Accentuate the Positive

How much longer before New York accents disappear?

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Photo of the Brooklyn Bridge pedestrian walkway by Sven Becker on Unsplash

After a morning spent milling about a conspiracy theory museum in a Dallas, Texas basement, I found myself seated at a tiny Starbucks in a massive convention center reflecting on how much smaller the grassy knoll was than I expected it to be. It was the early aughts and day two of a multi-day work conference. The sound of someone calling my name interrupted my reverie. I’d shared it with the barista only minutes earlier but I was still surprised to hear it. 

Through most of my 20s, to spare myself (and the barista) the awkward volley back and forth over the correct pronunciation and spelling of my name, I was in the habit of offering a bald-faced lie instead. One day I might claim a Latte for Liz. The next might be a Frappuccino for Cynthia. A drawback to this practice was that it necessitated I remember: I am not the person my barista thinks I am. Generally when someone asks Cynthia - for the fourth time - to come and get her Caramel Macchiato already, I too wonder what’s keeping Cynthia. Forgetting in that moment, that I am Cynthia and Cynthia is me.

…to spare myself (and the barista) the awkward volley back and forth over the correct pronunciation and spelling of my given name, I was in the habit of offering a bald-faced lie instead.

Coffee in hand, I walked to the condiment counter, removed the plastic top and reached for a carafe of creamer. A slight man in a three piece suit with a salt and pepper beard stood nearby. We exchanged breezy pleasantries. When our brief chat had run its course, my new acquaintance smiled and with a speed I did not anticipate, removed a small vial from his breast pocket and poured its contents - a gritty powdered substance - into my open cup. He plucked a clean coffee stirrer from its holder, stirred my coffee and with a wink bounded off in long, easy strides.  

This action confirmed my suspicions about the identity of my new friend. I rushed over to one of my colleagues and played it cool until a pause opened long enough for me to interject that I had just met Dick Gregory, the activist, comedian, staunch vegetarian and health advocate. With my co-worker as witness, I drank my coffee to the dregs. You cannot tell me I will not live an extra 200 years because of this. (I am certain this is what was added to my coffee and no harm was intended to me.)

Later that evening, another man got within arm’s reach of my drink*. He was no Dick and as such, I kept the palm of my hand over the mouth of my glass. “What’s your name?” he asked in what I gathered to be a Texan drawl. Shouting to be heard over the crowd, I told him. “Cynthia,” he slurred, “you sound exactly like Rosie Perez.” Like a magnet to metal, the more I denied this, the more comically exaggerated my accent became. Truth is, it's not an entirely inaccurate description. I do not, for the record, sound like Brooklyn-born Nuyorican Perez. But as a younger woman I did sound more like her than I did not. I just, of course, could not hear it. 

I was reminded of this during a recent conversation with a woman visiting Tokyo from New York. Though we’d just met, talking with her was like talking with an old friend. Despite my heightened visibility as an obvious foreigner, in Japan I rarely feel seen. In the hour or two spent in conversation with this woman I’d just met, I felt seen. The pace of my speech quickened and even I could hear my o’s folding into aww’s like when I pointed out the Starbucks caw-fee shop at Tsutaya Books as we waaw-lkd Shibuya Craw-sing. When she told me she was from the Bronx, to me that geographical detail explained a great deal. 

My theory is that when choosing to move to New York City, many choose Brooklyn. Along with everything else, folks bring their particular speech patterns and accents from their hometowns with them. Older accents fade. Hybrids develop. New ways flourish. The Bronx, comparatively speaking, sees a lesser influx. So by that measure, New York accents, for the most part, remain intact in the Bronx. For how much longer? Who can say?

When thinking of portrayals of distinctly Brooklyn accents in popular culture Marisa Tomei in “My Cousin Vinny,” Harvey Keitel in practically every movie except “The Piano,” animated cartoon character Bugs Bunny and almost anyone who said anything in Spike Lee’s “Do the Right Thing” come to mind. But Margot Robbie’s turn as Harley Quinn in the DC Universe is perhaps the most recent example. The Aussie actress cites Lorraine Bracco, the Brooklyn-born actress best known for her work in “Goodfellas” and “The Sopranos,” as her accent inspo.

My accent waxes and wanes. Sometimes consciously (but never fully) standardized, other times barely contained. It’s a marker of home I can never fully leave behind. Not that I’d want to. When I hear it bubbling to the surface it’s like slipping into a forgotten garment that somehow always fits. Similarly, I long abandoned the practice of substituting a different name for my own when buying cawfee or making a reservation. Mine is an old name, found in a number of cultures, with multiple but related meanings. And I love it. 

I am in the States now visiting family. Before leaving Japan, I’d made arrangements with a tutoring company based in Tokyo for my oldest to begin math lessons online before school starts in the fall. After futzing around with the wifi, we finally got on the call, albeit a little late. “Hi,” the young tutor on the other side of the screen, on the other side of the world began, “I’m ––– . It’s nice to meet you. Before we go any further may I ask how to pronounce your name?” I adjusted the monitor so that both myself and my son fit into the screen, “It’s Zakia. Pronounced zah-kee-yuh, and again, my apologies for keeping you waiting.” He paused and with a low chuckle said,“ It’s good to hear an accent from back home. I’m in Brazil now and I don’t hear it so much anymore. The o’s tend to give us away. I’m from New York too.”

* Click here for some useful info on what to do keep your drink safe while out and about.

A Few Things:

1. You can’t talk about New York accents without mentioning that iconic scene in “Midnight Cowboy” when Dustin Hoffman, in the role of Enrico Salvatore "Ratso" Rizzo, yells “Hey, I’m walking here!”

2. Speaking of cowboys, a presentation by a Black cowboy and cowgirl association at the joint NABJ and AAJA convention in Dallas I attended all those years ago had me longing to channel my inner Bridget “Biddy” Mason and Stagecoach Mary. Clearly I was drawn to the Yee Haw Agenda, long before such a thing existed. 

3. Writer and producer Jaeki Cho’s New York accent is one for the books.

4. My old neighbor and dialect coach, Erik Singer, is the authority on accents and has produced dozens of fascinating accent tour videos. Here is one about accents in North America:

Tell Me:

Can you hear, or are you aware of, your own accent? Are there times you consciously minimize or play it up? Does it depend on who you’re with, how you’re feeling or where you are? Let’s talk about it in the comments.🗣️

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