For some reason WHYY's Morning Edition keeps changing the people who read
the traffic tie-up reports on Shadow Traffic. And for some reason, none are
native Philadelphians anymore. So I have to start my day without the hero
who used to warn us about gaper delays "caused by an overturned tractor
trailer on the Wall Women Bridge."
"Wall Women" -- what a superb and bizarre way to pronounce the name of
America's greatest male poet of the 19th century, Walt Whitman! Nobody else
says it that way, and no true Philadelphian can say it any other way.
No wonder I love, and proudly speak, Philly's dialect. Where else can you
tell somebody "I hate our winners," and know they'll understand you mean,
not "I hate the Flyers" (the closest we come to a championship team), but "I
hate the weather in January"? Where else -- this is one of my favorites --
can a man named Ian and a woman named Ann go through life hearing their
names pronounced exactly the same way? Where else can you ask somebody to
say a simple sentence, "Little Lulu lives in Little Italy," and get the
glorious gargle of "Gliddle gluglu glives in glillilly"?
Philadelphians talk great. Our dialect is so unique the University of
Pennsylvania has had a whole department, led by William Labov, one of
America's most distinguished linguists, studying it for more than 25 years.
All language is changing. But Philadelphia is changing language more, and
changing it faster, than anywhere else in the English-speaking world.
Congratulations, fellow phonetic innovators!
But, sadly, articles about our weird and wonderful dialect always stick to
old jokes like:
"Jeet yet?"
"No. Jew?"
That's not Philadelphia dialect. That's just plain old American Slur
Colloquial. Philadelphians talk that way when they're in a hurry, sure. But
so does everybody else in the Northern United States. Concentrating on
"Jeet" and "Jew" is like describing the hot dog as Philadelphia food. We do
eat hot dogs. But if you want to know Philly, you have to try thatgreat,
gooey watch-your-shirt midnight dripper, the cheesesteak.
This article is about cheesesteak Philly speech -- the things we do
different than anybody else. These are the sounds you can't help making, and
never notice. Because, as linguists say, "Everybody hears their sonic
intention." That's why TV hasn't stamped out regional dialects: TV can't
tell you you're wrong. "Say oil," says Big Bird, and kids all across the
country say "erl," or "all," or "oll," convinced they've got it right. Kids
learn their dialect in the schoolyard. Say "oil" in an area where everybody
says "erl," and you get laughed at for talking funny.
The University of Pennsylvania Research Project on Language Change has been
studying Philly dialect by recording our speech on state-of-the-art tape
recorders, then feeding it into computers connected to voice spectrographs.
A voice spectrograph gives a picture, something like an EKG, of human
speech. Used to be, linguists had to guess at vowel sounds. Now, they have
objective evidence which demonstrates that every time you say a word, you
say it slightly different. And also that your speech, despite the variants,
is as individual as your fingerprints.
What sociolinguists want to know is: Why does language change? Why does it
change at different speeds at different times and in different places? After
all, chimps and whales and porpoises have been making the same sounds for
centuries. Why are human beings, who have a much more perfect communication
system, constantly messing with it?
Of course, science being what it is, the answer to those questions is more
or less, "Who knows?" But Labov does have a theory that might explain some
of this. More on the theory later, first the good stuff. Kids, you'll
remember if you ever were one, get a lot of pleasure out of making fun of
their friends. Here's how to make fun of yours.
But wait, don't make fun! This is serious science, the work of linguists who
do not judge language. To you, a person has "a terrible Philadelphia
accent." To linguists, the person is a fascinating "advanced speaker."
Features of Philly dialect like "Iggles" and "graddytude" are usually
considered laughable. It's hard to see why. We don't think an Irish brogue
or Scottish burr is funny. In fact, the same people who think Philly speech
is terrible find Irish and Scottish beautiful and poetic. But there's really
no objective beauty or ugliness in sounds. "Bobolink,""smegma,""murmur" and
"war" are all just words we use. The English language would be poorer
without them. Same with dialects. Be nice to your advanced-speaker friends.
As you will see, Labov says they usually have a lot more power in the city
than you do.
The Philadelphia O
Most Americans say "o" with a round mouth. Philadelphians don't settle for
an easy lip-lazy sound like that. We start with our mouths shaped as if they
were going to say "eh?" and end up as if we're trying to say "oo."
"Yeowuh Jeowuh, threowuh the ball."
Want to check your own accent? Say the words in this list: home, roam,
chrome, gnome, loam. The last words, which you're more likely to read than
hear, are less likely to have our trademark Philly O. They all sound the
same to you? Ask a pal to listen, you'll learn different.
The Philadelphia Iggles
Even the boring "Jeet yet" articles know we say "Iggle" for Eagle. Linguists
have discovered a Philadelphia Dialect Rule: Shorten both long -e and long
-a sounds before -g. Eagle rhymes with Iggle. League rhymes with big. And,
though you've probably never noticed, in your own speech, vague and plague
rhyme with Peg. For some Philadelphians, colleague and fatigue also rhyme
with big. But these are words learned later, so many of us use the standard
American "coleeg" and "fateeg."
The Philadelphia Ou
Before -r and -l, "ou" and "ow" both sound like a simple flat "a.""Our"
sounds like "are.""Owl" is "Al.""Towel" and "Powel" become "tal" and "pal."
Double sounds get simplified: "mayor" and "prayer" become "mare" and
"prare."
The Philadelphia T
One of the famous features of "Brooklynese" (actually New York City Working
Class Dialect) was "bah-ul" for bottle. Linguists call that odd sound a
glottal stop. We use the same sound, but only before consonants like -m and
-n and -l: Women for Whitman, Dennis for dentist, Clin'in for Clinton,
par'ly for partly, foun'in and moun'in and accoun'in' (for accountant).
Local politicians used to say "commi'men'" for commitment, but the word's
gone out of fashion. Maybe because it reminds them of the end of so many
careers: commitment to Allenwood.
The Philadelphia L
The English language has two different pronunciations of -l, but we never
notice them because they don't make any difference in the meaning of words.
There's what's called The Bright L, very far forward in the mouth; and The
Dark L, very far back in the throat. Say the word "feel," and your tongue
ends up pressed against your front teeth. Say "tool," and your tongue is
just touched to your front teeth as an afterthought -- many Philadelphians
never get their tongues up there at all. Philadelphians like The Dark L --
so dark it's almost like clearing our throats. Some of us use The Dark L
even at the beginning of words -- "love," for example, is said with such a
deep gulp that it sounds like "glove." Want to say that impossible Philly
tongue-twister, "Little Lulu lives in Little Italy?" Just practice pressing
your tongue against those front teeth. After a while you'll get the hang of
it. Then again, maybe not. The Philly tongue is mightier than the will.
I Shore Do
In the cowboy movies I saw as a kid, every real Westerner said "shore" for
"sure." So do Philadelphians. For us, "tour" is "tore," rather than
"tooer.""You're" and "your" sound exactly like "yore"; "pour" and "poor" the
same as "pore."
Britishisms, Midwestern English and the Philadelphia A
Standard British Dialect does not pronounce its -r's. If the Queen of
England ever called anybody "fellow worker," it would come out something
like "fellow wuhkah." Most of the East Coast of the United States still
follows British practice: "worker" is r-less when said by Ted Kennedy
(Boston), William F. Buckley (New York) and Jesse Helms (the South). The
Midwest and West, where British influence got lost long ago, pronounces all
its -r's.
Philadelphia has its own Britishisms. We say "pavement" as they do in
London, not "sidewalk" as in New York.
Second, alone of major speech groups on the East Coast we pronounce our
-r's. We're the cutting edge of defiant Americanism in the East. At one time
pronouncing -r's was considered low-class. Henry James, as great a writer as
he was an anti-Semitic, anti-immigrant snob (which means very great indeed),
gave a speech to Harvard students at the turn of the century in which he
said America would never be capable of a real literature until it stopped
pronouncing -r's. To James, -r was "an ugly sound... a morose grinding of
the back teeth."
Then in the 1920s, radio networks decided that real culture required
pronouncing all the letters in every word. Some announcers, even today, take
this so seriously that they pronounce the -t in Christmas, and somehow get
their tongues to sound the -th in clothes. A physical impossibility for me.
Anyway, -r's got pronounced by announcers -- which of course made them Good
English. I've had arguments with New Yorkers who insist they pronounce the
-r's in fellow worker, when what they say is something like "fellow
wuhkuhrrrr." Intervocalic -r, the -r before the consonant, like -k, is very
difficult for people who didn't grow up using it.
The Philadelphia Au
"You'll never be able to describe this without using the International
Phonetic Alphabet," William Labov says to me. "First of all it's very
difficult to describe sounds made like 'au,' in the middle of the mouth.
Secondly, this is one of the richest sounds in the Philadelphia repertoire."
And I can't describe it. You can hear it everywhere. And you know how to say
it: "Come AUWN!" or "Oh no, I cauweaught a cold." Nowhere is there an "au"
to compare with Philly's. The further west you go, the more this sound gets
smoothed out and toned down. By the time it gets to California, people say,
"Come ahn," and "I cot a cold."
The Philadelphia A
This is the most complicated Philly sound of all. Remember Ian and Ann? Most
Philadelphians pronounce both as "Ian," something like "Ee-yan" squeezed
into one syllable. In the Midwest, all -a's are pronounced like that; it's
called a tense -a. In Boston, all -a's have a sound closer to upper-class
British: "ah," or a lax -a. Boston: "I rahn from the bahd mahn holding a
fahn, a hahm and a hahmmer." Midwest (remember that ran here rhymes with
Ian): "I ran from a bad man holding a fan, a ham and a hammer." Philly: "I
rahn from a bad man holding a fan, a ham and a hahmmer."
Great, right? Philadelphia mixes the two -a's!
Of course there's a rule for this. Not a rule we have to follow because a
grammar book says so. This is a real rule, one that simply describes what we
do without thinking.
You use tense -a:
-- Before -m and -n: e.g., ham, man, fan, pecan (high-class Philadelphians
sometimes say pe-cahn, but of course without changing any of the other
words).
-- Before -f, -th, -s: laugh, staff, bath, glass.
-- In three words ending in -d: mad, bad, glad (but lahd, pahd, brahd, gahd
about).
Exceptions:
-- -ng gets lax -a: fan is tense, fang is fahng.
-- Irregular verbs get lax a: can (a can of peas) is tense; can (I cahn do
it) is lax. So are ran, swam, began, am. And the sub-literate dialect word
wan, as in "We wahn the war."
-- Exception to the exception: can the verb is lax, can't is tense.
-- The article "an" is lax.
-- If a vowel comes after -m or -n in the word, the "a" turns lax: ham is
tense, hammer is lax. Fan tense, fanny lax.
It's probably the complicated Philly A that makes us pronounce radiator to
rhyme with gladiator.
Got that? You do. You follow that complex rule every day. But you can
confuse your Philly-born pals by getting them to read this list: bat, bad,
sat, sad, mat, mad, mash, grad, path, grab, pat, pad, glad, pass, laugh,
bath, past, calf, badge, jazz, jam, ham, bag, bang, began, fad, mad, dad.
Most kids can do it effortlessly. Most college grads, me included, get
hopelessly tangled. Thinking about language, even your own language, isn't
the same as using language.
Dese Dems and Dose
This is the feature of our dialect that's most frowned on and denied. It's a
touchstone for recognizing how well you hear your own speech. We all say
dese, dem and dose. It's not the hard -d of movie Brooklynese. It's a soft,
gentle little -d that makes the sentence go faster: "What's da trouble?"
When you don't say "da," and none of us says it all the time, you probably
say nothing instead of "th." It comes out: "What's a trouble?"
Murray Christmas
But you may refuse to recognize your own speech, and get angry when it's
pointed out to you. Philadelphians make fun of Midwesterners who rhyme Mary,
marry and merry. We say all three words differently. But Philadelphians
don't make a distinction between merry and the man's name Murray -- though
Philadelphians insist that we do make the distinction, and do hear it when
others make it.
Labov's research team printed a page with a column of merrys and a column of
Murrays and gave that to a member of a family. The researchers had another
family member sit opposite and read from a random list of merry/Murray. The
listener ticked off which one was said. Results were always the same: equal
to chance, or sometimes less. And -- a furious family fight. "What do you
mean I said merry? Get the shit out of your ears!""Get the shit out of your
mouth, and talk right, you -- !" The fights were so bad that the
merry/Murray quiz had to be dropped. Try it yourself on friends whose happy
marriage you want to test.
Shitty Shtreets
When I first wrote about Philly dialect 25 years ago, this was a new change
-- or at least one that nobody recognized. Now, if you go to a speech clinic
to get rid of your Philadelphia accent (and some misguided self-loathing
Philadelphians do), the Philly sh- is one of the first things you're told to
work on.
Other cities say "street," advanced speakers in Philly tend to say
"shtreet." This is so pronounced that once you start to listen you'll hear
it everywhere. Most Philadelphians, both black and white, have at least a
hint of an sh- sound instead of s-, especially before consonants.
But this is Philadelphia, and everybody goes to extremes. Penn's research
project has tapes of Philadelphians, usually women from very refined
neighborhoods, saying, "Shitty shtreets are often shtraight."
Is There a South Philly Dialect?
Certain areas of every city get the reputation of being the real heart of
it. "South Philly Accent" is the name given to lots of speech that you could
hear just as easily in Center City or the Far Northeast. But there is a
distinguishing feature of some South Philly speech: it's r-less, like the
rest of the East Coast. There used to be a sign in my neighborhood that
said, "Frankie is a Bastid." Good phonetic spelling, but not north of
Fitzwater Street. One theory about this oddity of South Philly speech is
worth mentioning. South Philly was settled by Italian immigrants. Italians
pronounce -r's with an exaggerated trill. Second-generation kids, wanting to
avoid their parents' foreign accent (heavily stigmatized by establishment
Philadelphia), solved the problem by leaving -r's completely out of their
speech. If that sounds farfetched, consider this:
Gratitude, What a Beautiful Attitude for a Prostitute to Have!
Philadelphians give those words a good long eeee --
"grateeeetude,""prosteeeetute." Most people who go away to college change
their speech, trying (and never succeeding) to disguise their local dialect.
This eeee sound was the first I got rid of. Like most other language
changers, I went too far. And when I came home for vacation nobody could
understand me when I talked about "Pennapack Creek."
What's All This Mean? A Plug for Black Vernacular English, and White
Vernacular English, Too.
Labov's conclusion, too complex to do anything more than mention here, is
that English is changing along broad lines -- a Southern group that includes
South Africa, Australia, the American South and California, and a Northern
group, which includes London and the Northern United States, that's led by
the groundbreaking, not to say jawbreaking, work of us advanced speakers in
Philadelphia.
Labov also believes that there's a use to advanced speaking. Advanced
speakers are not the lowest income or education group in a neighborhood.
Just the opposite. They're the kind of person who represents the
neighborhood when it wants something.
"College graduates tend to think of political power as a question of how to
influence foreign policy," says Labov. "Neighborhood people think of power
as how to get a stop sign, another crossing guard, summer jobs for kids."
Advanced speech may be the language of negotiation. Just by sounding like
somebody with "a strong Philadelphia accent," you announce your familiarity
with local politics. "Tal" and "Come auwn" and "I cahn open a can of peas"
are all part of a power dialect.
Of course, this article has been entirely about white speech. There's a
different power dialect for blacks, at least in America, where segregation
is still the rule. Readers of the New Yorker will remember Henry Louis
Gates, Jr., describing his first visit to England, when he was not always
able to understand Brit English. So he stopped a black street cleaner and
asked for directions. And got directions -- in the same old unintelligible
Brit gabble everybody else spoke. Aside from Jamaicans, blacks in England do
not have a separate dialect: the country is -- compared to the United States
-- integrated.
This makes it all the more important for schoolteachers in the United States
to know that black dialect is not failed English. We all speak failed
English. White teachers don't notice it when white kids do. But remember,
you truly cannot hear that you say merry and Murray exactly the same way.
Not because you're stupid, or biologically determined to confuse the words.
Once you're culturally acclimatized to one way of speaking, you have a very
hard time hearing your own voice.
Black kids in Philadelphia's school system were once classed as "Retarded
Educable" and put in special classes because they pronounced "pen" like
"pin." This is a feature of black vernacular. The kindly well-intentioned
people who put these kids in dumbed-down classes thought they were helping.
If you can't distinguish "pin" from "pen," how will you ever get a good job
and make real money?
Well, pronouncing "pen" like "pin" is also a feature of Southern Dialect.
Jimmy Carter says "pin" for "pen." Dan Rather, who grew up in Texas, does
the same thing, though (he says) "only when I'm tired." Californians, part
of that great Southern movement of English Language Change, say "pin."
Carter and Rather, and lots of Californians, have been very successful in
life.
Kids, black or white or Asian or Hispanic or whatever, deserve a school
system which does not waste time trying to make them talk like teacher.
Teacher, after all, might be from the Midwest, and unable to tell Mary from
marry. Do we want South Philly, or the Northeast, or our inner city sounding
like Ohio?
All of us can make all the sounds in every language. At first. Kids who come
to Philadelphia before the age of 12 learn the complicated rule for tense
-a/ lax -a. But they learn it on the playground, not at school. And kids who
come here after 12 never get it straight.
We should let kids talk the way they talk -- and concentrate on teaching
them to read and write. After all, any speaker of black English, criticized
for weird nonstandard constructions, could justly answer, "It could be
worse. I could talk like a Philadelphian."