He whispered, "Please pretend only for today so I can make a good impression on our visiting auditors from headquarters."
"Dear Mr. Wilson," he began, "Will come to Manila and …."
Immediately, I put the pencil down. "Why are you jumping to the middle of a letter when you’ve just opened with a salutation?" I asked.
He looked at me, puzzled and irritated. "That’s why I said, ‘Will come, will come.’"
I peered at him and thought, "Is he serious?" I clenched my fist and just when I was about to let go of the temper brewing inside me, I suddenly realized that he was serious. His thick hometown accent made him say "Will come" when he meant "Welcome."
In New Zealand, I remember being confused at how some of the "e" and "i" sounds have traded places, like in the sounds in "chest" and "cheese."
Every day, my daughter would come home from school weary and frustrated from correcting her classmates who insisted on calling her "Chee-see" and not "Chessy." It was the "kiwi" accent. We either got used to it or didn’t get anything done or weren’t understood at all. Eventually, we adapted, and by the end of the first semester, my daughter spoke like a native. No one was offended. "If we were in the States, they would call this the hillbilly accent," commented a friend.
I finally heard someone speak with the hillbilly accent, or the Appalachian accent. My nephew’s wife, Melissa, a third-generation Italian, spoke Appalachian. I didn’t notice it until my nephew took me aside and whispered, "Tita, my wife speaks with a hillbilly accent. Don’t worry if you find it difficult to understand, it’s only in the beginning. It gets easier each day," he explained.
I laughed and remarked, "That’s all right. We speak more dialects and carry more accents in the Philippines than she does."
Melissa smiled, visibly relieved. "Your nephew was a bit concerned that you might be like the other out-of-town visitors who related the hillbilly accent to a lack of education on the part of the Appalachian people. This could not be further from the truth," she said. "Appalachian was a direct result of the merging of European ancestors when America was just a big mass of land ready to welcome pioneers and settlers. In southern West Virginia and the surrounding states of Kentucky and Tennessee, we claim to speak the ‘purest’ form of English."
When I returned to the hotel, I found more information from their well-stocked library:
"If West Virginia spoke with a different accent and pronunciation, it was because the Europeans who came to settle in America brought their own unique manner of speaking. Add to this the thick impenetrable range of mountains and the narrow winding roads that isolated these settlers that limited their social and cultural horizons. But it was this same topographic isolation that gave them their sense of identity and preserved a way of life that was lost to the rest of the world."
The following day, Melissa was eager to tell more about the hillbilly accent. She brought out thick, hard-bound books from her father’s collection and explained, "Tita, the rich dialect of the hills often has been described as being akin to the Elizabethan English of Shakespeare, or the purest form of Virgin English."
She said that over the centuries, the Scots, Irish, English and German dialects merged into the tongue that it is today.
I asked Melissa, "Can you give me an example of how you’ve mixed the words from the different regions or countries in Europe?"
She replied, "We have, for instance, the hard letter ‘R.’ This is a product of the Irish dialect, and the way they sometimes run two or more words together, such as "Jeat" instead of ‘Did you eat,’ which in turn, is a product of the Elizabethan English influence of Shakespeare’s time."
Just then it occurred to me that in the over 7,000 islands of the Philippines, our distinctive accents and dialects have moved our ideas across the entire archipelago. They have become integral to how we’ve created our exclusive identity, becoming truly our way of communicating.
I didn’t have to look far. Every time I hear my husband speak in his clear and lilting Chabacano, a pair of antennae emerges between my ears. It’s mental aerobics time again.
I catch and bounce words and phrases in Spanish (interspersed with Bisaya and Tagalog) that he sprinkles his thoughts and ideas with. No clandestine contracts can exchange hands in my presence because I can understand (or at least get the gist of) every single word he says.
"You track me?" He would ask and I would blow kisses and say, "You bet your thick, curly, jet-black head, dearie."
The proverbial joke of selling someone lost in translation – meaning me – can’t apply in this situation (or in the next).
Just listen to our own version of the UN assembly, as an Ilocano speaks, distinct from a Cebuano, an Ilongo, a Davaoeño, a Pampangueño, a Bulakeño, or a "laking Maynila" (Manila-raised). Add to this the "Swartz" dialect that evolved from a unique blend of contracted words that have members of the third sex beaming from ear to ear. In this unique and well-contrived language, there’s a happy mixture of fun, confusion and gaiety.
But a word of caution, please: Avoid speaking in slang and slurs in a vain attempt to pass yourself off as an American. Others speak in Ebonics using double negations for emphasis, as in the expression, "I ain’t never done nuthin’ like that." The sound that reaches my ears is similar to radio feedback that can leave me absolutely incensed.
You don’t need to slip into someone else’s accent. You were already born with one. Just remember to speak in plain, simple and correct English, and you stay deeply rooted and grounded with pride for your mother tongue, the language you were lovingly raised with.
Turning to my hillbilly niece, I asked her to "edicate" me in some of their unique expressions. She broke into a wide smile and with a hint of pride in her voice, she said, "I’d be honored, Tita."
You called your grandmother "Mamaw," "Ma," or "Meemaw."
You saw your reflection in a "meer."
If you picked a "mess" of beans, you had enough to do for a meal.
People without clothes were "neckkid."
"Oldtimers" was a deterioration of the brain cells.
An "outsider" was someone not from southern West Virginia.
You need to be more "pacific" when you call someone "kinfolk."
"Pee-paw" is your great-grandfather. He was "plain spoken," honest and genuine.
If you were "peak-ed," then you weren’t feeling very well.
To put the "quietus" on someone meant that you gave out punishment that shut them up.
"Schoolin" is what you called an education.
People were naturally "skittish" about you if they found out you were not from "these parts."
"Smack dab" meant right in the middle or right on target.
It "smarts" when you hit your thumb with a hammer.
"Son" is an address to any male to whom you are speaking. He doesn’t have to be related. As in, "Son, I’ll tell ya, that Pony-ack can really get up the hollar."
Keep your hand off the "stove-eye" (electric stove heating element) because it really "smarts." But it felt "right good" when it stopped "smartin."
Stay a "spell" means to loiter a while.
Your girlfriend gave you "sugars" if you were "courtin’ heavy."
Jobs that were minute and difficult sometimes were referred to as being "tejous."
"A-mite" means a little bit of something.
"Arthur-it is" is the painful aching of the joints.
"Askeered" is being frightened beyond words.
"Battree" is used to start your truck.
The milk is "blinked" or "blinky" when it’s spoiled. A witch sometimes would "blink" her eyes at your cow, and the milk would turn sour.
If a person was educated, then he was considered "book read."
You often referred to your brethren at the church as you "brother’n."