Hoosierisms? That's Right, Sherger

I've traveled a lot.  Lived in several states and several parts of the U.S.  I have a very eclectic dialect that often confuses people.  Most people think I am from the South.  Yes, we lived there.  In Washington state, people would actually stop me and tell me my accent was "adorable" or "very nice".  Yet in the South, I was accused of being a <gasp> Yankee when I spoke.  I am a little in between a Yankee and a Rebel.  I am a Hoosier (albeit presently absent from the state of Indiana and not planning to return).

Being a Hoosier means you have a unique, regional accent and dictionary.  The day you are born the hospital equips your parents with complimentary blankets, diapers, formula and a Hoosier dictionary.  And when you arrive home, your parents give you your first bath.  Or in their terms, they warsh you.  Yes, warsh.  But they don't just warsh you, they warsh your head.  Because your hair apparently does not need "warshin" as much as your head.  And five years later they are preparing to send you to keendergardin.  Yes, our children go from preschool to keendergardin.  It's a lovely place where they prepare you children for grade school where your child will begin to add more Hoosierisms to their vocabulary.

 While your child is learning in keendergardin, it is fair to say you have time for a cup o' Joe (coffee) and more than likely you will add sherger to it.  Not too much, though.  We may have an accent and some strange words but we are separated from Southerners by the fact we don't have sweet tea (unless you call adding two packets of sherger to it, sweet) or sherger syrup in anything else we drink.  Most of us grew up with unsweetened tea.  Except in my family where my Aunt made the most incredible sweet tea you could ever put your lips to.  It was, as they say in the South, "Slap yer Mama sweet". 

On Friday's, Hoosier school children (where a large majority are Catholic) partake in feesh sticks or feesh sandwiches.  Most Hoosier school children do not like Friday lunch and typically purchase items from the candy machine that are generally full of sherger.  At least they are still paying respect by not any eating meat other than feesh.  If you were a Hoosier child new to that school,  more than likely you would ask, "Where'd you get that at?"  Because Hoosiers always end their questions with the preposition "at".  As a matter of fact, I had no idea I did this (a college History major who formerly was a radio news announcer...ahem) until my son pointed it out to me. I have no idea where they got the idea to use that at.....

One day while at work while living in Tennessee, my co-workers were discussing a potluck they were planning.  I was curious, "What is a potluck?"  They were amazed I did not know what a potluck was.  As they described it to me as a time when everyone gathers together for lunch as each person brings a dish from home I said, "Oh!  A pitch-in!"  When the laughter broke out I realized I should have kept my mouth shut.  Hoosiers have pitch-ins, not potlucks.  From that day on, my co-workers never let me live that down.  They described us as being people who gathered together and threw people and items in a pile.

I'm tellin' ya, if I woulda said anything else, I woulda been up a crick!   Somehow, due to the fact I was raised with this dictionary and the daily reinforcement of Hoosier vocabulary and grammar from family and friends, it all makes sense to me.  I strayed away from speaking like this a long time ago when I left high school to attend broadcasting school.  I was "forced" to change my ways.  It was difficult. I had to say W as in, double-u instead of dubya.  When there are three W's in the call letters of your radio station, that takes a lot of practice.  Now that I am middle aged, (or close enough), I have noticed that my recollection of this language has been photogenic.  I catch myself saying things I haven't said in many years.  After which, I turn and catch my boss staring in amazement.  He must think I just climbed out of the back of an El Camino with dual pipes, 60" wheels and a driver with a mullet.

Now, I have caught a bit of a Hoosier dialect in a few people who live a little south of Kansas City.  It's the stereotypical Midwestern farmer/small town accent.  And I notice when they come into the office, my language relaxes a little and by the time they leave I sound just like I did back home in Indiana.  But there is still something missing, and that's the Hoosier dictionary.  They don't come equipped with those unique words that only a true Hoosier can embrace.  Such as that big yawn you see followed by the words, "I'm plumb tard" or "What was that noise?!"  "I don't know, just stay put and I'll see".  How do you "stay put?"  If you are a Hoosier, you know how and you do it well.

We never take state routes, we take state roads.  We have colors on our shirts, not collars.  We are redundant such as saying, "Yeah, uh huh" or "No, unh unh" or explaining that something that falls at night is p.m. at night instead of simply 8 p.m. And whatever you do, don't wait until 9 p.m. at night to arn your shirt for work the next day.  And don't spill yer pop on that shirt, either.  You know, the one you had with your chili soup.....and feesh sticks.

I'm so grateful for my heritage.  And I am proud to be a Hoosier even though my travels have taken me elsewhere.  So, what is a Hoosier, you might inquire?  Well, before I bunny trail to another topic, let me just say that no one really knows the true answer. However, what it means to me is this, someone who lives in the Heartland and is special enough to have their own dictionary and proud enough to not be ashamed to use it.  If you have embraced this concept, you are a true Hoosier, indeed. 

Subtitles

As much as we hate to admit it, Americans love to stereotype.  We have so many different cultures it is difficult to overlook the obvious sometimes.  But often we wait for a comedian to take the pleasure of making fun of what is blatantly in our face on a daily basis.  It breaks that uncomfortable silence for everyone so even those who are being stereotyped are laughing along with the comedian as well.   This is what comedians do.  And this is my latest observation.

So today, as we were sitting in a brainstorming session at the Mexican food restaurant, my son points out the hand drawn picture of a margarita on a sheet of paper taped to the wall.  It's clear that one of the children drew it with a set of markers, probably between serving us at our table (cute children).  As we were discussing ideas for this next week, we could hear the hum of the two televisions running in the brightly colored room.  Jackie Chan was on one television kicking up a storm and had quite a handsome Mexican accent going on.  On the other television was a soccer game. 

Our waitress spoke very good Spanglish so it was easy to dialogue with her.  As I looked around the room I realized that on the bar was a large statue of a very anatomically correct bull.  It seemed alarming at first but after looking around and seeing the pictures of Mary, the large crosses and chickens it suddenly felt like Mexico.  I wondered if their budget didn't allow for real pictures of Margaritas.  Or perhaps the purpose for a dry erase board was due to their following the Dave Ramsey plan to a "T".  I then wondered if the beef mixture on our Nachos was real beef.  I quickly dismissed the thought. 

I really have a heart for the Latino population.  I always have.  I don't quite understand everything about their culture but I am quite certain they feel the same about us.  I noticed that every morning on my way to work I pass several from the same neighborhood walking to work.  I'm actually not certain where they are walking to because they disappear at a certain point.  Nevertheless, they sometimes carry little bags so I am assuming it's their lunch bags.  I looked at Micah the other day while we were in the car together and I told him how badly I felt for all they had to go through here and he looked at me with all sincerity and said, "Mom, have you ever seen a homeless Mexican?"

In any case, I am quite certain the reason is because they have the incredible ability to pull off the proverbial sardine in a can. Have you ever seen a family of four Latinos in a house?  No, they know family and they live it quite well.  They are good Catholics and spend their lives devoted to God.  They spend time with each other often.  They celebrate even small events as family.  They often don't feel welcome by those of us who aren't Hispanic but they don't try to change who they are to fit in, like we do. We may stereotype and may not understand everything that they do, but I am quite certain we also give them a lot to laugh about on a daily basis. I still feel the same way about those who have moved here from Mexico just as I feel the same about those who have moved here from Europe, Asia or anywhere else.  And to them I say, "Welcome home".

My Thoughts On Grunge Music

I have a bit of a strangely, warped sense of humor.  I use it often.  I love the story of the Emperor's New Clothes if that tells you anything and find the most humorous part when he realized he is standing in his underwear.  I loved dressing my cat up in doll clothes and pushing him around in a stroller (sorry Cashew, if cat's could be Saints you would have been one, I love you).  I am really not normal.  I won't apologize for it, though.  I enjoy it. 

My son is a musician.  Good musicians listen to various genres to add to and improve their musical style of playing.  My son has been listening to and playing some grunge.  I am not a fan of grunge.  I used to be, but it's too "angry emo" for me.  However, today he wanted me to critique a song that he and a friend wrote.  Well, being the good Mom, I did.  And being the one with the warped sense of humor, I critiqued it in my own way resulting in my interpretation of grunge:

Grunge Music = You’re a jerk.  You know you’re a jerk.  I’m going to stay calm about it though.  Maybe.  Well, you did kind of piss me off.  I may raise my voice a little.  Ok, I’m raising it a little more.  I’m emo.  You’re not like me you emotionless jerk.  That makes me mad.  I’m raising my voice more.  Louder.  A little louder.  A lot louder.  My guitar string broke.  Ok, that calmed me down.  I am ok.  Because I yelled.  I am calm again.  I need prozac.  And anger management.  But not as bad as you.  Because you’re a jerk.  Ok, now I am mad again.  I am raising my voice again.  And louder.  And this feels great, louder.  And another string breaks.  Dang it.  I’m singing lower again.  I’m tired of singing lower and then louder.  I think I will fade out.  Like your love for me.  You jerk.  

I hope my son practices polka next.  I just love a good challenge.