Diphthong or L?

Posted on November 26, 2012 by Ben
Septa Station

wikimedia

The other day, in a Philadelphia train station, I overheard a woman ask a ticket taker if a train would take her to what sounded like “Choatenham.” A moment later, I realized she had asked if the line went to Cheltenham, an inner suburb north of the city. Since many Mid-Atlantic accents feature l-vocalization, the syllables “Choat-” and “Chelt-” can sound quite similar (both close to ʧɜʊt).*

In such accents, remember, /l/ becomes something of a vowel or semi-vowel at the end of syllables. Because this vocalized /l/ is usually produced close to the velum, it tends to come off as o (as in British “paw“), w (as in “wet”), or ʊ (as in British/American “put”). In the example I’ve just mentioned, this results in “el” sounding quite close to the vowel in “go” (especially because this diphthong has a fairly front starting-point in broad Philly English).

Mine is not the first such observation. In his Accents of English, John Wells notes that around London, l-vocalization can result in the words “Paul‘s,” “pulls,” “pause,” and “pools” sounding nearly identical. In certain circumstances, it can cause tremendous confusion to outsiders.

Most intriguing to me is the way l-vocalization wreaks havoc on diphthongs. Beyond the above example, I would be little surprised if there were parts of England where “pal” and “pow” are homophones (pæʊ). A number of sociolinguists note that “dull” and “dole” may be homophones in Cockney**. And some varieties of African American and American Southern English feature a vocalized /l/ that is somewhat close to a schwa, thus rendering “feel” and “fear” strikingly similar in pronunciation.

As mentioned at the beginning of this post, particularly salient is the mid-Atlantic tendency to (almost) neutralize pairs like boat-belt, coat-Celt, and home-helm. You can’t describe this as a merger given that l-vocalization is often inconsistent. But it is a prime example of how a large-scale reordering of vowels ending in /l/ is theoretically possible.

Any other good examples of these interesting conflations?

*This seems especially case because due to “l-coloring,” the ‘e’ in “Chelt-” sounds to be somewhat retracted.

**See Wells, 1982, pp. 315 for a discussion of this.

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“Americanized” Non-American Novels

Posted on November 18, 2012 by Ben
Fleshmarket Close

Photo: Simon Johnston

I’m reading (and enjoying) my first Inspector Rebus novel, Fleshmarket Alley, by Scottish crime writer Ian Rankin. Non-American Rebus fans may not recognize the book’s American title, as it goes by the more evocative moniker Fleshmarket Close in the UK. Why it must be spelled out this way for Americans is anyone’s guess; the context more than clarifies the term’s meaning in the book.

Alas, this is hardly the first time editors have reworked a book’s language for American readers. The Harry Potter Lexicon lists many such alterations to the series’ North American editions. The changes are especially pronounced in the early entries, but can be found throughout the series (although given that American readers bought the Trollopian later volumes in droves, I doubt the odd “crumpet” would keep fans at bay).

Some such changes to J.K. Rowling‘s oeuvre made sense (e.g. “disorientated” strikes most Americans as strange). Others induce groans among those passingly familiar with British English (“Parking lot” replaces “car park?” And for Pete’s sake, “soccer” instead of “football?”)

Then there are the ridiculous switches in the American Potter whereby overzealous editors replaced words native to American English: “lavatory” is at one point changed to “bathroom,” “sweets” becomes “candy,” and “cinema” becomes “movies.” Such finickiness recalls Ricky Gervais’ shock at the inclusion of “Shakespeare” in the British English glossary provided with the The Office‘s American DVD. (Surely we aren’t that clueless.)

For whatever good intentions such edits may spring from, they drive me crazy as a reader. Fleshmarket Alley/Close, to cite one example, makes effective use of its Edinburgh locations. So when the protagonist refers to “Edinburgh’s tenements,” for instance, is this the word Edinburghers use (it would be interesting to compare the Scottish and American definitions), or was it something else in the original? A mere Google search reveals the answer, but I’d like to feel I’m reading the author’s original words. In Rankin’s novels, so Scottish you can feel the chilly damp stinging your cheeks as your read them, the dialect and language is as much a part of the atmosphere as the fog-shrouded Firth.

I’ve long assumed this to be a recent trend, but I’ve begun to wonder how much non-American literature I’ve read that’s been tampered this way. Does anyone know the history of this kind of thing? Or other books that have been “Americanized?”

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“You is Smart:” Dialect Gripes About “The Help”

Posted on November 14, 2012 by Ben
Plantation House

Photo: Historical American Buildings Survey

The other day, a Twitter pal mentioned a certain discomfort while reading Kathryn Stockett’s The Help. Apropos of this blog, it seems there are a number of complaints about the author’s (arguably) shaky command of African American Vernacular English, a dialect in which a large chunk of the book is written.

I must confess to not reading the novel in its entirety (despite a few aborted attempts; it’s just not my cup of tea). But I’ve read enough to offer a few general thoughts on some of the controversy surrounding the book’s language.

Before getting into that, however, I feel the need to defend Stockett on one point. Several critiques of her writing take issue with one of the novel’s most famous lines: “You is smart, you is kind, you is important.” Here’s a typical gripe, from a blog titled (appropriately) A Critical Review of the novel The Help:

“You is kind, you is smart, you is-” … Could there be anything as vile and contrived as that dialogue? Or as condescending? How about the uneasy closeness it has to something written for an episode of Amos n Andy…

I was going to devote this post explaining why this line doesn’t work, but Pagelady, a linguist who blogs about literature, beat me to the punch about a year ago:

[You is smart, you is kind, you is important] doesn’t fit with either the be-deletion rule or the Habitual “Be” usage. Since this is a construction where SAE could contract the copula, (“you’re kind,” etc.), it is likewise a construction where be-deletion is possible in AAVE, (“you kind.”)

But to be clear, this criticism actually applies to the movie, not the book.  Stockett herself does not in fact attribute these words to an African-American character. Rather, it’s a child who utters “you is smart, etc,” attempting to repeat what her nanny has told her. The film adaptation passes this line off to an adult, but I think we can acquit the novelist of this individual charge*.

That doesn’t mean one may not have other linguistic quibbles, however. For one thing, there seems to be little code-switching in The Help. Some of Stockett’s African-American characters speak in the broadest vernacular in every context they speak, even in this discussion of Sigmund Freud from Chapter 12:

“Oh, people crazy … I love reading about how the head work. You ever dream you fall in a lake? He say you dreaming about your own self being born. Miss Frances, who I work for in 1957, she had all them books.”

Keep in mind this character spends her days moving between the world of the Southern gentry and the segregated poor communities nearby. I have a hard time believing that nimble code-switching wouldn’t be a part of her everyday discourse, and that she wouldn’t change her register somewhat when discussing psychoanalysis with her college-educated, standard-English-speaking friend. (But of course, I really can’t speak from personal experience how anyone in 1960s Mississippi spoke.)

Beyond this sociolinguistic qualm, the book’s detractors more likely wince at jarring passages like this:

You’d never know it living here, but Jackson, Mississippi, be filled with two hundred thousand peoples. I see them numbers in the paper and I got to wonder, where do them peoples live? Underground?

This kind of language, whether it’s accurate or not, is going to stick out like a sore thumb in a novel written in 2009. The question is whether or not it’s historically justifiable. And more importantly, whether or not this character would choose these particular words to express this point.

Again, though, I don’t want to judge Stockett too harshly given that I haven’t read the whole book. Do any of the novel’s fans (or detractors) have thoughts on the use of dialects in the novel?

*In the novel, Aibileen (one of the narrators) says “you smart, you kind, you important,” which is more consistent with AAVE grammar.
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Higgins’ Boast

Posted on November 5, 2012 by Ben
Philadelphia

Philadelphia Street (Photo: Adam Jones)

I heard rumors in college of a speech teacher with an exceptional knack for guessing dialects. He could supposedly pinpoint, within ten miles, where a student was from. “Ohio,” he would deduce. “About seven miles west from Akron.” “Bangor, Maine.” “St. Louis. The western suburbs.”

Such legends have floated around drama schools and linguistics departments for years. All are variations of “Higgins’ Boast,” the claim Shaw’s Pygmalion protagonist makes in Act I:

You can spot an Irishman or a Yorkshireman by his brogue. I can place any man within six miles. I can place him within two miles in London. Sometimes within two streets.

Alas, I find that most such boasts are exaggerations, although more plausible when Shaw was writing. Higgins was “living” in the 1910’s, a time when streets, boroughs and villages may very well have had distinguishable accents. While recently reading Douglas W. Rae’s The City, a book about American urbanism, it struck me how dense and insular communities were during the industrial era. So perhaps Epsom and Lisson Grove  were as linguistically unique as Higgins suggests.

That being said, Henry Higgins was “speaking” before modern tape recorders existed, so I don’t entirely buy his claim. He implies, for instance, that he can make such deductions as far away as Ireland. But unless Higgins had bottomless financial resources and travelled constantly, it’s unlikely he could spot the difference between, say, two nearby villages in County Kerry.

If someone were to make a similar boast today, we would find the opposite problem. One can imagine the endless hours Higgins would spend on YouTube; given the “corpus” of English speech available online, a man of his talent could come close to achieving such mastery.

But conversely, the kind of fine lines Higgins draws in Pygmalion are rarer now than they were in the late Edwardian. Given our economic and physical mobility, I have a hard time believing that there is a “Cambridge Heath Road accent” distinguishable from a “Vallance Road twang.”

Which is not to say that such guesses are impossible. For instance, while recently watching a documentary about the making of Hitchcock’s Psycho, I accurately guessed the neighborhood of the exact city where screenwriter Joseph Stefano grew up (answer after the clip):

Stefano is from South Philadelphia. My shot-in-the-dark might sound impressive, but like a cheap psychic, I relied on luck and probably some unconscious cheating. That Stefano is from the Philadelphia area is unquestionable. That I guessed he’s from South Philly, however, may have been influenced by his Italian last name.

So while I think such geographically precise guesses are possible in some cases, I find the idea that someone can pull this trick off for the entire English-speaking world (or even the entirety of America or the UK) fairly implausible. People differ too greatly in the degree to which their accents are “local.” And regions differ too greatly in the degree to which they differ!

Have you ever met someone with an ability as impressive as Higgins? Or are such feats the stuff of legend?

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Shall vs. Will

Posted on October 29, 2012 by Ben

A reader contacted me recently with a question about the modal auxiliary verb “shall:”

When did Americans stop using “shall” (and should as a first-person replacement for would) in normal conversation? … My guess is people had stopped using “shall” around 1900, but it took literature another fifty years or so to catch up. And I have a feeling it’s still sometimes used in British English.

“Shall” has been receding for some time now, as this NGram chart suggests*:

For perspective, here is a chart of several modal auxiliaries. While most others have remained relatively stable over the past 200 years (with the possible exception of “may”),  “shall” has clearly declined the most:

shall

The word was perhaps always a bit less common than the other modals. But where it once vied with “could” for last place among these types of words, the latter emerged as the clear winner by the end of the 20th-Century.

It’s important to note, though, that it’s hard to make a case for the word’s Britishness based on NGram data. Here a chart of the word’s progress again, using just NGram’s American corpus:

shall

And here is one for the British corpus:

Shall

So it’s arguably declined at a relatively comparable rate in both countries. Of course, we’re looking at texts, here, and the various literary and legal uses of “shall” probably distort things somewhat.

So why did the word fall from grace? I would speculate that, much like whom, the rules for “shall” may have made it less attractive to English speakers. Fowler begins his chapter on Shall vs. Will in The King’s English (1906) with a telling warning: “In apology for the length of these remarks it must be said that the short and simple directions often given are worse than useless.” Indeed, the “directions” that follow are downright mind-boggling. Here is a small excerpt (feel free to take a coffee break in the middle):

Reported questions present the same difficulties. Again those only are doubtful that belong to the plain future. There, for instance, reporting Shall you do it? we can say by the correct analogy I asked him whether he should; and we generally do so if the verb, as here, lends itself to ambiguity: I asked him whether he would do it is liable to be mistaken for the report of Will you do it?—a request. If on the other hand (as in reporting Shall you be there?) there is little risk of misunderstanding, I asked him whether he would is commoner. And again it is only in extreme cases, if even then, that the original W. can be kept when the report introduces I in place of the original question’s you or he. For instance, the original question being How will he be treated?, it may be just possible to say You had made up your mind how I would be treated, because You had made up your mind how I should be treated almost inevitably suggests (assisted by the ambiguity of making up your mind, which may imply either resolve or inference) that the original question was How shall he be treated?

For me at least, “shall” has too many competitors to be effective in spoken conversation. Why it seems more common in spoken British English isn’t an easy question to answer, though. It’s possible that a focus on more formal grammar, at least among some segment of that country’s population, has kept its circulation going longer. Or it could be for reasons of chance that can’t quite be explained. Or, apropos of the NGram charts above, it’s possible that “shall” has declined a good deal more among Britons than American impressions might suggest.

Do you use “shall?” And if so, how do you distinguish it from “will?”

 

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“N’Awlins” And Other Abbreviations

Posted on October 22, 2012 by Ben
Willimantic

Willimantic, Connecticut, by J. Walden Weir (1893)

In an episode of Gordon Ramsay’s “Kitchen Nightmares,” a ridiculous (and non-local) restauranteur tries to convince Ramsay that New Orleans‘ pronunciation is “N’Awlins” (nɔ:lɪnz). As any New Orleanian will tell you, “N’Awlins” is largely a tourist affectation. You might as well insist that “New Jersey” is pronounced “New Joysey.”

Although my impression is that locals rarely say “N’Awlinz,” it probably has some basis in reality. Far from being the preferred native pronunciation, however, it’s likely the most extreme abbreviation in a series of progressively shorter variants: “New Orlee-uns” (nu: ˈɔ:lɪənz) –> “New Orlinz” (nu: ˈɔ:lɪnz) –> (“N’w Orlinz” (nwɔ:lɪnz) –> “N’Orlinz” (nɔ:lɪnz).

The Big Easy isn’t unique in this regard. I would cite several cities with similar “abbreviation continuums.” For instance:

Toronto:

“Toronto” (təɹɒnto) –> “Tronto” (tɹɒnto) –> “Trono” (tɹɒno)

Louisville:

“Louisville” (luɪvil) –> “Loo-uh-ville” (luəvil) –> “Loouhvuhl” (luəvəl)

Baltimore:

“Baltimore” (bɔ:ltɪmɔɚ) –> “Bawdimore” (bɔ:ɾɪmɔɚ) –> “Bawmore” (bɔ:mɔɚ)

I’m not going for strict accuracy here (I’m probably missing a step or two along the way). Nevertheless, it seems that there are often a few people (usually non-local) who are eager to suggest the pronunciation with the most elisions is the “local” one.

For instance, I had a semi-Canadian friend in college who insisted that the city’s “true” local pronunciation was “Trawno” and that Mississauga‘s corresponding pronunciation was “Missawga” (mɪsɒgə). Many Canadian obviously pronounce these words without the elided “o” and “i,” so this clearly doesn’t ring true.

What is true is that people are often inconsistent in how they pronounce their home towns. I grew up in and around a place called Willimantic, for instance, and while I often say this word exactly how it is spelled (wɪlɪˈmæntɪk), I have also been known to call it “Willmantic” (wɪlˈmæntɪk) and occasionally “Wimantic” (wɪˈmæntɪk). But that is not to suggest that “Wimantic” is the “local” pronunciation, but rather that Mohegan-Pequot is not a language whose phonemes find bosom buddies within the English sound inventory. So sometimes, in a rush, I tend to slur.

Place names, which rarely derive from modern English, are often awkward to pronounce. It’s no wonder Anglicized French or native American names like “Louisville” and “Willimantic” are subject to dropped syllables and consonants. And while sheer frequency might lead natives to slur these words more than outsiders, it’s not always the case that such abbreviations are the “correct” pronunciation.

Do you pronounce your home town in a consistent way?

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Why This American “Slips Into Britishisms”

Posted on October 15, 2012 by Ben

An article by Alex Williams in the New York Times discusses the “recent” trend toward Northeastern Americans adopting British slang in everyday conversation. The piece targets the usual suspects: BBC America, Downton Abbey and JK Rowling are the most commonly cited. But while Williams discusses this borrowing as if it were a current fad, I suspect it’s been going on for some time now.

I can’t comment on every possible reasons for this phenomenon (Lynne Murphy has a more nuanced take here), but I can comment on myself; I am an incorrigible British English thief. For me, however, the habit is no mere pretense, but rather the product of a unique upbringing. I would cite three big factors:

Roald Dahl

Roald Dahl

1.) Many people my age were brought up on British literature. The 1960s-1990s were British lit’s golden era among American children. Williams’ article mentions Harry Potter, but really, JK Rowling was the icing on the cake. Her books arrived after decades in which Roald Dahl* dominated the children’s novel genre, along with CS Lewis, Mary Norton, Brian Jacques, and Frances Hodgson Burnett. With a steady diet of British English, it had an impact on my writing style and, in due course, how I speak.

TV

wikimedia

2.) PBS. Long before BBC America, we had PBS. If, like me, you had no cable TV and lived in a rural area, PBS was the best option you had between 1980 and 1992. Public Broadcasting had a packed schedule British programming schedule: Masterpiece Theatre, Upstairs Downstairs, Fawlty Towers, As Time Goes By, and various other Beeb staples. I had far more exposure to British English than my parents did thanks to PBS’ thrifty borrowing from the state-funded broadcaster across the pond.

Goth

wikimedia

3.) Britishisms had a covert prestige among the young and “weird.” If you were like me, growing up in American exurbia, you longed to separate yourself from the locals. Among many young, Cure-loving, “alternative” teenagers, Britishisms served as a kind of badge of allegiance. I don’t recall ever referring to an elevator as a “lift,” but I definitely let loose an unironic “bloody” here and there. I don’t find this surprising. After all, the fascinatingly ongoing phenomenon of the American “teenage goth” certainly finds its roots in UK post-punk.

I guess what I’m suggesting here is that the rise in Britishisms among Generations X and Y may have been due to groundwork laid decades past. At least they were for me. Although America’s current craze for Dr. Who and Sherlock no doubt helped the process along.

*Albeit long after many of his novels had been published.
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Was Received Pronunciation Ever Rhotic?

Posted on October 7, 2012 by Ben
Thomas Sheridan

Thomas Sheridan (wikimedia)

People around the world associate Britain with non-rhoticity, the process whereby /r/ is dropped at the end of syllables such as ‘car‘ and ‘start.’ This impression largely stems from the fact that the non-rhotic Received Pronunciation (RP) was the standard for British English for years, and is still treated as such by many foreign language learners. But was RP always “r-less?”

If by “Received Pronunciation” we mean a “standard British accent,” one finds that it wasn’t until fairly late in the game that non-rhoticity was the absolute norm.

Note, for example, the opinion of renowned 18th-Century language writer, actor, lexicographer, elocutionist, playwright, and education reformer Thomas Sheridan (gotta love those Georgian-era Renaissance men). He stated plainly in his General Dictionary of the English Language (1780) that /r/ “always has the same sound, and is never silent.” Sheridan was Anglo-Irish, which may or may not have skewed his opinion, but my guess is that his thoughts on the matter were not unique. Most accounts describe the 18th-Century as a transition period for non-rhoticity in British English.

In fact, the matter was apparently not settled by the early 1800s. Samuel Johnson collaborator John Walker, writing shortly before Queen Victoria’s birth*, described /r/ in a rather contradictory way:

[R] is never silent … In England, and particularly in London, the r in lard, bard, card, regard, etc. is pronounced so much in the throat as to be little more than the middle or Italian a, lengthened into laad, baad, caad, regaad … if this letter is too forcibly pronounced in Ireland, it is often too feebly sounded in England, and particularly in London, where it is sometimes entirely sunk …

So Walker would seem to advocate maintaining /r/ in these positions, right? Not quite. He sums up this thought with …

… but bar, bard, card, hard, etc. must have it nearly as in London.

So it seems that Walker acknowledged that non-rhoticity was becoming common in England’s “standard” accent, but wasn’t quite willing to admit it.

Of course, by the time Daniel Jones described RP in the Edwardian era, the accent was fully non-rhotic. The question is, what happened between Sheridan and Jones?

The Sheridan quote suggests that at a certain point in 18th-Century, non-rhoticity was viewed as something of a working-class or regional feature, and hence avoided in “polite” speech (to borrow a typical descriptor of the time). There are likely many reasons why RP went from rhotic to non-rhotic; personally, I find that mere population growth is as compelling an explanation as any. London experienced a rapid boom in the late 18th and early 19th Centuries, and many London speech features (such as non-rhoticity) would become unavoidable by the upper orders.

I’m not discussing non-rhoticity in general, of course. The phenomenon itself has a different history from its timeline as a “prestige” feature. But it’s interesting to examine why what once was a regional quirk in eastern England became such a defining marker of “proper” British English.

*In his Principles of English Pronunciation (1816).
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Singing in Dialect, Part 2: When Brits Go GenAm

Posted on October 1, 2012 by Ben

Like many young urbanites in the 2000s, I was obsessed with Joy Division. I’m not sure why this two-decades defunct* band from Manchester touched a nerve, but touch a nerve it did. Yet I always found it perplexing the way its British lead singer, Ian Curtis, sang with a strikingly American accent:

It’s a long-running tradition for both American and British singers to mimic African American Vernacular English when singing the blues or blues-derived genres like rock. But Curtis adopted an accent that vaguely resembled General American English. At a time when British singers used their own dialects, why did Curtis choose to sing in an voice so different from that his native Macclesfield-ian?

Curtis’ hypercorrective pronunciation of “flawed” so it sounds like “floored” recalls Paul McCartney’s jarring “I never sore them at all” from “Till There Was You.” In both cases, I am assuming these singers adopted rhotic pronunciations to sound more like their cousins across the pond (although both came from cities near rhotic Lancashire).

Sometimes such attempts result in fascinatingly muddled accents. For instance, Marcus Mumford, of the wonderful Mumford & Sons, mixes his native London with something else that is … American, West Country, Irish maybe? I actually find this mystery an intriguing asset:

Singers use non-native dialects when the particular style of music has a tradition of being performed in a particular region or by a particular ethnicity (as is the case with the Blues, Bluegrass, and Irish traditional music). I find it somewhat unusual, then, when a singer opts to change their accent to something like General American, which has few music styles associated with it. Why would singers choose to adopt a ‘unplaceable American’ voice?

*Defunct until they became New Order, that is.

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Has North Wales “Gone Scouse?”

Posted on September 23, 2012 by Ben

Many feel that accents in North Wales have begun to resemble those of Liverpool. Unlike similar notions, this one has evidence behind it, as I’ll discuss later. But first, let’s hear for ourselves. Below is a snippet of the speech of North Wales’ most prominent town, Wrexham, from a documentary on binge drinking (so you really don’t have to watch the whole thing):

This video suggests a difficulty in deciding whether a Welsh accent has gotten the “Scouse treatment:” there’s some overlap between Welsh and Scouse English. For instance, at a number of moments in the video, we hear a fronted vowel for the ‘ur’ sound in words like ‘nurse’ (i.e. e:). But a number of Welsh accents do this as well, albeit usually with some lip rounding. Note also that many Welsh accents pronounce ‘strut’ and ‘cut’ with a schwa (ə); yet this is also common in some Northern English speakers.

That being said, my impression from this video is that younger residents of Wrexham indeed have a lot of Northern Englishness (if not outright Scouseness) in their speech. Which really isn’t surprising; the town is right across the border, and it’s likely that many residents commute into English cities for work. So what about somewhere further afield?

One of the few studies done on this matter, in fact, studied English in Bangor, a city further to the West. The study*, published in 2005, found that Scouse English was becoming a common influence on teenagers’ speech. Although I couldn’t locate videos of young Bangor natives, this young woman identified herself as being from a small village near Porthmadog, about 45 minutes south:

Her speech obviously lacks many Scouse features, but I was struck by her frequent affrication of /t/ (i.e. so that it sounds like /ts/), which is classically Liverpool. Again though, it’s unclear if this is really “Scouse” at work of merely a feature of North Wales English; the 2005 study I mention above concludes that affrication is in fact a “native” feature in North Wales, and more or less unrelated to Scouse.

So I find it something of a puzzle: what is actually Scouse, and what is simply native to North Wales?

Source: Cremer, M. 2007. “Accents, Attitudes and Scouse Influence in North Wales
English.” Publications of the Universiteit van Amsterdam (Netherlands).

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