Finding my Voice

At the University of Alabama, I took a class called Voice and Diction through the theatre department. The purpose of the course was to allow actors to better understand their voices and prepare them to take on different accents on the stage, but I was there for a different reason. I hadn't come to pick up an accent, but to drop one; I wanted to ditch my Southern twang.

I hated my accent. Those unfamiliar with the South may not know this, but there are very different types of Southern accent. My own voice did not evoke images of Scarlett and Rhett at Tara. I didn't have the charming drawl of ladies wearing pearls and sipping sweet tea. There was a word used to describe those with my particular accent, and it wasn't "belle" -- it was hick. When I spoke, I saw pickup trucks and discarded Skoal cans and tractor pulls. I saw future employers writing me off as dumb, backwards, and a bumpkin. I didn't have any role models who sounded like me! I knew I was going to have to adjust so that I sounded more like my role models.

After the class was over, I headed off to Washington, D.C., to intern for CNN. When folks asked where I was from, they always raised their brows in surprise when I answered, "Alabama."

"But you don't have an accent!" they'd exclaim while I beamed with pride. Tuition dollars well spent.

By the time I transferred to Smith College, this question and answer routine had become commonplace. But another, more unsettling question began to accompany it: "How in the world did you wind up at Smith?"

The questioners meant well. I suppose it was a bit unusual for a girl from a small, conservative town in the Deep South to be so far North. But I began to realize that by playing down part of my identity, I was only telling half my story.

I was deluding myself into thinking that I couldn't have roots and wings. I had viewed growing up in the foothills of the Tennessee Valley in a town of less than a thousand people as an obstacle to overcome, rather than an essential compoent of my desire to become more involved in public service. While many tout the virtues of individualism and "pulling yourself up by your bootstraps," my experiences in Ardmore, Alabama showed me the importance of cooperation and community.

In Ardmore, everyone knows each other: where you go to church, how your mother is doing, and how you're doing in school. In fact, even though I'm way up in Northampton, Massachusetts, the entire town is kept abreast of my grades, extracurriculars, and travels by my grandfather, a life-long Ardmore resident.

When my great-grandmother passed away, women from across town delivered hot meals to my grandparents' doorstep. When the local Boys' and Girls' Club hosts their annual fundraiser, the local auction company offers their services for free. And when I found out I got into the graduate school of my choice, I was met with messages of congratulations and love from the community that raised me. This type of solidarity can be hard to come by outside a small town, and it was that realization that made me recognize the power of community and public service. My small town hadn't hindered me; it had shaped me into the politics-loving, hard-working, positive-minded person that I am today.

Every now and then, someone will tell me they hear my old twang coming through when I speak. Maybe it's the fact that I adjust my friends as "y'all" or say, "Bless her heart." It could be the fact that I say, "Roll Tide," and blow off social engagements when Alabama plays football. Whatever the reason, hearing that comment makes me smile. Losing my Southen accent made me realize how much it, along with my small-town upbringing, formed my identity. In a way, losing my accent helped me to find my voice.