A Whole 'Nother Language

Howdy, Ya'll: Even Jeff Foxworthy understands the importance of regional dialect.

When my New-Jersey-and-Chicago-raised parents first moved to middle-of-nowhere East Texas, they thought they had finally discovered hell on earth. The weather was terrible, the people were weirdly friendly, and, worst of all, they just couldn’t understand what anyone was saying—literally. Neither could I, until a few months of public school had gone by. It showed us all how much dialect affects the experience one gets out of a certain area—language can determine a lot about a place.

That’s one of the first things I noticed about the WPA Guidebooks; the didactic tone in the Massachusetts book sounds exactly the same as the New Orleans guide. Clearly this is a problem, as people in Massachusetts and people in New Orleans probably wouldn’t understand what the other was saying if placed in a room together. But the guides still held on to a local flavor by including different aspects of places within the guides. New Orleans has a section on cemeteries and a “Church Guide,” and religion and creepy ghost/homicidal maniac tales are certainly key ingredients of the South. Still, though, language distinguishes a region in a way little else can truly achieve—which is why I was thrilled to discover “glossaries” in the backs of some of the guides.

My favorite Texas-ism, which I’ve mentioned once before in a blog, means an extra affirmative “yes” or a resounding “no” when used in the negative. “That dog will hunt”: a key phrase to learn when journeying through the Lone Star State. For example: “D’ya think that rain’ll bring a tornado?” “That dog’ll hunt!” Alternately: “I need to drive to Dallas. Could I borrow your truck?” “That dog sure ain’t gonna hunt.” If you want to see the phrase in action, go see the movie Whip It (really, that movie is awesome) and listen very closely during one of the parental arguments.

But there are some equally great phrases to be found in the WPA guides. From Montana, I particularly enjoyed “close herdin” (cheek-to-cheek dancing—scandalous!), “crazy as a sheepherder” (self-evident), “’Tap ‘er light’” (parting admonition among miners) and “between hay and grass” (in difficult times). “Tignasse” (tangled hair), “wanga” (a spell) and “quartee” (half a five-cent piece) seemed to me the most colorful words from the New Orleans guide. Even Idaho has an interesting “Origin of Names” section detailing some amusing stories behinds its cities names. Midas was apparently “named for Midas in the hope that the feverish touch of prospectors would turn the place into gold. It did not.” Moscow, to answer Ilf and Petrov snarky remarks about American cities stealing names, was in fact named by a Russian with the “unbelievable name of Hogg.”

Some names of places also give insight into the region’s history. Raft River, for instance, is “so named because early settlers had to cross its mouth on rafts, inasmuch as beavers had filled the river with damns. Why the settlers did not cross on dams seems not to have been declared.” Most words from the New Orleans guide originate from French terms, displaying the city’s still evident French heritage. There are also several terms describing how many quarters white or black someone is (“griffe,” and “quadroon,” for instance) indicating the importance of race and the existence of racial mixing in the region. Montana’s language heavily alludes to weather and farming or mining expressions and occurrences, demonstrating the most prevalent and successful industries of the region.

America is undoubtedly a land of English speakers. But its diverse heritage and diverse geography create several very diverse native tongues. In the South and rural areas especially, it appears, language is manipulated into specific dialects that can sometimes be pretty difficult to crack. So kudos to the WPA for anticipating this phenomenon. I kind of wish I’d found them sooner—it took me fifteen years in Texas before I knew why people were always talking about whether or not their dogs would hunt.