Yesterday I heard a couple of men speaking in Boston accents. And I mean, accents of the deepest dye. It wasn't just a gentle inflection. It was like the guys on This Old House times TEN. I know it's kind of a low-brow sound, but for some reason, it warmed my heart in a peculiar way. I enjoy listening to a deep Southern accent; MidWestern and Canadian accents crack me up. I love accents from New Zealand or Ireland or Scotland. But there's something about that Boston sound that makes me smile like nothing else. And it's all the weirder because I don't talk like that. Nobody could guess that's where I spent my formative years. As evil and expensive and liberal and depraved as Taxachusetts may be, it will always be my home.
In these days of homogenization and frantic, random migrational movement, when the world has shrunk because travel is so convenient and affordable, it's really quite something to still have a distinguishing mark in the form of ones' tongue. Just by the way you say simple words like "car", "doll", "about", "father" or "shibboleth", many times people can generally guess - often with some degree of accuracy but with a few exceptions of course- where you were born and raised.