Southern English

There is nothing like the blunt honesty of a human being who is two months shy of turning six years old. Even if that almost six-year-old is your oldest grandchild. Maybe especially if she is.

Recently, I was trying unsuccessfully to explain something or another to Hazel. Whatever it was, she just wasn't getting it, which is unusual because she's a very bright young lady. She was more than happy to explain the miscommunication.

"You're speaking Southern, Hubba," she said helpfully. "I can't understand you."

This from a child born in Georgia and now residing in Alabama. I didn't realize moving across the Chattahoochee would make her so very cosmopolitan.

It never dawned on me at age five that there was any version of English other than Southern. In fact, I didn't even know we spoke Southern; I just assumed the rest of the world drawled their way through the language along with us. Didn't everybody say fixin' and reckon and git?

I grew up and discovered there were indeed variations to this thing we call English. Some people, born and raised in these very same United States, do say things very differently than do those of us from the American South. Not bad, or wrong, mind you, just different.

But she thinks I speak Southern? Her parents didn't move her to Oregon, nor has she spent years in Boston, New York, or New Hampshire, for heaven's sake. She's not in Minnesota or chillin' out in Hawaii. Yes, she's a Valley girl, but Valley, Alabama, not California!!

I guess I should just own it. My first-grade teacher, Mrs. Heistand, waged a year-long campaign to make our class quit using a long O when saying on. Her goal was to have us say something to the effect of, "Jane is about to get ahn the bus." At some point, she successfully reprogrammed most of the class but I'm not sure the result was completely satisfactory. Pretty much every one of us said it this way - "Jane is fixin' to git ahn the bus."

It's a wonder she didn't retire early. And, before we walked back into the school for second grade, every last one of us was right back where we started.

Gunga, my maternal grandmother, had a different goal in mind. She had determined that her grandchildren's future depended on us successfully learning to say get instead of git, and to refer to an ink-filled writing instrument as a pen, not a pin. I will allow those who know me best to evaluate the success or failure of Gunga's ardent efforts.

My mother didn't like ain't, but my almost 63 years on planet Earth has shown me that's not necessarily a Southern word. Folks all across the fruited plain say ain't. Obviously, their mothers didn't fare any better than mine did.

You still can't tell the difference my heal and my hill, and for sounds a lot more like fur or fir when it comes out of my mouth. I do speak Southern. I just didn't expect a kindergartener from Valley, Alabama to point it out to me.

No one taught me to talk this way. I just caught it. Truth is, it'd be downright odd if I sounded like a New England Yankee from Vermont or Maine. The culture and language around me was so strong that they couldn't get the Southern out of me.

That's how I want it to be for the kids of our church from a Gospel standpoint. I want Jesus to be so much a part of the words they hear and the lives they see around them that accepting Him is the most natural thing in the world for them. That's what I want for my grandchildren, too.

We have to remember, though, that there is one huge distinction between Southern language and Christian discipleship. I never had to choose to speak Southern. The exact opposite is true; I almost can't choose not to. With Jesus, in contrast, a decision must be made by the individual. We can nurture and form our children and youth, but the Bible is clear that following Jesus is not something we can force them to do. They make their own commitment to walk in His way.

But let's make it as easy as possible for them. So, let's git to work!