Remember to Move Your Mouth

“I’m gonna go to choir after school,” I said to my mom as she cooked dinner.

“Going. -e-ing,” my mom extended the sound.

“An I need you to sign my permission slip.”

“An-duh.”

“An I…”

“Let me hear you say the d first.”

“I don’t have time, I need to do my homework.”

“Say an-duh and then do your homework.”

“Why?”

My parents were born in a neighborhood in New Jersey where the lawns are perfectly cut, and the dialect is almost clear standard english. Ever since I said my first full sentence, my mom has corrected every mumbled or dropped consonant. While in younger grades, I thought the corrections were no different than ones from my teachers.

When I recently took a survey from the New York Times, the results showed that it is most likely that I live in New Jersey near Philadelphia based on the words I use and how I pronounce them. This accent comes from learning to speak from Jersey relatives and visiting my grandparents across the river, while living in Philadelphia..

“I want to axe you something,” I announced as I walked into the kitchen on a different day.

“You’re doing it again,” my mom said.

“What? All I said was I want to axe you a question.”

“You are talking like a Philadelphian.”

The first few times I heard this, my heart sank.

“What do you mean?”

“The word is as-kah, not axe.”

“I said [pause] ask.”

“No, you said axe.”

This discussion repeated throughout the first years of my life. The words echoed in my head, even when my mom was not around. I began to repeat myself, pausing mid sentence. This time coincided with my acceptance into a mentally gifted elective.

“Can someone tell me what [science term] is,” my fifth grade teacher would ask.

“[short answer]. I once saw on Nova [extra details].”

“That is fascinating, Miriam, although I was only looking for [expected answer].”

My fifth grade teacher encouraged my input, working the outside knowledge I connected to the lesson into the discussion.

“Haven’t you seen that episode before,” my Dad asked.

“Of course. I even know the words by heart.” I was currently sitting on the couch, watching a tv show.

“Why watch it then?”

“To refresh my memory. Besides, there is nothing else on.”

I would watch cartoons daily when I was younger. I learned to multiply from Cyberchase and vocabulary words from Martha Speaks and Word Girl. The contests on Fetch caught my imagination, and I loved the storytelling on Arthur. While watching repeats, I would draw the characters and say their lines with them.

“Who can work through the first part of this problem,” a math teacher would ask.

I was the only one to raise my hand, even though I knew my whole table had completed the class work. The teacher scanned the room as if no one had their hand raised.

“Nick, can you tell me what I should do first,” the teacher looked straight at him.

“I don’t know.” Nick glanced at the work on his paper, and then stared at the teacher again.

“Come on, it’s easy.”

“Subtract x from both sides?”

“Correct.”

I understood that my teachers wanted to encourage all the students to speak, but there were entire weeks where I was not called on in middle school. Teachers only gave me help upon request, knowing I got all As and Bs.

“Miriam, sing louder,” my music teacher said at choir practice.

“I don’t know if I can.”

“Don’t you yell in the recess yard?”

“Not really.”

I became quiet, yet not unsociable. My friends often spoke softer than me, afraid a teacher would not seat us together if we talked loudly, even though my friends and I only talked about work in class. Collaboration was not valued in my middle school. In some classes, I was quiet, and in others, people thought I was shy.

“Can anyone describe what global warming is,” my engineering teacher asked. He scanned the room for a raised hand. “Miriam.”

“Global warming is caused by greenhouse gases in the atmosphere. Greenhouse gasses, such as carbon dioxide, trap heat from the sun when the heat bounces off Earth’s surface,” I answered.

During the first few days of my freshman engineering class, most of the students were quiet. Every time our teacher asked a question, only two or three people raised their hand, and I was one of them. For some reason, the teacher told me after class that I should not be shy because I know so much.

At that point in my life, I did not consider myself shy. My classmates and I were all quietly adjusting to a new school. If anything, I was talking more than I had in years. However, every once in a while, the high pitched soprano would appear in my voice, and I would pause to clear my throat. Some interpreted this as shyness. Every time someone said I should talk more, I promised myself I would. The more often this occured, the less confident I felt. This continued to occur in poetry club.

“It was bedar to wear a masq than let mounans of acne show.”

“Say it again slowly.”

“It was be-agh. It was better to wear a masq-agh.”

“We can’t have you saying agh on stage.”

“I know Mr. Kay. I am having trouble with mumbling.”

“Try tasting each syllable of your poem. Say the line again as slow as you can.”

“Maybe we should write it on the board. What was the line,” Chella, who was one of the coaches, asked.

“It...was...better...to wear...a mask...than let...mountains...of acne….show,” I said slowly.

“I heard mountains! Chella, did you hear mountains,” Mr. Kay asked.

“I thought it was mounds,” Chella answered.

“It is mountains,” I said.

“Try saying it again.”

“It was bedar to wear…”

“Bet-ter. Say the t.”

“It was better to wear a mask…”

“Remember to move your mouth. It was better to wear a mask than let mountains of acne show.”

“It was better to wear a mask than let mountains of acne show.”

“Great. Now, say the whole poem at that pace.”

James Baldwin once wrote “It goes without saying, then, that language is also a political instrument, means, and proof of power.”  When I stumbled over my words, people hesitated to absorb my points. The correct pronunciation would echo in my mind while my tongue was weak. My mom always corrected me, thinking it was a Philadelphian accent. I would pause to correct myself, which led people to believe I was shy or lacked confidence. Confidence is a form of power. I did not stop mumbling until the time Mr. Kay helped me say my poem clearly. If I had mumbled through my poem, it would not have grabbed people’s attention.

I taught my tongue to say every consonant and vowel in that poem. I performed without a single stutter, allowing my team to receive a high enough score, and win the slam. Doubting my ability to speak properly made me believe I was shy. This was my weakness. When I was little, I would lose my breathe mid sentence. Singing in choir taught me to breathe. Reciting poetry trained my mouth to speak clearly.