As a child, I was proud of my southern origin. My own voice reflected my family's past and present-part northern Mississippi, part Tennessee, all southern. There was no sound I loved more than my grandmother's accent: thick, sweet, warm.
While growing up, I began to realize outside of our region, southerners were often dismissed as uncultured and ignorant. I was ready to leave behind my tiny town in West Tennessee, starting a new life and jumping at big chances in some far-off cities. In that embarrassing space between "teen" and "adult", my accent was a symbol of everything I thought I hated about my life in the rural South. I feared it would disqualify me from being a noted magazine writer. I would have to talk less "country". So I killed a piece of myself. I'm ashamed of it, but I'm more ashamed that I tried to kill that part of someone else-change Emily's accent.
I met Emily in college. She was determined to work for the student newspaper, which was where I spent most of my waking hours, and we became friends. She, unlike me, accepted her roots. Early in our friendship, her mother asked where I was from, assuming it was somewhere up north. Then I felt my efforts paid off and even wanted to ignore the mistake.
Emily is two years younger and she cared about my opinion. I advised her to be more like me and hide her signature Manchester accent. I stressed that throughout our college years, often by making fun of her vowel (元音) sounds. I told myself I was helping her achieve her dream of working as a reporter. Now, I see that it was actually about justifying my hiding part of myself.
Grandma Carolyn used to tell me, "Girl, don't forget where you come from." Now I truly understand that. Many things have faded from memory, but this sticks in my mind with uncomfortable clarity. Now that I am grown and have left the South, it's important to me.
