I spent a good deal of my childhood in the historic areas around Boston. That is where I was born and where my grandparents lived. So many of my happy memories come from there…
Where I currently live, a Bostonian accent is akin to the mark of Cain. It means you are the dreaded F-word- flatlander. (Pronounced with the appropriate distaste and scorn of course.)
Seeing my family’s primary residence has been here since I was not quite two, I ALMOST pass as a native. That is, until I drop the R’s off of my words in a lapse of thought.
Or when I hear someone from my true homeland speak and get all dreamy and sentimental. The very sound of softly rounded words can make me feel as if I’m being carried home… but that just doesn’t fly!
There I am with this big ol’ grin on my face and a wistful look in my eyes.
That is NOT what I am supposed to be doing. I am supposed to be peering at them rather suspiciously, with an ironic not-quite-smile, saying things like: “Yut, yut. Wal- look out that winder. You ain’t gettin’ there from here.”*
And yet, when I go home to Mass, everyone looks at me like I’m a hick.
Oh well. I guess I have no native land of origin… wonder if the gypsies would adopt me?
*Yut is native for yup and Winder is native for window.