Moving from the East Coast to the West Coast can create some unexpected language problems. At times, it felt as if I’d entered a foreign land.

 

When you make the move, you have to learn how to adjust. How I attempted to do this is explained in . . .

 

 

Tawk To Me

 

Introduction 

     Earlier this year, March 2, 2020, to be exact, I met a couple, Julia and John, up at the Orchard Creek Lodge in Sun City Lincoln Hills—our active adult community. As we chatted, Julia commented, “It doesn’t sound like you’re from California. Are you from the East Coast?” she asked. “Maybe Boston. Guess you haven’t been here long, since you have such a strong accent.”

     I cringed when she said, “Boston,” and replied, “I’m from New York, born and raised there. I came to California when I was twenty and have lived here for over fifty-five years.”

     “That’s surprising,” she said. “You’d think your accent wouldn’t be as prominent by now.”

     “Well, if you have a few minutes, I can tell you why it is.” She turned and looked at John, who didn’t appear very interested.

     “I’m going to go look at some books in the library area, but you can stay,” he said. “However, make it quick. I don’t want to eat lunch too late.” Then, without acknowledging me, he left.

     “Sometimes I wish he’d take a greater interest in the people we meet,” Julia said. “He’s a good guy, but likes to keep to himself. Enough about him. I want to hear your story.”

     “Okay, let’s sit over there.” We went over to two soft, comfortable chairs and plopped down. She leaned back, and I began . . .

 

My Story

     I was born in the Bronx, New York, and raised on Long Gisland—the “s” is silent and, yes, it starts with a “G.” Since my friends, family, and teachers were all from the same “country,” New York, they understood me when I tawked.

     It was not until age 14 that I realized my perfect diction might not be understood beyond my country’s borders. That summer, my parents sent me to an overnight camp on the New York-Massachusetts state line. Many of the campers came from Massachusetts.

     I decided to try out for a play and was delighted to get a role. To my surprise, I had the opening line in the show. The line was, “Hark! The mail train is on time again.” The audience was composed of campers and their parents from both New York and Massachusetts. I stood erect, at the front of the stage, extended my right arm, pointed up in the air, and shouted, “Hawk! The mail train is on time again.” As far as I know, to this day, many audience members are still looking for that elusive bird.

     Did this experience prepare me for life in California? Not quite. One of the first people I met when I arrived here introduced himself to me as Berry. I looked at him and said, “That’s a strange name for a guy.”

     He seemed confused by my remark. “My mother named me after Berry Goldwater,” he said. “It’s a common name.”

     “Oh, you mean, Barry.”

     “Isn’t that what I said?”

     During my first year in graduate school at UCLA, I worked as a teaching assistant in an Educational Psychology class. I got a call from Dr. Jones early one morning. “Alan, I’m not feeling very well,” she said. “Can you teach the class this afternoon?”

     “Yes, I’d be happy to. However, I’m a little uneasy, since I’ve never done it before,” I responded.

     “You’ll do fine”, she assured me. “The subject is the ‘Hawthorne Effect.’”

     “That afternoon, about 150 students poured into the large lecture hall. I stood before them and smiled. “Please take your seats. The subject of today’s session is the “Horthorne Effect.” Students began to look at one another, somewhat confused.

     So I wrote the words on the blackboard, and a student yelled out, “Oh, you mean the . . . ‘Hawthorne Effect.’” Everything was right with the world.

     After that experience, I thought the appropriate thing to do was to learn how to speak “Californian.” I tried hard, but still would say such things as, “I have an ‘idear’ I’d like to share with you,” and, “My sister’s name is ‘Ritar.'”

     Two years later, I was hired as a Psychology instructor at Moorpark College, a community college in Southern California. My students seemed enthusiastic, but had trouble understanding some of the things I was saying—not the concepts, but how I pronounced my words. And to be honest, I had trouble understanding them.

     One of the best examples of our inability to communicate was with the words, “Mary, merry, and marry,” which flowed from their mouths as, “Merry, merry, and merry.” I impressed upon them that they better be careful, because in an effort to befriend Mary and make merry, they may end up having to marry her.

     Well, no matter how hard I tried, in their ears, I still spoke a foreign language. And for me, I found it had one great advantage. Since they often didn’t understand me, they had to pay attention and ask me to clarify what I had said. This seemed far better then becoming fluent in their language.

     Today, over fifty years since this incident, I’m much more a Californian than a New Yorker. But when I open my mouth, it’s obvious one thing has never changed.

 

Conclusion

     “Wow! I enjoyed the story. The decision you made to keep your accent makes perfect sense. Thank you for sharing it with me.”

     “No, thank you for listening.”

     She smiled and said, “I better go find John.” As she walked away, she looked back at me and said, “You mentioned you were a writer. Why don’t you write the story? I think others would find it interesting.”

     And so I did.

 

 

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