As I bring out the sweaters and scarves from my closet for winter, that’s when I really begin to miss my hometown of Dallas. Not only is the weather far more appealing but it’s the only place where I feel like I can speak in my real voice.

Ever since I arrived at Harvard during that epically awkward Freshmen week, I’ve gone to great lengths to shield my natural Texan drawl from everyone besides my closest group of friends. I considered it a good thing when I met somebody and they seemed surprised that I was born and raised in Texas.

A few days ago as I waited for a shuttle, I decided to call my mom. Perhaps it was my fatigue after a particularly brutal midterm, but as the crowded shuttle bounded closer to the Quad I reverted to my natural Texan drawl, filled with lots of “mama’s” and “ain’ts” and some elongated vowels that could make my English tutor faint.

Perhaps I was louder than I intended because a friend of mine on the shuttle laughed as I said goodbye to my mother. He said he’d never heard me talk in such a way, and informed me that my accent made it sound as if my IQ had just plummeted sixty points.

I was just plain mad. For starters I’ve never considered my natural accent to be particularly grating. It’s more Southern city-dweller than country-bumpkin.

And that’s when I realized the huge mistake I made when coming to Harvard and feeling the need to blush when I let slip a “y’all.” The truth is everybody here has their particular vocal quirks, from the snobby internationals to native Fargo-dwellers, and we should embrace them all. Our voices are part of what make us who we are.

I was still angry at my friend for bashing my dignified Texan twang, but I duly understood that I was getting a taste of my own medicine. Ever since I came to Harvard I’ve cringed each time I’ve heard that local New England dialect. How anybody could walk through Boston Common and still think it’s us Texans who sound dumb was beyond me.

Last Sunday as the city of Boston celebrated the recent World Series win for the Red Sox I was getting ready to poke fun at the drunken locals on the evening news shouting in that famed Boston (Bas-tahn) tone. As one guy attempted the Pabelbom jig while shouting incomprehensibly, I came perilously close to calling my roommate into the common room to mock this inebriated, unintelligible soul who apparently missed the “Sesame Street” episode brought to us by the letter “R.”

But then I’d be no better than my contemptuous friend was to me. Part of the beauty of Harvard is the diversity of regional dialects, and all the mix of cultures and backgrounds it signifies. Everyone from your Brooklyn-bred roommate to the “SoCal” girl in your section thinks her vernacular is the best. Our education isn’t just about response papers and problem sets; it’s also about exposing us to different ideas and perspectives, with the hope of producing cosmopolitan, tolerant and open-minded individuals. And part of that is learning to listen to the content of what others say, and not how they say it.



Jessica C. Coggins ’08, a Crimson arts editor, is an English and American literature and languages concentrator in Cabot House.