Michael D. Davis

Finding a new subject for mockery amongst my family is like finding a 20 at the landfill; most everything else has been picked over by the buzzards, making the find a wondrous delight. The latest find has been me, or at least the way I talk.

I was born here, and I grew up here, yet somewhere along the way, I developed a kind of accent. Or at least that’s what I call it.

Others just say I ain’t speakin’ right or that my words are a bit funky. My phrasing has also been subject to the occasional ridicule. Friday night, for example, my Ma asked me if I thought it was hot in the livin’ room. Without thinkin’, I responded.

The second the words left my lips, I knew I was in trouble. I said, quote, “I don’t know, I haven’t concerned myself with the temp’ature.”

What followed was 30 minutes of humorous hazing that only my Ma could have handed out. She threw out lines like, “What the hell does that mean, ya snobby S.O.B.? Who are you? Tennessee frickin’ Williams? Who says somethin’ like that? I don’t concern myself with the temperature. Sounds like something you say sippin’ a mint julep out on a porch. I was asking for your opinion whether or not we needed a fan. Apparently, the master doesn’t lower himself to thinkin’ about if the room is hot or cold or not. Ask a simple question and ya get the stupidest G**damn answer, my God.” Granted, I only heard parts of her response as I was laughin’ too hard.

It’s been a couple of days and I know the end is not near. Tomorrow, she may be headin’ outside and say somethin’ like, “I think I’ll grab a jacket, or maybe I just won’t concern myself with the temperature, like a moron.”

This is, however, only one aspect of the way I talk that brings me grief. My pronunciation of certain words is like candy to them.

This weekend, we all had the pleasure of finding out that I pronounce the word mayor wrong. A simple word, yes, but complex enough to drive everyone my Ma and sister batty over the last two days. It started when I was talkin’ and my Ma wasn’t sure if I said the word MAYOR or MARE. After much inspection and unneeded parody, we learned that I pronounce the two words exactly the same.

My sister described my pronunciation of the word mayor as such, “Sounding like the winding down of an engine.” She said that I was, “taking the O out of the word, and somehow reducing it from two syllables to one.”

So, she said, “Repeat after me, May-or.”

“May’r,” I said, seeing nothing wrong with my pronunciation.

“No,” she went, “M-AY-OR.”

“Yeah,” I said, “may’r.”

“Idiot listen, two syllables. May,” she clapped, “or,” she clapped again.

I repeated may’r and clapped twice.

“How are you not getting this?” she asked.

I said, “I don’t see nothin’ wrong. I always say may’r. Even when I talk to the may’r I say may’r. In fact, I call him Mr. May’r.”

After an outburst of laughter, she managed to squeak out, “Mare, ha! You call him Mr. Horse.” Her laughter continued for several minutes. I still think I’m sayin’ it just fine.