How the Hell Would I know?

Those of you who know me, know I'm a native born and raised Texan. Which, yes, I guess does mean I have pre-mature age spots, spent to many years with large hair, and use to think chewing gum was sexy.

But most of all, it means I have a drrraaaawwwwllll. I was practically born with one. I spent most of my formative years in a town that's population boasted a little over 2,000 -- and no, I didn't forget a zero. You've heard the expression, a town so small you can walk across it . . . it was.

I never noticed that people spoke oddly, or that I myself, spoke oddly. We all sounded the same. When I moved out and started a family I moved about 30 miles away to a huge town of just over 5,000. There were a few non-Texans that had migrated down, but for the most part everyone still sounded like me.

It wasn't until I was 28 and moved to Kerrville that people begin to make fun of the way I talked. Oh, it was all in fun. They thought it sounded so cute. People would drag co-workers over to my desk and ask me to say something. I worked in the Editorial department and one of my responsibilities was to validate information on the maps and atlases we produced. I hated it. Every time I'd call anyone outside of Texas, I'd either get the same laughing reaction or the person would get pissed because they couldn't understand me.

It got worse when I moved to Austin and went to work for a professional organization, in the editorial department again. My ex-boss was the worse. I'd hear her on the phone telling her friends in New York about my latest mispronunciation or localism. Her favorite was "fixen". She'd ask me if something was done and I'd tell her I was just fixen to do that. She'd laugh until she had to cross her legs or sit down. I no longer say that.

Steve's younger brother, Greg, married a woman from Germany. When Steve's maternal grandmother made the trip down to Texas to meet both Greg's and Steve's new wives she expressed concern before hand about being able to understand the native German. After the visit, her son-in-law asked her if she had any trouble understanding Stephanie and she said, "No. Her I understood. It was Misty I had trouble understanding."

When my girls were young, they were around TONS of cousins, aunts, uncles, grand parents. They were exposed to all kinds of dialects and ways of speaking. They never had a problem.

Then there was Will . . .

It's pretty much just Will and I at home. I understand him and he doesn't sound to bad to me. A little off, but he's a kid. So we show up at the Open House at his school last week and his teacher takes us aside to warn us that at the upcoming parent conference we need to discuss the issues Will is having speaking clearly. She had invited a counselor in to observe him and they would be giving us some exercises and things to help him counter this issue.

She made the comment that I was probably so use to being around him that I didn't always correct him when he spoke incorrectly.

"No," I responded. "I don't ever correct him."

She laughed. But I don't think she understood. It wasn't that I didn't want to, or was slacking off. I didn't know he had an issue. How the hell am I suppose to know what he should sound like?

As long as I understood what he was saying, I figured that was good enough.

Looking back over my life . . . maybe not.