A shout of laughter goes up from the auditorium of junior-high-school students, assembled to watch The Great Imposter. The movie starring Tony Curtis is in one of its few set-in-Canada scenes.
On this last day of school before Christmas break, 1964, we’re in a mood to be amused, all right, but it’s not the script that has tickled us. Rather, it’s the slow and careful articulation by an obviously American actress of what is just as obviously an unfamiliar mouthful of that script.
“I’m from Sass Cat Choo Juan.”
“Oh no, you’re not!” is what every one of us is thinking.
As the scene plays on, I realize, maybe for the first time, that I know something I don’t remember learning. Without ever having been told it by a parent or teacher or older sibling, without ever having read it in a book, I know that familiarity breeds a certain slurring of syllables.
The laughter dying away in the auditorium is proof that I’m not the only one in the know, any more than I’m the only one with local pronunciation habits.
As Al Bertons (no relation to Pierre), we all learned how to pronounce “Saskatchewan” before we could spell it. The result? Not a smidgen of over-articulation or an ounce of hesitation in our delivery.
As Calgarians, we all say our city name in two syllables (Cal Gree), acknowledging the “a” by thinking about it rather than vocalizing it. We don’t say Cal Guh Ree. Or Cal Gare Ee, for that matter.
Until this moment, I’d never really thought about the fact that we sound like locals. I’d certainly never thought about how hard it might be to fake that sound.
But in the 50 years since that pre-Christmas movie day, I’ve learned that I, for one, can sound like a local in only one locale. And a pretty restricted locale, at that: It doesn’t even include my whole country.
As a young Westerner, I knew about a Canadian city I called Ta Ron Toe. It would be years before I learned to even approximate the name its residents use: something like Trah Na. Even now I can’t match their slightly nasal twang.
As a traveller in the USA over the years, I learned about the local pronunciation of little places quite close to my locale: Core Da Lane (Coeur d’Hélene) and Peer (Pierre). I learned about the local pronunciation of big places a little further afield: Nawlins (New Orleans) and Adalanna (Atlanta), among others.
As a traveller in Australia just last year, I learned about Cans (Cairns) and tried not to sound too self-conscious–too non-local–as I said that name without any hint of an “r.”
I also heard a truly learned Australian lecturer (who, naturally enough, said Cans both perfectly and perfectly naturally) make a passing reference to the American state he called Merry Land. Maybe you, like me, call it Mare Uh Lund. The locals call it Marilyn, without any hint of a “d.”
And so it is that life keeps offering epiphanies, albeit somewhat minor.
Knowing and vocalizing are not the same thing.
With all these place names, I’ve learned about but not learned to, if you see what I mean. I no longer say them the way I see them, but I can’t say any of them with just the right degree of careless disregard. I don’t suppose I ever will.
But I will, dagnab it, always sound like I come from Cal Gree.
In my younger years, I lived in Vancouver. We teens liked to slip down into the US for shopping (or a beer). When we crossed the border coming back, all the customs officers ever asked was, “Where ‘ya born?” I learned not to answer “India” — it almost always resulted in a long delay while they checked out why a blonde, blue-eyed, white kid was sneaking into Canada from India. I also learned that if I answered “Tranna” I got through without any trouble. But I’m sure that if I articulated every syllable, they’d have been suspicious.
Jim
Jim – I wonder whether it would be a better or a worse world if the strange-but-true always sounded more credible than the likely-but-false. Or just different.
OK – not sure how this relates? but on our AC flight to France the flight attendant explained to the woman ahead of me, who wanted him to critique her French – that he learned to speak English while living in Texas – and was surprised when Canadians laughed at his accent. The Texans had assured him he spoke English very well!
Alison – Not sure, either, but it’s funny! Actually, it just shows that there’s more than one way to sound like a local – and accent is certainly one of them.
John is always flustered when we return from the States, drive up to Canada Customs and he’s asked where he lives — one time, he couldn’t remember. He explained his answer as we drove off, “Luckily, I was able to look up at the big green sign and just read it off — ‘oh – TA -wa — you know, near Kingston’. The Kingston addition was only because it was listed below Ottawa on the sign. I thought it would help.”
I was kinda surprised they let us through. Could have been the official’s sight of me with closed eyes, shaking my head, trying not to laugh out loud.
John defended himself: “They ALWAYS ask if I have anything to declare & I panicked.”
Barbara – Yes, nothing like a uniformed and armed person to throw one off. And then those trick questions! I have to remember to slow down and actually listen for the question – are they asking where I live (usual on coming into Canada) or where I was born (usual on going into the USA)? I can’t account for Jim T’s experience . . . Like I say, trick questions!
Isabel:
By pure coincidence, I received the following joke from our friend Sid today.
“Two American tourists were driving through Nova Scotia. As they were approaching Shubenacadie (shoe-been-ack-id-die), they started arguing about the pronunciation of the town’s name. They argued back and forth until they stopped for lunch. As they stood at the counter, one tourist asked the blonde employee, “Before we order, could you please settle an argument for us? Would you please pronounce where we are… ver-r-ry slo-o-owly?”
The waitress leaned over the counter and says, “Tiiimmmmm Hoorrrrttooonnns”
Interestingly enough, having grown up in NS, I’ve always pronounced it Shoe-been-ack-EH-DEE.
John W
John – Are we voting? I like your pronunciation, which nicely captures the “acadie” part. As for the put-upon Amer-Eecans, well, they’ll ask a more precise question next time, won’t they?