accent

Where did the Yat accent come from?

There are certain sounds New Orleans has historically been known for: Jazz, Mr. Okra’s shouts about what’s on his vegetable truck, cries of “Hey Mister” at Mardi Gras, Yat accents.

But that last one may have a history that’s a little less straightforward than just knowing it’s how your mama’n’em talked.

I talked to two linguistic researchers last year who outlined who actually speaks like a Yat. They discovered that speakers of New Orleans’ signature accent are disappearing — and those who remain typically live in Chalmette.

One of those researchers — New Orleans-born Katie Carmichael — partnered with another researcher, Kara Becker, to take that work a step further.

“When you talk to people about this accent, they always bring it up that it sounds like New York, that they’re mistaken for people from New York,” Carmichael said. A particularly festive example coined by Bunny Matthews was noted by Carmichael and Becker this month in a paper for an Oxford University Press journal: “For those who have never heard it (New Orleans Yats), you must begin by imagining all of Brooklyn on Quaaludes.”

So, Carmichael and Becker decided to figure out if it’s actually true that there’s a connection between New Orleans’ signature accent and how New Yorkers speak. Turns out, the linguistic research says yeah, dawlin,’ there is.

By analyzing contemporary Yat speakers and New Yorkers, Carmichael and Becker essentially road-mapped the structures of the two accents. While nailing down specifics is tough without something like recordings of speakers from both places going back several hundred years, the researchers were able to see the “shared history” of both sets of speakers.

Essentially, what it boils down to is this: There are strong connections between the older features of how Yats talk and how New York City English speakers talk. Translation? It’s most likely that people in New Orleans learned to speak a certain way because they heard the sounds of people from New York speaking sometime in the 19th century, and not the other way around.

It was those New York accents that got passed on and became the Yat sounds we hear today.

“We can’t with 100 percent certainty say we can contribute the linguistic analysis to a clear picture,” Becker said. “But we can make suggestions about what we think may have happened.”

One suggestion, which Becker noted after a conversation with Tulane University geographer Richard Campanella, highlights the transient businessmen, seamen and craftsmen, many of whom would have come from New York to travel through the area at the time. Back then, New Orleans’ port was a major aspect of American business and still required plenty of travel for those engaging in commerce in and around it.

Despite that history, the results were not necessarily something Carmichael expected to hear.

“Initially, I was a naysayer, saying there’s no way New York had an influence on New Orleans, so I actually embarked thinking I would finally put that theory to bed,” she said. “Now, we get the data, and I’m a believer.”

The science does, at least for some folk’s explanations, put some veracity behind the stories people have heard about why Yats sound the way they do. Some “folk histories,” as the researchers called them, note theories like a group of New York nuns coming to New Orleans to teach in local Catholic schools, or the numbers of Irish and Italian immigrants who settled here and elsewhere in the 19th century.

While there’s no available evidence for the nuns and the way language develops puts a few holes in the immigration theories, little more is known, the researchers said. Those stories persist “because people love to spread these around,” Carmichael said. “But then — science!”

Still, there’s one thing that remains absolutely certain, according to Carmichael. People from New Orleans “sure as hell don’t sound like southerners."

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Chelsea Brasted is a columnist on the Latitude team at NOLA.com | The Times-Picayune. Latitude is a place to share opinions about the challenges facing Louisiana. Follow @LatitudeNOLA on Facebook and Twitter. Write to Chelsea at cbrasted@nola.com. You can also call or text with story ideas, tips and complaints 225.460.1350.

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My Midwestern accent is far more than what it seems

Sylvania, Ohio, is so small that you have probably never heard of it before. A suburb of Toledo, Sylvania is rather unassuming. And what’s significant about Toledo? It’s four hours from Chicago, an hour south of Detroit and 90 minutes from Canada. But for my childhood self, Toledo was my everything. You might be wondering, “Well, Ari, you just said that the only desirable aspect of Toledo is how fast you can get away to be in a more exciting place.” Yes, but when I moved to Atlanta, I found out that Toledo is much more than its proximity to other places.

Toledo has its own language.

Toledo speech has neither romantic French nor rich Spanish influence. The language, lacking fancy rolling R’s, doesn’t sound cool. The language is English­­ — but it’s different. It’s magical.

“It’s snowing.” Yes, you could take these two words literally or even scientifically — I’m referring to the white, frozen water vapor stuff that falls from the sky. But to a Toledoan, there is a lot more meaning behind this phrase.

It means pulling out all the tricks for a snow day — wearing your pajamas inside-out, throwing an ice cube out the window, flushing all the toilets in the house at exactly 8:02 p.m. and placing a spoon under your pillow. It means digging out our snow bibs and sleds. It means a spontaneous gathering of at least 20 kids in the neighborhood cul-de-sac without anyone’s parents organizing it.

My language is magical. It makes snow.

Having lived in Atlanta for six years now, I can tell you that the “neutral, Midwestern accent” theory is not valid. Our language is not neutral — it’s unique. On my first day of school in Atlanta, this became clear when all 26 pairs of eyes in my sixth grade homeroom glanced at me with a “what just came out of her mouth” look when I exclaimed, “Oh my gosh, you guys can’t wear white socks?!” To understand their look of astonishment, you have to read my words in a nasally voice like this — “Oh my gAAsh, you guys cAYn’t wear white sAAcks?” My accent is definitely not neutral.

My language is unique not only because of how it sounds, but, more so, because of the way people respond to it. It has the ability to evoke other forms of communication — giggles, smiles, raised eyebrows, whispers and curious glances. Some people may find these reactions offensive, but I don’t. I like the way my language engages people. 

My language is unique. It initiates friendships.

As I think about the influences on my language, I realize I may be giving Toledo too much credit. In hindsight, there are strong undercurrents affecting my language through my family — especially my Arabic grandfather, Poppa.

I can hear my mother imitating Poppa’s thick Arabic accent saying, “You must eat to stand on your feet.” This phrase is the equivalent of “How was your day?” and “I love you.” In my family, preparation and love are poured into each meal. My Poppa recalls large groups of his extended family gathered around a huge table stuffing grape leaves and intricate pastries, enjoying stories, laughing with each other and exchanging emotions and love. Food stimulates conversation. Evident in my immediate family today is the same thread of love and communication through food. "Ready for a cup of beef and barley soup?" my mom says as she hugs me after returning home from the University. Grabbing the soup ladle, I recognize there is always an open invitation to participate in my mom’s kitchen.

My language reveals much about who I am — my love for humor, for creativity, for engaging with people and for sharing. Without my language, I would not be Ari. My language makes it easy for people to see and respond to who I am. 

My language is me.

In a similar way, my language has taught me that everyone’s quirks are worthy of embrace. I hear the loud, iconic laugh of my friend from the other end of the Lawn and cannot help but smile. My diligent classmate sits behind the basket at the U.Va. vs. Duke game with her study guide in hand, and I acknowledge her unique approach. And to the stranger on the Corner who trips and sends his Roots bowl flying into mid air, I respect your ability to laugh it off and move forward — and I shed a tear for the fallen El Jefe bowl. 

My language does not hide any parts of my personality. Although my accent has faded a bit, my aggressive pronunciation of A’s and O’s sneaks up into conversation and reminds me that what makes us different makes us magical.

Ari Herman is a Life Columnist for The Cavalier Daily. She can be reached at life@cavalierdaily.com.