Accentuate the Positive

Regional accents used to be a staple of great writing.

John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath captures the unique speech rhythms of the displaced Okies as desperation drives them relentlessly toward California. Hemingway did a good job with his characters, too, writing through similar times. The great twentieth century writers had an advantage that is quickly disappearing. Regional speech was more distinct before the era of television. As global speech becomes homogenized, this is increasingly difficult to do, because everyone is starting to sound the same.

Tana French is able to distinguish not only her Irish characters, but also the differences between word and grammar usage among her characters. Her parents talk differently, even swear differently from the younger generations, and Frank, the cop talks with a distinct voice from his working class siblings. It is not just the vocabulary, but the grammar and pronunciation that sets them all apart. Amazingly, she gets this all in print.

I find those distinctions harder to capture and express among Americans.

Some regional dialects, or at least writable differences in pronunciation, are still apparent. I can hear and describe Southern, New England and New York patterns, but the nuance between say, Indiana and Chicago elude me. When I watch movies like Fargo and New in Town, I can hear the intonations of the upper Midwest. If I worked at it, I could probably write those down, too.

But is there a difference between Michigan and Ohio, or Michigan and California speech? Allegedly, the Midwest pattern is what newscasters use. But to my ear, the subtle distinctions between Arizona and Utah and Wyoming simply don’t translate into print.

On the other hand, like Tana French, I can hear and capture the gross differences between Michigan rednecks and middle class characters. Lower class blacks have their own patterns that were once referred to as “Ebonics.” That term is probably no longer PC, but I could still hear it among my students. Occasionally, I would get one who was completely incomprehensible when she made a statement or asked a question. As I recall, she dropped out before too long in the semester. Maybe she couldn’t understand me.

People often change voices depending on who they’re talking to. Listen to anyone cooing to a baby. Their voice goes up an octave, and they tend to babble nonsense. But we also adapt our vocabulary and sometimes our accents, depending on our audience. One of my characters, Beverly Sue Gannett is supposed to be the daughter of a big Coca Cola executive. She turns on her southern charm when she wants to manipulate someone, but otherwise conforms to Midwestern English. I can almost hear her eyes batting as she says, “Y’all know, ma daddy works for Co-Cola.”

People also attempt to gain superiority by strutting their vocabulary. If they want to impress or intimidate someone, they may wheel out their full repertory of fifty-cent words. I like it the best when people misuse words, trying to prove how smart they are. It works.

Another dimension that works well in fiction is age differences in vocabulary. To me, Barbara Park’s character, Junie B. Jones epitomizes this. She talks and acts like a precocious second grader. Very believable. I sometimes read books where children talk like mature adults. If the story is written from the retrospective viewpoint of remembered childhood, fine, but a child should have a child’s voice and vocabulary.

Perhaps the extreme case for this is found in The Art of Racing in the Rain, which is told from a dog’s point of view. At first, I was put off by the premise, but as the story progressed, the author’s intention became clear. The dog, Enzo, had a human’s grasp of his world, but lacked the voice to express himself in the story. He knew, but couldn’t say, except on the page. The language was plain and unaffected. Enzo wasn’t trying to impress anyone. It worked. At the end, I cried.