. I think it's fairly obvious to once someone has gotten my basic information, that I'm very little like most southern women. There's the whole working step-mom thing for one, not to mention that penchant for bleeding tree-hugging political tendencies, or that tendency to prefer tennis to Nascar, martinis to beer, and things like that. But anyway, I digress.
My point is that I at least like to appear as though I'm just like you, and please! be! my! friend! And one important part of blending in is how you sound. In fact, I would go as far as to argue that in a country where no one really cares what you dress like, your voice, your accent, and your vocabulary are what most people will use to assess where you're from, what you do, and a whole host of other socio-economic characteristics.
So for the past four years and some change, I've made a detailed study of southern speech. Now southern speech itself is not new to me. Before moving to Georgia, I lived in Texas, where the flat vowels quickly became part of my accent. But before Texas, I also spent some time in New England (not to mention an inordinate amount of time at American schools overseas, where the accent can be best equated to a blend of mid-Atlantic and New Englander anyway), and let me tell you, that has been almost impossible to shake. Although I did quickly lose the "wicked", when people in Texas would look at me like I had just lost my mind whenever I would say something was "wicked good" (really good), or "wicked hot" (really hot), I seem to have an especially hard time losing the northern lack of lilt to my voice.
Here in the south, women especially love to phrase every single sentence as though it is a question, i.e., their sentences might start on a middle "C", but they'll pretty much always end on a B-flat or somewhere around there. When you've lived in the north, like I have, you've actually learned to lower the tone in your voice as you speak, to the point of it almost becoming gravelly (which lately, apparently, has become a trend among younger women). No matter how hard I try, I just cannot get myself to raise my voice any higher than an "E" at best. It doesn't help that I'm an alto, was taught to project my voice by lowering it, and have always my deep voice to compensate for my lack in height.
And this inability to raise my voice has been causing problems lately. As I've mentioned before, I have a real knack of adapting local vernacular. I've even noticed that, lately, instead of saying "What?" or "Excuse me?" when I can't understand someone, I say "Do-what?" (another southern-ism), and that "doo-hickey" has become one of my favorite words (as in, "Give me that doo-hickey over there, that, uhm..uhm..pen! Yes, that pen"). However, when you combine that with a voice lower than any southern woman would use, what are you left with?
Country.
I'm not making this up now (see, another southern turn of phrase - oh God, now I'm starting to write like them too), even the kids and husband-dear have been poking fun at me for sounding country. Now I'll get right back at husband-dear by telling him that at least I don't say "The washer's broke" when I mean it's broken (as opposed to suffering from a negative cash flow), but he then rattles off an entire list of things I say that only country folk say (doohickey, that there, do-what, y'all), and I'm done, you know?
So now I don't know what to do. Obviously, I'd rather not sound country, since I'm really not country (as in, I don't know the difference between a bull and a steer, or even if there is a difference, and wouldn't know how to shoot a deer/skin a rabbit/grow my own crops if my life depended on it. Really. I'd probably die of starvation within three weeks). But what are my options? I would start to imitate my students and sound more southern-urban, if that wouldn't be absolutely ridiculous for a white Dutch-born woman who is starting to slowly push middle age. I could hang out with my non-southern colleagues, and start talking like I'm from Chicago or Michigan. But there's only like two of them, and I'm pretty sure it would look awkward if I suddenly became their new best friend. I could, I suppose, work on retrieving that Dutch accent I must have had at some point twenty-five years ago or so. Or, I could just watch lots and lots of Taxi reruns, and embrace my inner New Yorker.
Hm. That might not be a bad idea. Let's try that for a while.
Now get outta my face, I gotta lunch to make, 'kay?
(Too much inner New Yorker?)
My point is that I at least like to appear as though I'm just like you, and please! be! my! friend! And one important part of blending in is how you sound. In fact, I would go as far as to argue that in a country where no one really cares what you dress like, your voice, your accent, and your vocabulary are what most people will use to assess where you're from, what you do, and a whole host of other socio-economic characteristics.
So for the past four years and some change, I've made a detailed study of southern speech. Now southern speech itself is not new to me. Before moving to Georgia, I lived in Texas, where the flat vowels quickly became part of my accent. But before Texas, I also spent some time in New England (not to mention an inordinate amount of time at American schools overseas, where the accent can be best equated to a blend of mid-Atlantic and New Englander anyway), and let me tell you, that has been almost impossible to shake. Although I did quickly lose the "wicked", when people in Texas would look at me like I had just lost my mind whenever I would say something was "wicked good" (really good), or "wicked hot" (really hot), I seem to have an especially hard time losing the northern lack of lilt to my voice.
Here in the south, women especially love to phrase every single sentence as though it is a question, i.e., their sentences might start on a middle "C", but they'll pretty much always end on a B-flat or somewhere around there. When you've lived in the north, like I have, you've actually learned to lower the tone in your voice as you speak, to the point of it almost becoming gravelly (which lately, apparently, has become a trend among younger women). No matter how hard I try, I just cannot get myself to raise my voice any higher than an "E" at best. It doesn't help that I'm an alto, was taught to project my voice by lowering it, and have always my deep voice to compensate for my lack in height.
And this inability to raise my voice has been causing problems lately. As I've mentioned before, I have a real knack of adapting local vernacular. I've even noticed that, lately, instead of saying "What?" or "Excuse me?" when I can't understand someone, I say "Do-what?" (another southern-ism), and that "doo-hickey" has become one of my favorite words (as in, "Give me that doo-hickey over there, that, uhm..uhm..pen! Yes, that pen"). However, when you combine that with a voice lower than any southern woman would use, what are you left with?
Country.
I'm not making this up now (see, another southern turn of phrase - oh God, now I'm starting to write like them too), even the kids and husband-dear have been poking fun at me for sounding country. Now I'll get right back at husband-dear by telling him that at least I don't say "The washer's broke" when I mean it's broken (as opposed to suffering from a negative cash flow), but he then rattles off an entire list of things I say that only country folk say (doohickey, that there, do-what, y'all), and I'm done, you know?
So now I don't know what to do. Obviously, I'd rather not sound country, since I'm really not country (as in, I don't know the difference between a bull and a steer, or even if there is a difference, and wouldn't know how to shoot a deer/skin a rabbit/grow my own crops if my life depended on it. Really. I'd probably die of starvation within three weeks). But what are my options? I would start to imitate my students and sound more southern-urban, if that wouldn't be absolutely ridiculous for a white Dutch-born woman who is starting to slowly push middle age. I could hang out with my non-southern colleagues, and start talking like I'm from Chicago or Michigan. But there's only like two of them, and I'm pretty sure it would look awkward if I suddenly became their new best friend. I could, I suppose, work on retrieving that Dutch accent I must have had at some point twenty-five years ago or so. Or, I could just watch lots and lots of Taxi reruns, and embrace my inner New Yorker.
Hm. That might not be a bad idea. Let's try that for a while.
Now get outta my face, I gotta lunch to make, 'kay?
(Too much inner New Yorker?)
Friday, January 20, 2012
Interrupt-a-cow
Even though husband-dear is probably the only human in the world who could put up with me and love almost every minute of it, there are, naturellement, certain points of contention between us. There's husband-dear's tendency to hang his used towel on quilt racks, bathroom, closet, and bedroom doors (and really anything but the towel rack), my desire to put everything away if it has gone untouched for more than five seconds, and the seemingly never-ending "you interrupted me again" versus "well, you talk way too slow!" debate. Because there's possibly nothing more entertaining than reading about other people's issues, let's talk about that debate, shall we?
Before I go into more detail, I should probably explain that, in case you do not have the happy fortune of living south of the Mason-Dixon line, southern speech does not just use interesting words and funky grammar, it's also known for a propensity towards.....oh, who am I kidding, southerners talk slow. Some of them really slow. So slow, in fact, that I've been able to update my Facebook page in a pause between words. I've completed grocery lists in the time it takes some to finish a sentence, and have perfected my ability to read a book while keeping my ears tuned for the "uhm" that indicates the end of a long drawn-out syllable, and the beginning of a new thought. I've actually had a few occasions where I've had to tell colleagues/students that they'll have to hold their (seemingly endless, lengthy) thoughts for one second as the inkling from five minutes ago that I might, in the near future or so need to use the bathroom, had turned into a very immediate urge. And although I'll gladly admit that the speed of my speech can sometimes be best compared to a New Yorker on crack, waiting for some southerners to finish talking can feel a lot like pulling taffy.
Anyway, husband-dear, although he has some awesome Yankee characteristics (he actually uses his blinker, and I've never heard him use the word "doohickey", ever), is partly southern, You see, he
spent the first half of his childhood in the north, and the second half on the Gulf Coast in Florida. Subsequently, he has some northern, as well as some southern traits; he always drives like his behind is on fire, and he can't stand people who take their time doing anything, but at the same time he loves his fried chicken, collared greens, and black-eyed peas. And he takes his time saying things. When we first met, I thought he was so thoughtful. And he is. But he also just takes forever to say the most basic things. Seriously.
So when husband-dear and I are talking, a lot of our conversations contain an exchange that goes something like this:
Husband-dear, So that's what I said....(silence)...and...(silence)...yeah...
Me: Well, OK, have you considered....
Husband-dear: Why do you always interrupt me?
Me: Well, I thought you were done talking!
Husband-dear: I was thinking!
Me: Well, then you take a break talking!
Husband-dear: No you don't!
Or like this:
Husband-dear, So then I told him that was OK...(silence)...yeah...(silence)
Me: ...(silence)...
Husband-dear: Why aren't you saying anything?
Me: Oh, well, I didn't think you were done talking, you know, as you like to take a looooong tiiiiiiiiime saying things.
Husband-dear: You're such a turd.
I would love to be able to tell you that all of these interactions are the result of husband-dear just talking far too slow, but I should probably tell you that my inner New Yorker also assumes that everyone who doesn't talk as fast as I do probably doesn't care if they are interrupted, because, well, isn't that obvious? If you got something to say, you spit it out or keep it to yourself.
Anyway, I have been trying to work on this, and make sure husband-dear (and all other southerners with him) are done before I open my mouth. It means lots of tongue-biting and deep breaths, but you know, love and all that good stuff. I have also noticed that husband-dear has tried to leave fewer loooong pauses in his speech, so I'd like to think we're making good progress. Or perhaps good....ehhm...progress. But sometimes we butt heads anyway, and last night was a great example of that as well as why we go so well together.
We were lying in bed, and husband-dear was telling me something, I assumed he was done, and started talking. Well, of course he had not yet finished what he wanted to say (we were talking about why men don't shave their armpits, and I can't tell you how much I regret that I will now never find out what he thinks about that...really..). So, husband-dear did the usual, slightly pouting, "You interrupted me" (to which I might have sighed something about how we were talking about armpit hair, O-M-G), and then he asked, "Do you know the interrupting cow?"
"The what?"
"The interrupting cow joke."
"No."
"Oh, cool. Knock-knock"
"Who's there?"
"Interrupting cow"
"Interruptingco.."
"MOOOOO!!!!"
Seriously people, I thought I was going to die. Or pee myself. Or possibly both. I laughed so hard I think I might have hurt myself. I laughed so loud, the dogs came looking to see what was wrong with me (when I laugh, really laugh, I sound like a fire truck, volume and pitch, blaring down your street).
And then, like a five-year old, I wanted to do the joke again. To which husband-dear said "sure", and for some reason I thought he added on, "knock, knock". So, still laughing (the fire truck was five miles from your house), I wanted to say, "Who's there", but instead my voice shot out of control, and I boomed so loud the blinds shook, "WHO'S THERE?",
Startled, husband-dear replied, "What the heck...? Wait, wait, I haven't even said 'knock knock' yet. What is this, some kind of clairvoyant knock-knock joke"
And the fire truck was back, right in front of our house (in other words, I'm still laughing as I type this).
So does husband-dear annoy the tar out of me sometimes? Yes. Do I love him for it? Of course!
MOOOO!!!
Before I go into more detail, I should probably explain that, in case you do not have the happy fortune of living south of the Mason-Dixon line, southern speech does not just use interesting words and funky grammar, it's also known for a propensity towards.....oh, who am I kidding, southerners talk slow. Some of them really slow. So slow, in fact, that I've been able to update my Facebook page in a pause between words. I've completed grocery lists in the time it takes some to finish a sentence, and have perfected my ability to read a book while keeping my ears tuned for the "uhm" that indicates the end of a long drawn-out syllable, and the beginning of a new thought. I've actually had a few occasions where I've had to tell colleagues/students that they'll have to hold their (seemingly endless, lengthy) thoughts for one second as the inkling from five minutes ago that I might, in the near future or so need to use the bathroom, had turned into a very immediate urge. And although I'll gladly admit that the speed of my speech can sometimes be best compared to a New Yorker on crack, waiting for some southerners to finish talking can feel a lot like pulling taffy.
Anyway, husband-dear, although he has some awesome Yankee characteristics (he actually uses his blinker, and I've never heard him use the word "doohickey", ever), is partly southern, You see, he
spent the first half of his childhood in the north, and the second half on the Gulf Coast in Florida. Subsequently, he has some northern, as well as some southern traits; he always drives like his behind is on fire, and he can't stand people who take their time doing anything, but at the same time he loves his fried chicken, collared greens, and black-eyed peas. And he takes his time saying things. When we first met, I thought he was so thoughtful. And he is. But he also just takes forever to say the most basic things. Seriously.
So when husband-dear and I are talking, a lot of our conversations contain an exchange that goes something like this:
Husband-dear, So that's what I said....(silence)...and...(silence)...yeah...
Me: Well, OK, have you considered....
Husband-dear: Why do you always interrupt me?
Me: Well, I thought you were done talking!
Husband-dear: I was thinking!
Me: Well, then you take a break talking!
Husband-dear: No you don't!
Or like this:
Husband-dear, So then I told him that was OK...(silence)...yeah...(silence)
Me: ...(silence)...
Husband-dear: Why aren't you saying anything?
Me: Oh, well, I didn't think you were done talking, you know, as you like to take a looooong tiiiiiiiiime saying things.
Husband-dear: You're such a turd.
I would love to be able to tell you that all of these interactions are the result of husband-dear just talking far too slow, but I should probably tell you that my inner New Yorker also assumes that everyone who doesn't talk as fast as I do probably doesn't care if they are interrupted, because, well, isn't that obvious? If you got something to say, you spit it out or keep it to yourself.
Anyway, I have been trying to work on this, and make sure husband-dear (and all other southerners with him) are done before I open my mouth. It means lots of tongue-biting and deep breaths, but you know, love and all that good stuff. I have also noticed that husband-dear has tried to leave fewer loooong pauses in his speech, so I'd like to think we're making good progress. Or perhaps good....ehhm...progress. But sometimes we butt heads anyway, and last night was a great example of that as well as why we go so well together.
We were lying in bed, and husband-dear was telling me something, I assumed he was done, and started talking. Well, of course he had not yet finished what he wanted to say (we were talking about why men don't shave their armpits, and I can't tell you how much I regret that I will now never find out what he thinks about that...really..). So, husband-dear did the usual, slightly pouting, "You interrupted me" (to which I might have sighed something about how we were talking about armpit hair, O-M-G), and then he asked, "Do you know the interrupting cow?"
"The what?"
"The interrupting cow joke."
"No."
"Oh, cool. Knock-knock"
"Who's there?"
"Interrupting cow"
"Interruptingco.."
"MOOOOO!!!!"
Seriously people, I thought I was going to die. Or pee myself. Or possibly both. I laughed so hard I think I might have hurt myself. I laughed so loud, the dogs came looking to see what was wrong with me (when I laugh, really laugh, I sound like a fire truck, volume and pitch, blaring down your street).
And then, like a five-year old, I wanted to do the joke again. To which husband-dear said "sure", and for some reason I thought he added on, "knock, knock". So, still laughing (the fire truck was five miles from your house), I wanted to say, "Who's there", but instead my voice shot out of control, and I boomed so loud the blinds shook, "WHO'S THERE?",
Startled, husband-dear replied, "What the heck...? Wait, wait, I haven't even said 'knock knock' yet. What is this, some kind of clairvoyant knock-knock joke"
And the fire truck was back, right in front of our house (in other words, I'm still laughing as I type this).
So does husband-dear annoy the tar out of me sometimes? Yes. Do I love him for it? Of course!
MOOOO!!!
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Niceties and nuisances revisited
A little over three years ago I wrote about how the intricacies and length of southern conversations drove me absolutely up the wall. I believe I compared southern social etiquette to that of a Jane Austen novel, and argued that the lack of efficiency in conversations were not conducive to an effective working environment, to say the least.
Well, what can I say? Probably something to the effect of "if you can't change your mind are you sure you still have one", or "successful species adapt to their environment", or perhaps I should just claim that Southerners really are the Borg, as this was the conversation I just had with my vet's office:
Secretary: Good morning, Westmoreland Animal Hospital, how may I help you?
Me: Hi, this is DC, how are you today?
Secretary: Good, how may I help you?
Note: At this point, I'm thinking, oh, she's not a southerner. A southerner would have asked me how I was doing. How rude! Wait. Is that rude? Maybe she's wondering why the heck someone would call right when they open at 8am and then ask how she's doing.
Me: Yes, I have two dogs, and they're out of heartworm medication, but before I order some new ones, my husband said that they need an annual check up, and so I was calling to see when they were due
Secretary and I then proceed to discuss the medicine, and the fact that both dogs are due for a check up in November.
Secretary: But I see they're on the same medication now, Shelby is 50 pounds and Zoe is...
Me: Yeah, Zoe is 70 pounds. She's a big girl. We're putting her on a diet, but sheesh, it's not easy
Note: While I was having this conversation, this remark didn't strike me as odd at all. After all, it's just making conversation, and that's what we all do. Please note that scary use of the word "we" here. In hindsight, I'm thinking, uhm, yeah, who cares about your pooch's diet?
Secretary: Uh-uh. Well, I'll set you up to pick up two boxes of Sentinel then.
Me: OK. But I'll be by to pick them up tomorrow. I don't get off from work until late today, and I won't be able to make it by your office on time
Note: At this point, I do hear a tiny rumbling in the back of my brain about all the detail in this remark, but I ignore it
Secretary: OK. That's fine
Me: And I'll have my husband call to make an appointment for November. He's the one who will take them, so it's easier if he calls you instead of me
Note: Now I'm definitely aware of the fact that I'm oversharing.
Secretary: OK, that' s great.
Thankfully, I manage to end the conversation without any further social diarrhea on my part.
People! People! What is wrong with me?! Really, what has come over me? I am calling my vet at eight in the morning to ask about heart worm meds, and I am this close to sharing my freaking life story with this woman I don't even know. I mean, a very easy question, "Can I order some heart worm meds and ask when the dogs are due for their check up" turned into a ten minute conversation, and on top of that, I think nothing of it! Whatever happened to efficiency? To getting the job done and moving on?
And you know what's worse? When I re-read that blog from three years ago, I cringe just a little at the harshness of my judgments. What is up with that? Am I becoming soft and southern at the same time? What's next? Putting a "The south will rise again" bumpersticker on my car? Marching against allowing alcohol sales on a Sunday? Saying "By Golly" and meaning it?
I think I need to sit in a quiet corner and reconsider my life. Please excuse me
Well, what can I say? Probably something to the effect of "if you can't change your mind are you sure you still have one", or "successful species adapt to their environment", or perhaps I should just claim that Southerners really are the Borg, as this was the conversation I just had with my vet's office:
Secretary: Good morning, Westmoreland Animal Hospital, how may I help you?
Me: Hi, this is DC, how are you today?
Secretary: Good, how may I help you?
Note: At this point, I'm thinking, oh, she's not a southerner. A southerner would have asked me how I was doing. How rude! Wait. Is that rude? Maybe she's wondering why the heck someone would call right when they open at 8am and then ask how she's doing.
Me: Yes, I have two dogs, and they're out of heartworm medication, but before I order some new ones, my husband said that they need an annual check up, and so I was calling to see when they were due
Secretary and I then proceed to discuss the medicine, and the fact that both dogs are due for a check up in November.
Secretary: But I see they're on the same medication now, Shelby is 50 pounds and Zoe is...
Me: Yeah, Zoe is 70 pounds. She's a big girl. We're putting her on a diet, but sheesh, it's not easy
Note: While I was having this conversation, this remark didn't strike me as odd at all. After all, it's just making conversation, and that's what we all do. Please note that scary use of the word "we" here. In hindsight, I'm thinking, uhm, yeah, who cares about your pooch's diet?
Secretary: Uh-uh. Well, I'll set you up to pick up two boxes of Sentinel then.
Me: OK. But I'll be by to pick them up tomorrow. I don't get off from work until late today, and I won't be able to make it by your office on time
Note: At this point, I do hear a tiny rumbling in the back of my brain about all the detail in this remark, but I ignore it
Secretary: OK. That's fine
Me: And I'll have my husband call to make an appointment for November. He's the one who will take them, so it's easier if he calls you instead of me
Note: Now I'm definitely aware of the fact that I'm oversharing.
Secretary: OK, that' s great.
Thankfully, I manage to end the conversation without any further social diarrhea on my part.
People! People! What is wrong with me?! Really, what has come over me? I am calling my vet at eight in the morning to ask about heart worm meds, and I am this close to sharing my freaking life story with this woman I don't even know. I mean, a very easy question, "Can I order some heart worm meds and ask when the dogs are due for their check up" turned into a ten minute conversation, and on top of that, I think nothing of it! Whatever happened to efficiency? To getting the job done and moving on?
And you know what's worse? When I re-read that blog from three years ago, I cringe just a little at the harshness of my judgments. What is up with that? Am I becoming soft and southern at the same time? What's next? Putting a "The south will rise again" bumpersticker on my car? Marching against allowing alcohol sales on a Sunday? Saying "By Golly" and meaning it?
I think I need to sit in a quiet corner and reconsider my life. Please excuse me
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
The eye of the storm
Academics are a strange bunch.
However, before I go off on some tangent about how academics should really be classified as a Class C dangerous substance, allow me to digress on the title of this blog for a quick moment.
You see, it's not entirely what I had in mind when I started writing this blog. In Dutch we have a wonderful saying (among many, many, many, many others) which literally translates to "silence before the storm". It refers, on a literal level, to the perfect calm you usually see right before the storm from hades breaks loose. The trees stop fluttering, the birds stop twittering, and just when you're about to comment on how perfectly peaceful everything seems, a storm cloud pops up out of nowhere and dumps a thousand gallons of water on your head. On a metaphorical level it, of course, refers to a period of relative quiet, while you know something major is about to come up on the horizon. It would have been the perfect title for this blog. However, it doesn't translate into English. At least not that I'm aware of.
So I was stuck with using the American version of this saying, "the eye of the storm". Although it's close, it's just not quite the same, and the Dutch don't even have an equivalent. When you think about though, that does make sense, since only hurricanes have "eyes", and Holland has never ever experienced a true hurricane (and don't come crying to me about major storms - until you've seen your porch swing picked up ten feet into the air and slammed into your fence, you haven't seen anything. And in all honesty, that was just the "tail" of a hurricane). Interestingly, America does have major thunderstorms as well, but no sayings about them. So I was stuck using a saying about hurricanes, which really refers to a calm period right after a brief spell of insanity and right before the next spell is about to commence.
Anyway, pardon the digression. As I was saying, academics are strange. We all gripe and complain about our students, the amount of work we have to do throughout the semester, the difficulty of this particular cohort, how these students are the most demanding/spoiled/entitled we have ever seen, throughout the entire semester. We basically can't wait for it to be over. Seriously.
Then, when you're about two weeks away from finals, all that turns around, and suddenly all these same complainers suddenly wonder how we'll ever make do without our responsible seniors to tell the other students to be quiet and pay attention. How much we will miss their sensible input. How hard it will be to train the next cohort to meet their standards.
Another week later, and most faculty members are headed for a level five meltdown. Senior grades are due in 48 hours, and suddenly there are finals to grade, papers to collect, grades to calculate, and O-M-G why didn't we set the deadlines for these final projects way, way earlier. In the meantime, there are regular classes to teach, reviews to organize, and non-graduating finals to make.
And then somewhere in the middle of that is a pocket of peace. And quiet. Two hours between classes when you realize you've graded everything that was handed to you. Your reviews are prepped, your finals have been typed up, and your spreadsheets have been set up. You know you have thirty major papers coming in at 2pm, and more finals after that, but for now, there is absolutely nothing to do. Nothing, and you find yourself browsing sites you haven't looked at in weeks, wondering if you should start working on that grant proposal or manuscript.
Academics are weird.
And perhaps the title of the blog is appropriate after all.
However, before I go off on some tangent about how academics should really be classified as a Class C dangerous substance, allow me to digress on the title of this blog for a quick moment.
You see, it's not entirely what I had in mind when I started writing this blog. In Dutch we have a wonderful saying (among many, many, many, many others) which literally translates to "silence before the storm". It refers, on a literal level, to the perfect calm you usually see right before the storm from hades breaks loose. The trees stop fluttering, the birds stop twittering, and just when you're about to comment on how perfectly peaceful everything seems, a storm cloud pops up out of nowhere and dumps a thousand gallons of water on your head. On a metaphorical level it, of course, refers to a period of relative quiet, while you know something major is about to come up on the horizon. It would have been the perfect title for this blog. However, it doesn't translate into English. At least not that I'm aware of.
So I was stuck with using the American version of this saying, "the eye of the storm". Although it's close, it's just not quite the same, and the Dutch don't even have an equivalent. When you think about though, that does make sense, since only hurricanes have "eyes", and Holland has never ever experienced a true hurricane (and don't come crying to me about major storms - until you've seen your porch swing picked up ten feet into the air and slammed into your fence, you haven't seen anything. And in all honesty, that was just the "tail" of a hurricane). Interestingly, America does have major thunderstorms as well, but no sayings about them. So I was stuck using a saying about hurricanes, which really refers to a calm period right after a brief spell of insanity and right before the next spell is about to commence.
Anyway, pardon the digression. As I was saying, academics are strange. We all gripe and complain about our students, the amount of work we have to do throughout the semester, the difficulty of this particular cohort, how these students are the most demanding/spoiled/entitled we have ever seen, throughout the entire semester. We basically can't wait for it to be over. Seriously.
Then, when you're about two weeks away from finals, all that turns around, and suddenly all these same complainers suddenly wonder how we'll ever make do without our responsible seniors to tell the other students to be quiet and pay attention. How much we will miss their sensible input. How hard it will be to train the next cohort to meet their standards.
Another week later, and most faculty members are headed for a level five meltdown. Senior grades are due in 48 hours, and suddenly there are finals to grade, papers to collect, grades to calculate, and O-M-G why didn't we set the deadlines for these final projects way, way earlier. In the meantime, there are regular classes to teach, reviews to organize, and non-graduating finals to make.
And then somewhere in the middle of that is a pocket of peace. And quiet. Two hours between classes when you realize you've graded everything that was handed to you. Your reviews are prepped, your finals have been typed up, and your spreadsheets have been set up. You know you have thirty major papers coming in at 2pm, and more finals after that, but for now, there is absolutely nothing to do. Nothing, and you find yourself browsing sites you haven't looked at in weeks, wondering if you should start working on that grant proposal or manuscript.
Academics are weird.
And perhaps the title of the blog is appropriate after all.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Sapphires and fires
"tsapphire, tsapphire, an I can poot it ow-d"
My brother likes discovering new artists. When he finds someone he really likes, he usually sends me a copy of their CD for Christmas or my birthday. Besides being grateful for any gift (you know, horse, mouth, and all that), I generally really do appreciate this, as it keeps me informed of what's "hot" in Holland, gives me something besides NPR to listen to on my way to work, and, at times, helps me find artists I, or husband-dear, really like. The only down side I can think of is that whenever he sends me a CD I absolutely love, I can't download the music on my IPod, because the Dutch music industry is so completely neurotically obsessed with the prevention of illegal downloads that every Dutch CD has some sort of technological doohicky on it that doesn't allow you to copy its contents to your computer. Not very helpful when you live overseas, where you can't access Dutch Itunes, and your American Itunes has no idea who "Trijntje Oosterhuis" or "Acda en de Munnink" are.
Anyway, this past Christmas, he sent me a CD by a Dutch artist. Who sings in English. I can't recall her name right now, but it was something obviously made up, like Lois Lane, or Lane Kim, or Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. And immediately, I knew. This is someone from a tiny little town somewhere in Holland, who's always dreamed of becoming a famous American performer. And who wants nothing more than to sound like an American singer. But who, in reality, well, just doesn't.
And in case you think I'm being really snooty right now - the quote at the top of my blog? That's her. I spend half an hour this morning wondering what the heck she was singing about (sapphires? pain? a woman named Ann?), when I finally realized she's trying to say, "It's a fire, it's a fire, and I can't put it out".
You're welcome.
It went on like this throughout every song on the CD. Every gerund (wanting, waiting, loving, pouring), lost its "g", which, unless you want to sound like Carrie Underwood or Martina McBride (not the sound she was going for, trust me), is just odd. She didn't seem to care much for "t's" either, as these disappeared off the ends of words as well. "You" was consistently turned into "ya", which might work in hip hop, but not in the soul-blues sound she was aiming for, while her "can'ts" sounded more like "cans", and her "and's" sounded like "Anns".
Now I realize that Americans like to drawl and slur their words together. They do. I do. But the slurring is a lot more elusive than you might think. We don't just randomly slur stuff together, there is actually something method to the madness. Our "can't", no matter how country you are, definitely sounds different from our "can" (it's in the sound of the "a" mostly), while "you" is not always turned into "ya", and, no we don't always drop all our g's. Or t's. Granted, "What do you want for dinner", might sound more like "whatchawan' for dinner", but when we sing Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah, we don't end every sentence with "ya" instead of "you".
I am also well aware that poking fun at someone because of their accent is not cool. And, even though it might seem that way, it's not what I'm trying to do. Honestly. When I speak German, I have the worst Dutch accent, when I speak French, people think I'm Flemish, while, for some very odd reason, I sound really American when I attempt to speak Spanish. And I don't like it when people poke fun at me either, thank you very much. So, non-native speakers, I'm not bashing you. Really. In fact, I admire your ability to speak multiple languages, as most Americans don't get much beyond "tres enchiladas, por favor".
What I am saying is that if you want to sound like a native, you can't fake it, and you need to either do it right or leave it alone. It's like trying to sound southern when you're not. It sounds affected and unnatural. And very strange to native speakers.
So, shoutout to all Dutch performers: take voice lessons. From a native speaker. And stop dropping your freaking consonants.
Jus' Sayin'
My brother likes discovering new artists. When he finds someone he really likes, he usually sends me a copy of their CD for Christmas or my birthday. Besides being grateful for any gift (you know, horse, mouth, and all that), I generally really do appreciate this, as it keeps me informed of what's "hot" in Holland, gives me something besides NPR to listen to on my way to work, and, at times, helps me find artists I, or husband-dear, really like. The only down side I can think of is that whenever he sends me a CD I absolutely love, I can't download the music on my IPod, because the Dutch music industry is so completely neurotically obsessed with the prevention of illegal downloads that every Dutch CD has some sort of technological doohicky on it that doesn't allow you to copy its contents to your computer. Not very helpful when you live overseas, where you can't access Dutch Itunes, and your American Itunes has no idea who "Trijntje Oosterhuis" or "Acda en de Munnink" are.
Anyway, this past Christmas, he sent me a CD by a Dutch artist. Who sings in English. I can't recall her name right now, but it was something obviously made up, like Lois Lane, or Lane Kim, or Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. And immediately, I knew. This is someone from a tiny little town somewhere in Holland, who's always dreamed of becoming a famous American performer. And who wants nothing more than to sound like an American singer. But who, in reality, well, just doesn't.
And in case you think I'm being really snooty right now - the quote at the top of my blog? That's her. I spend half an hour this morning wondering what the heck she was singing about (sapphires? pain? a woman named Ann?), when I finally realized she's trying to say, "It's a fire, it's a fire, and I can't put it out".
You're welcome.
It went on like this throughout every song on the CD. Every gerund (wanting, waiting, loving, pouring), lost its "g", which, unless you want to sound like Carrie Underwood or Martina McBride (not the sound she was going for, trust me), is just odd. She didn't seem to care much for "t's" either, as these disappeared off the ends of words as well. "You" was consistently turned into "ya", which might work in hip hop, but not in the soul-blues sound she was aiming for, while her "can'ts" sounded more like "cans", and her "and's" sounded like "Anns".
Now I realize that Americans like to drawl and slur their words together. They do. I do. But the slurring is a lot more elusive than you might think. We don't just randomly slur stuff together, there is actually something method to the madness. Our "can't", no matter how country you are, definitely sounds different from our "can" (it's in the sound of the "a" mostly), while "you" is not always turned into "ya", and, no we don't always drop all our g's. Or t's. Granted, "What do you want for dinner", might sound more like "whatchawan' for dinner", but when we sing Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah, we don't end every sentence with "ya" instead of "you".
I am also well aware that poking fun at someone because of their accent is not cool. And, even though it might seem that way, it's not what I'm trying to do. Honestly. When I speak German, I have the worst Dutch accent, when I speak French, people think I'm Flemish, while, for some very odd reason, I sound really American when I attempt to speak Spanish. And I don't like it when people poke fun at me either, thank you very much. So, non-native speakers, I'm not bashing you. Really. In fact, I admire your ability to speak multiple languages, as most Americans don't get much beyond "tres enchiladas, por favor".
What I am saying is that if you want to sound like a native, you can't fake it, and you need to either do it right or leave it alone. It's like trying to sound southern when you're not. It sounds affected and unnatural. And very strange to native speakers.
So, shoutout to all Dutch performers: take voice lessons. From a native speaker. And stop dropping your freaking consonants.
Jus' Sayin'
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Speech classes for Politicians
When life gets insane, which is often does, there are several small things in life that keep me happy. Having hot tea made for me while I work late into the evening is one of them. Five minutes of surveying the dogs running around the yard from the always comfortable porch swing is one too. As is going to bed. But one thing that is always guaranteed to make me smile is hearing local political news.
For those of you who just scratched their heads in wonder, please note, I said hearing. Not listening to. I've stopped liking listening to local political news since the last governor decided that it was absolutely no problem, not at all!, to furlough all employees in higher education. No, what makes me smile is hearing the way the politicians talk.
You see, these politicians don't just have a slight southern accent, where "you" becomes "y'all", and every "i" is lengthened and flattened. No, every single Georgia state politician has a full on Coastal Southern accent, complete with British 'r', the use of the word "yonder", and grammatical features such as "Well, I done told him that.". Not only that, but their drawl is so distinct and so slow, it sounds as though someone fed them a combination of molasses and Quaaludes, and then stuck a microphone under their noses. If you think Gone with the Wind is bad, well, think again.
What's interesting is that I very rarely meet people who speak like that in daily life. The coastal (similar to the Virgina Piedmont accent) accent has become fairly rare, with most southerners pronouncing their 'r's, and sounding more like Paula Deen than Scarlett O'Hara. For the longest time I wasn't sure if Georgia just had a lot of representatives from the Savannah area (where the coastal accent originates), or whether one had to take a mandatory "talk like a southerner" speech class when one got elected to the State Assembly.
Then, just today, NPR did a segment on Texas budget issues, and included a soundbite of their Governor, and one of their representatives. And let me tell you, they sounded like they walked straight off the cattle ranch, spurs and all. Now I've also lived in Texas, and people down there don't walk around talking like they're extras in a Western movie either.
So based on all of this, I have a new found theory. When people are elected to the State Assembly, they suddenly feel the urge to not just represent their state, no, they want to become their state. Or Texas. They're no longer the representative of Twiggs and Dooly counties, no, they are Georgia. And apparently, Georgia talks like Scarlett O'Hara. On Benadryl.
For those of you who just scratched their heads in wonder, please note, I said hearing. Not listening to. I've stopped liking listening to local political news since the last governor decided that it was absolutely no problem, not at all!, to furlough all employees in higher education. No, what makes me smile is hearing the way the politicians talk.
You see, these politicians don't just have a slight southern accent, where "you" becomes "y'all", and every "i" is lengthened and flattened. No, every single Georgia state politician has a full on Coastal Southern accent, complete with British 'r', the use of the word "yonder", and grammatical features such as "Well, I done told him that.". Not only that, but their drawl is so distinct and so slow, it sounds as though someone fed them a combination of molasses and Quaaludes, and then stuck a microphone under their noses. If you think Gone with the Wind is bad, well, think again.
What's interesting is that I very rarely meet people who speak like that in daily life. The coastal (similar to the Virgina Piedmont accent) accent has become fairly rare, with most southerners pronouncing their 'r's, and sounding more like Paula Deen than Scarlett O'Hara. For the longest time I wasn't sure if Georgia just had a lot of representatives from the Savannah area (where the coastal accent originates), or whether one had to take a mandatory "talk like a southerner" speech class when one got elected to the State Assembly.
Then, just today, NPR did a segment on Texas budget issues, and included a soundbite of their Governor, and one of their representatives. And let me tell you, they sounded like they walked straight off the cattle ranch, spurs and all. Now I've also lived in Texas, and people down there don't walk around talking like they're extras in a Western movie either.
So based on all of this, I have a new found theory. When people are elected to the State Assembly, they suddenly feel the urge to not just represent their state, no, they want to become their state. Or Texas. They're no longer the representative of Twiggs and Dooly counties, no, they are Georgia. And apparently, Georgia talks like Scarlett O'Hara. On Benadryl.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Niceties and nuisances
"Hey, how are you?"
"I'm pretty good, happy the week's almost over, how are you?"
"Oh, not bad at all. Everything OK over at the office?"
"Sure, yeah, great."
"Cool. Listen, I was calling to see if you could..."
This little conversation is one I have at least a few times each day. Whereas at my old job I would just call someone and immediately address the matter at hand, here all requests, large or small, convenient or inconvenient require a nice little introduction. Without that little introduction, there's a small chance of getting anything done.
So up in the North, or in Europe, a conversation with a secretary about requiring a toner will probably go something like this:
"Hi, my printer is out of toner, do you have a new one?"
"You have an HP (insert model number here) right?"
"Yes."
"No, sorry, we just gave our last one away, but they are on order."
"Huh. How long will it take for the new ones to come in?"
"About a week. I can shoot you an e-mail when they come in."
"Great, thanks. I appreciate it."
Down here, I had a conversation about that exact same topic not too long ago, and it went something like this:
"Hi, how are you doing today?"
"Oh, I am great, the week is almost over so I am one happy camper."
"That's great."
"How are you?"
"Fine, yep, happy the weekend's on its way. "
"Good"
"So, I was wondering, my printer is pretty much out of toner, do you have a new one for me?"
"What kind of printer do you have?"
"(insert printer type and number here)"
"Hhmm,...I would need to go and look"
(insert long pause)
"No, we're all out I think."
"Oh. Hey listen, I really need one though. Do you think you could order them for me?"
"I don't know. I think so. Yeah, I guess so."
"OK, that would be great. When would you have them?"
"Oh, I don't know. It depends."
"How long does it usually take?"
"You know, I'm not sure. We got so much going on down here, sometimes I can't keep track of everything."
"I bet!"
"I want to say a week or two, but I really just don't know. Let me ask Ms. M"
(pause)
"No, she doesn't know either. It's just one of those unpredictable things you know!"
"Yeah, I know what you mean. So could you let me know when it comes in?"
"Sure honey. Could you e-mail me the name and type again?"
"Of course, and thank you so much."
"No problem."
As you can see, it's not just the extreme amount of niceties, but also the roundabout way in which everything is taken care of. Down in the south, people like to take their time. In everything. You don't just come out and ask something, you show interest in the other party first, build a relationship and then phrase your request, always keeping the other person's interests in mind. If anyone has ever read a Jane Austen novel; living down here sometimes reminds me of the conversations in her books; they're very polite, very charming, very long, and not always to the point.
And you know, when dealing with people in a social setting, it's fine. You quickly get used to having to address things in a less direct manner, and having to frame everything in a bed of politeness. I would even go as far as to argue that in a society where things become more and more fast-paced, it's good to slow down and show some respect and friendliness to the person you're talking to. And the abundant friendliness is very comforting somehow.
But it's when it permeates into the work setting that it becomes slightly annoying at times.
In Europe, if someone would have told me they had no idea how long the toners would take to come in, I would further emphasize that that meant that I would be without a printer for an indefinite amount of time, and that that is not really acceptable. Here, I need to express understanding of the other person's plight if I want them to do anything for me in the future. Sure, you could tell them that this inefficiency on their part is causing you problems, and the other party wouldn't say anything about it to your face. They would just smile and carry on. That's the thing; people down here are always nice and friendly, even if they don't like you. So you will never know if you committed a social gaffe. But when you do, and you cross that unspoken line of what southerns consider rude, they will be very unlikely to ever help you out again. They may be slow to return calls, not smile as much, and stall any request if they feel like it.
But hey, they'll be nice about it:)
"I'm pretty good, happy the week's almost over, how are you?"
"Oh, not bad at all. Everything OK over at the office?"
"Sure, yeah, great."
"Cool. Listen, I was calling to see if you could..."
This little conversation is one I have at least a few times each day. Whereas at my old job I would just call someone and immediately address the matter at hand, here all requests, large or small, convenient or inconvenient require a nice little introduction. Without that little introduction, there's a small chance of getting anything done.
So up in the North, or in Europe, a conversation with a secretary about requiring a toner will probably go something like this:
"Hi, my printer is out of toner, do you have a new one?"
"You have an HP (insert model number here) right?"
"Yes."
"No, sorry, we just gave our last one away, but they are on order."
"Huh. How long will it take for the new ones to come in?"
"About a week. I can shoot you an e-mail when they come in."
"Great, thanks. I appreciate it."
Down here, I had a conversation about that exact same topic not too long ago, and it went something like this:
"Hi, how are you doing today?"
"Oh, I am great, the week is almost over so I am one happy camper."
"That's great."
"How are you?"
"Fine, yep, happy the weekend's on its way. "
"Good"
"So, I was wondering, my printer is pretty much out of toner, do you have a new one for me?"
"What kind of printer do you have?"
"(insert printer type and number here)"
"Hhmm,...I would need to go and look"
(insert long pause)
"No, we're all out I think."
"Oh. Hey listen, I really need one though. Do you think you could order them for me?"
"I don't know. I think so. Yeah, I guess so."
"OK, that would be great. When would you have them?"
"Oh, I don't know. It depends."
"How long does it usually take?"
"You know, I'm not sure. We got so much going on down here, sometimes I can't keep track of everything."
"I bet!"
"I want to say a week or two, but I really just don't know. Let me ask Ms. M"
(pause)
"No, she doesn't know either. It's just one of those unpredictable things you know!"
"Yeah, I know what you mean. So could you let me know when it comes in?"
"Sure honey. Could you e-mail me the name and type again?"
"Of course, and thank you so much."
"No problem."
As you can see, it's not just the extreme amount of niceties, but also the roundabout way in which everything is taken care of. Down in the south, people like to take their time. In everything. You don't just come out and ask something, you show interest in the other party first, build a relationship and then phrase your request, always keeping the other person's interests in mind. If anyone has ever read a Jane Austen novel; living down here sometimes reminds me of the conversations in her books; they're very polite, very charming, very long, and not always to the point.
And you know, when dealing with people in a social setting, it's fine. You quickly get used to having to address things in a less direct manner, and having to frame everything in a bed of politeness. I would even go as far as to argue that in a society where things become more and more fast-paced, it's good to slow down and show some respect and friendliness to the person you're talking to. And the abundant friendliness is very comforting somehow.
But it's when it permeates into the work setting that it becomes slightly annoying at times.
In Europe, if someone would have told me they had no idea how long the toners would take to come in, I would further emphasize that that meant that I would be without a printer for an indefinite amount of time, and that that is not really acceptable. Here, I need to express understanding of the other person's plight if I want them to do anything for me in the future. Sure, you could tell them that this inefficiency on their part is causing you problems, and the other party wouldn't say anything about it to your face. They would just smile and carry on. That's the thing; people down here are always nice and friendly, even if they don't like you. So you will never know if you committed a social gaffe. But when you do, and you cross that unspoken line of what southerns consider rude, they will be very unlikely to ever help you out again. They may be slow to return calls, not smile as much, and stall any request if they feel like it.
But hey, they'll be nice about it:)
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