“We’re here for Eli, not for me,” I say curtly. “Plus, the professor’s academic research is not a party trick.” There’s a guarded edge to my voice, despite my every effort to keep it composed.
“Interesting,” Pridmore says thoughtfully.
“What is?” Holly asks, inching toward him.
“Luisa’s accent is exceptionally hard to pinpoint,” he observes in that highly erudite, clinical tone that grinds at my insides. “It’s almost as if—” He pauses, once more unable (or unwilling) to read the room. I’m about to call for a bathroom break, but then he blurts out, “Almost as if you’ve gone out of the way to erase any markers from your speech pattern.”
All eyes are on me. My face grows blistering hot.
What exactly do they think they see? I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been told “But you don’t have an accent?!” in a tone that reeks of disappointment, as if my speech is part of a little puzzle they must solve.Who is this Luisa woman? And where does she come from? Because she certainly doesn’t belong here.
Suddenly, I’m thrown back into the small bedroom of our first Atlanta apartment the summer we moved to the States. I’m on my bed, sitting with my laptop open, headphones on, listening to movies in English for hours, saying the words aloud until myvoice, raspy from exertion, sounds exactly like the voices of the Americanas on the screen.
From the moment we landed in Georgia, I witnessed the way people demeaned and condescended to my mother as soon as they heard her thick Puerto Rican Spanish accent. They made assumptions about her intelligence, education, competence, and even her trustworthiness. I’d be damned if that would be me, come the first day in a new school. It took me eight weeks to chameleon my speech into what linguists like Professor Pridmore call “prestige dialect”—also known as the language of white, privileged, wealthy folks—the language of power. All through high school I kept pushing myself, excelling in English Lit and Composition until my proficiency surpassed that of my native-speaking peers.
“She’s from Puerto Rico,” Eli offers on my behalf when I don’t say anything. “She’s fluent in Spanish, too—spokenandwritten.”
I stare at him, partly furious, partly dumbfounded. Why and how does he know all this? It’s almost as if he’s quoting something he’s read about me somewhere.
He must see the question on my face, because he says, “I read your bio onThe Georgia Timeswebsite.” My cheeks burn even hotter.
“Puerto Rican Spanish is such a complex, multifaceted language. It embodies elements of Taíno, African, Spanish, and English vernacular,” Pridmore observes. “I hope I can visit there sometime. It’s a short flight from Atlanta, I understand.”
“Only three and a half hours,” Holly adds, suddenly the helpful travel agent.
“Can we please refocus,” I break in abruptly, any semblance of my nonexistent patience gone. We’ve already wasted half the morning in this little therapy session. “Can you help Eli learn the Mississippi accent? That’s why we’re here.”
“What Luisa is trying to say is”—Holly cuts me a side-eye—“do you have any techniques that would be helpful?”
“I have a language crossing plan,” Pridmore replies. “Been developing it since we first spoke.” He stands, motioning for us to follow him inside a sound booth at the far end of the room.
We cram inside, ogling various articulation devices—an airflow mask, a sonogram, and a torturous-looking metal octopus. Eli takes a deep, long breath, inflating his lungs as if he’s about to go underwater. Pridmore sits by the audio console, then directs Eli to the chair beside him. Holly and I stand behind them, trying to stay out of the way.
“I’ve created a list of words that are representative of the dialect.” Pridmore points to a series of black-and-white wavelengths on the screen. “The computer will enunciate the word, then Eli will repeat it.” He adjusts the tentacles of a black metal contraption protruding from the desk, then directs Eli to press his forehead and chin against the felt resting pads on the device. A small microphone sits directly in front of Eli’s mouth. “If the intonation matches the wavelength, we move on to the next word. If not, you must repeat the word until the system hears a match.”
“You mean, until I get it right,” Eli clarifies, then clears his throat, fidgeting in his chair.
“There’s a physicality to the language,” Pridmore says, lifting his hands under Eli’s face. “May I?” he asks. Eli nods. Pridmore nudges Eli’s jaw with his fingers, positioning the muscles around his cheeks. “The jaw is slightly elevated, so if you sigh through that oral posture you haveahh.”
Eli repeats, “Ahhh.”
“The Mississippi accent is a very lengthened, slow drawl,” Pridmore remarks. “So slow that you create diphthongs.”
“Deep thongs? What the hell is a deep thong?” Eli asks, his backwoods twang so thick it sounds as if his mouth’s been sewn shut.
An unexplainable burst of anger bubbles to the surface, and before I can contain the words, I’m snarling at Eli. “Jesus, a diphthong—two vowels in one syllable. What are they teaching kids in Westlake these days?”
Eli’s head slowly turns, searching for me. When his narrowed eyes find mine, I’m certain I’ve gone too far. His gray irises are clouded with ire, but also hurt.
I’m about to apologize, but before I can say anything, he cries out, “Well, that there is one highfalutin word!” He digs deeperinto his twang, and I narrow my eyes right back at him, feeling like I’m about to self-combust. “Guess I must’ve been catfish noodling or maybe muddin’ the day they taught that there big word in school.”
Holly bursts into laughter, clearly entertained by the way Eli provokes me.
“I must know. What in the world is mudding?” Pridmore asks, still smiling, genuinely curious.
“Driving in the mud,” I snap. “Please don’t encourage him.”
“What? Don’t tell me you ain’t never hit a mudhole!?” Eli blurts out.
