Hey, everyone. I’m over at Lauren’s blog today for the 20sb Blog Swap! (Sorry for the boring post over there, but I have an extreme case of writer’s block.) So, she’s blogging here today. It’s about her accent! I used to live in Florida, so I completely understand. When I moved here to Tennessee, people made fun of my “accent” — even though they all had one, too! Enjoy Lauren’s post.

Hi! I’m Lauren and I blog over at www.halfdesertedstreets.com. When doing blog swaps I like to learn a little bit about the person before writing for their blog. While doing this, I learned that Megan was from a little state called Florida, where I currently reside. I haven’t always lived here, though.

I lived in a small city on Long Island for 12 years of my life. Every summer we’d vacation in the exotic state of Pennsylvania, going to both Dutch Wonderland and Hershey Park, and that was pretty much all I knew. One summer we drove down to Florida to visit my elderly Jewish grandparents. Of course they lived down south; it’s almost natural to be sucked there when you’re over 50 and knitting matzo holders. One thing that really struck me when there was the accents. We ate a Cracker Barrel and I was intrigued by the slow, drawn out drawl. I was “Laaaaren,” not “LAWren.” It was “ya’ll” not “you guys.” I felt so foreign. And I hated how they pronounced my name.

Back at home, I told my classmates about the accents and we all imitated them during lunch. Sounding like cowboys and Southern Belles, we ordered our mushed meat and potatoes in the school cafeteria. Later that year I learned that our vacation to Florida wasn’t, in fact, just a vacation. It was a trial. We were to move there that upcoming summer.

I didn’t have a reaction, really. As a shy 12 year old, I had a handful of good friends, but that was it. Part of me was sad to leave them, but the other part was excited for something different, something new.

During my first day of 9th grade, I tried to blend in, not wanting to stand out too much. I sat in the middle of the classroom, avoiding the back with the cool kids and the front with the geeks. I ordered what everyone else ordered at lunch and sat silently by a group of kids, but not necessarily with them.

It was during History class that I realized how out of place I really was. After discussing that we’d start the year off by learning (once again) about the Revolutionary War, the teacher asked for important events that happened around that time period. Raising my hand timidly, I answered “The Boston Tea Party?”

Everyone laughed.

Red faced and horrified, I sat silently wishing I would disappear. Behind me, a boy I later learned was named Justin asked for me to say it again.

“Say what?” I questioned.
“The answer!”
“The Boston Tea Party?”
“BAHAHAHA. BAWWWSTON!”

It was then that I realized that I, too, had an accent. Being the deluded 12 year old I was, I thought that I was normal and everyone else was different. Needless to say, I monitored everything I said for the rest of the year. No “coffees” or “dogs” or “mall.”

It’s been 13 years and I’ve mostly lost my accent. When around others from NY, or when back up in the state, it comes back, full and strong. I don’t get mocked anymore for over pronouncing words in a clunky dialect. However, I still hate when people call me “Laren.” It’s just not right.