Twang

10 Years Ago

If you’ve ever been to the South, the Deep South - I’m not talking about Atlanta or Florida, I’m talking about the small southern towns scattered between the northern tip of Tennessee and the southern tip of Georgia - then you’ve heard that noise. That drawl. That Southern Accent that sounds like a combination between a foreign language (foreign being alien, not international) and a pig snorting.

I’m not talking about that slight clip of an accent that brings out such terms as “y’all” and turns the occasional one syllable word into a two or three syllable one. I am not talking about that southern belle intonation or the deep Texas accent that is quite detectable yet relatively pleasing. I am referring to the thick southern twang that will turn “The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog” into “Thee qui-ack bro-won fawks jemped awver thu ly-zie daw-ugh.” That hillbilly ruckus that when heard, forces you to turn your head in amazement, wondering exactly what type of creature would produce such a noise.

I thought I had been exposed to the southern accent in all its forms and patterns. I can assure you, however, that I’ve never experienced anything remotely similar to the clamor I am currently forced to contend with daily.

Living in Small Town America, I should have guessed that I’d be subjected to that eminent destruction of the English language. I’ve never liked that coagulated southern accent, but lately, my feelings have been leaning towards hatred. Loathing. Repugnance. Revulsion. I cannot impress upon you the shudders that reverberate through my body when I hear that diction. That odd combination of terrible grammar and preternatural sounds that blend together to form what is supposed to be a sentence but sounds more like the gurgling of a drowning hyena being tormented by a pack of wolves.
I work in an office replete with twang.

Every time I am forced to endure that clamor, I can feel my blood curdle. I close my eyes and shiver and wonder and silently scream at whatever curse has left me within perpetual earshot of that garble. I hold my breath to avoid wailing about the unfairness of it all. To keep from imploring of these people how they can stand the sound of their own voices. When it finally ends, I finally breathe.

No. I really don’t like that reprehensible hillbilly cacophony. That snarled, illiterate desecration of our language. I don’t like to hear it. I don’t like to look at people who manufacture it. I don’t like to live in a place where it congregates. Where there is nothing to stop the torture. Where there is no escape. Where I am constantly trying to hide in sequestered corners so as to avoid its assault.

No. I can safely say that I don’t like it at all.