By The Way

Hey, pigs have accents, too.

By Emory Jones

Ever since my pet pig, Cunningham, got back from his brief stay in California, I’ve noticed a few changes in him. And even though he didn’t go “whole-hog Hollywood,” like some pigs do (i.e., Arnold on Green Acres), he did come back with a couple of “eat more beef” tattoos and a new brass nose ring. But the biggest thing that’s changed about him is his accent, and that sticks in my throat like a hair in a biscuit.

Now before you fly off the handle about me declaring that pigs have accents, hold your horses for a minute. I know the pig accent debate is a controversial subject that swine scientists have argued about for years. But it’s the truth, and I’m not being ugly by saying so. Different pigs have different accents, just like people do. In fact, a Yorkshire from Youngstown can barely make out anything a Tamworth from Tampa grunts, even though they’re both squealing pig Latin.

It’s sort of like how we can’t understand folks from up north when they put “sear-up” on hotcakes and drink “waw-tuh” to wash it down. And it sounds cattywampus to them when we say it’s “coming come up a cloud,” or that having a “come to Jesus meeting” doesn’t mean we’re fixin’ to take ‘em to church.

Now don’t get me wrong, I love accents and dialects of all kinds, especially the ones that use words like “Eh,” “Fer Sure,” and “You Betcha.” And I look forward every fall to the day my Minnesota buddy calls up to declare, “Dat dar buck was dis big!”

To some, our North Georgia accent likely sounds as odd as attending happy hour at the Betty Ford Center. But not to me. I will, however, admit that we use the language rather distinctively. We proudly offer to mash elevator buttons and make your picture. To us, every soft drink is a Co-Cola—even if it says Pepsi on the can. And we can say anything we want to about anybody, as long as we start or end it with “bless their heart.”

And real Southerners will name just about anything they own, usually with a bit of flair. We’ll name a dog, Rooster, and a cat, Dog, and a pig, Cunningham. My Grandmother, bless her heart, even had a walking stick she called her Uncle Albert.

Heck, we’ll even name our vehicles if you don’t watch us. I quite accurately called my first truck Scrap Iron. My current truck is Roy, and my wife’s car is Dale. It’s on my bucket list to one day own a Buick named Bullet, although my wife throws a hissy fit whenever I bring that up, bless her heart.

So, as I told Cunningham, if you’re born blessed with a mountain twang, be proud of it. And, if your accent is from Boston or Bakersfield, be proud of that too. Our drawl is not a drawback. Our twang isn’t troublesome, and our brogue is not broken. So, don’t fly off the handle or get all tore up if somebody says something about it.

In any case, changing how you talk—or grunt—won’t change who you are or where you came from.

Cunningham sleeps in the garage, but that doesn’t make him a pickup truck.