"Oh! There go the Po Po'!"
"The what?"
"You know, the Po Po,' the police."
Sometimes it feels as if your family speaks another language, or at least a strange dialect, doesn't it? For me this phenomenon especially transpires when I find myself in the distant land of Oklahoma. My family and I take the trip "down South" every couple of years to visit my mom's relatives living in the Tulsa area. Even with the great wonders of air travel and motor vehicles, the journey sometimes seems like a venture into a different country altogether, not just another state.
The strange words like "Po Po" or "warsh" drift out from otherwise normal conversation and catch me unaware with their startling unfamiliarity that deviates only slightly from what I know. It's this slight irregularity that makes those moments so funny, because their language and words match mine most of the time.
Occasionally there's the new one like "tump," which means to dump something, over or "pop" instead of soda (which immediately transports me back to the '50s).
The differences are miniscule, but when they happen, I pause for a second as my brain rearranges itself to include this new idea.
I'm positive that my way of articulation sliding so fluently off my tongue sounds somewhat haphazard to my family as well, because of the rapid style of conversation, or for the usage of the words "soda" or "dump." My cousins from Texas call us (jokingly) the Yankees because of these accents and crazy words.
I love discussing these idiosyncrasies with my relatives, though; it's become a sort of game to point out and make fun of each others' different pronunciation or lingo.
It doesn't matter, but it provides entertainment to listen to various accents; the way words come out of our mouths slanted at odd angles that never meet and the sounds resound and clash making new music.
I don't notice an accent with most of my family, just a lilting melodic way of speaking.
Other members have a distinct Southern drawl dotted with extended vowels.
Those accents are beautiful to me because they splash color over otherwise gray objects. The long, relaxing way syllables melt brings me to a warm summer's night under a ceiling of unclouded stars. Maybe I'll hear lemonade being poured from a clear pitcher filled with ice that clinks along the side of the glass. Or sometimes if I stay silent I can hear the peepers outside, just beyond my reach, inside of these voices.
The stories I hear when visiting remind me of a novel where outrageous occurrences cause you to laugh out loud, but only enough for a chuckle. The stories seem crazy because it was another time and place, when my parents were young and living an altered life.
One story that my aunt told was laced with such ridiculous storybook elements (to my ignorant mind) that it was hard to believe it really happened. My mom and aunts had a cousin whose name was Big'n. I know, a little hard to believe right? Well his original nickname was Little Newt, named after his dad, Newt, but because of his size, he became Big'n.
Anyway, one night Big'n came and took his cousins (my mom and her sisters) out to the "mud bog" where he and his buddies prove their recklessness in a game. They would drive whatever vehicles they owned into this mud bog as fast as they could and see if anyone could make it across without getting stuck. This fantastical adventure would begin only after at least one of them was "liquored up" enough that his bravery was kindled and the attempt could be made! After he failed, it would be a while until the next man would get "liquored up" enough to try.
I absolutely love my family and all its extensions, and only wish I could have been around for such good times as "mud bogs"! And although I don't see them all that often, I relax into the soft, strange-yet-comforting accents that wrap around them like clothing. I'm grateful to possess such warm, amazing people as my relatives who come with their outrageous stories and vocabulary!
Jessica Bailey is a senior at Lighthouse Christian Academy in Oneonta.
