#middle and upper class guys trying to be cool by hiding their accents just sound like berks

[thefrogsennaneverfound]

He doesn’t look like a dickhead but he kinda sounds like one. Unfortunately, every middle class person who adopts a fake working class London accent is gonna sound like a dickhead unless they learn (and I’ve never met one who has) to stop closing their vowels whenever they pronounce a word with an ‘o’ sound in it. Please stop; privileged white boys trying to sound “street” just sound like… well… dickheads.🤷

mans was not happy 😭

[kingofthewilderwest]

ACCENTS (An FMAB Drabble) - 1183 words

 (WHOA LOOK I AM ACTUALLY WRITING AND POSTING SOMETHING??)

A/N I probably have better things to do with my degree, but as a linguist, I can’t help but love language headcanons. For FMA, I imagine that Amestris follows some fairly typical dialectical patterns. Rural accents would develop in areas that make little contact with urban areas. There’d also be a dialectical distinction between people of lower and upper socioeconomic status. Dialects that fall outside of a “standard” urban upper middle class would have unique phonological features that give some peoples’ pronunciations negative stigma. Speakers of these “nonstandard” dialects would pronounce many words in ways that could be considered “funny” or “embarrassing” to others (or themselves). 

I do want to note here that all dialects ARE equally grammatical, all dialects are equally **CORRECT**, all dialects are valid and beautiful, and there’s NOTHING that makes one “better” than another. It’s just cultural perception. 

Still. I find intriguing, even amusing, that many main characters in FMA would have those “less than desirable” accents. Ed, Winry, Al, and Jean–coming from small Eastern towns out in the middle of nowhere–are no way in hell going to have the same accent as people from Central or Briggs. As for people like Roy Mustang… well… everything about his origin suggests he’d have some sort of stigmatized Central lower class inner city accent. Which is where the inspiration for this little drabble began…

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“I can tell no one’s working,” Lieutenant Hawkeye said as she stepped forward. The cluster of men before her were hunkered down and whispering, clearly hoping their quiet conversation could avoid detection from the colonel on the far side of the room. But Hawkeye, knowing what types of motivation prompted this quartet to whisper, asked them, with an expression so neutral it was actually intimidating, “What pointless topic is distracting you now?”

Breda kept a cool face. Havoc shrugged nonchalantly, but a betraying smile twitched around his cigarette. Fuery and Falman both had the conscience to wince.

It was Jean Havoc, of course, who dished out the details, not at all ashamed to be caught gossiping on pointless frivolities. “We’re talking about the colonel’s accent.”

“Or what should be his accent,” Breda amended.

Hawkeye felt her eyebrows rising.

Still wilting under the lieutenant’s stern stare, Fuery tried to justify their time debating this rather than handling time-sensitive paperwork. “You see, you see, you can usually tell where people are from by their accent.”

“The Standard Amestrian Dialect is heard in the center of the country, the northern regions, Central, and most large urban areas.” Falman, as always, was able to recite precise information from memory. “Specifically, for those in the middle and upper classes. People from the lower class who live in inner city Central have a unique dialect, while…”

“You’ve got country bumpkins in the East like me,” Havoc pointed to himself with a grin. Rather than cringing around the East’s rural hick reputation, Jean here embraced it, drawing out his drawl with more emphasis than usual.

“So what does this have to do with any of our present investigations or reports?” Hawkeye asked.

“Nothing,” several of the men admitted, while at the same time, Havoc insisted, “But what this does have to do is with the colonel. And that’s work-related.” He gave his stretched excuse with an impish wink.

“I accidentally stumbled into information about Mustang’s family from reports of one investigation downtown,” Breda said. “The crime took place in the ‘bar’ of a certain Madame Christmas. Chris Mustang, who if I’m not wrong–and I know I’m not, because I just looked her up–was the colonel’s guardian.”

“Which means, given how he would’ve been raised, he should have an inner city accent,” said Falman.

“Not the posh whatever-it-is he’s using now,” said Havoc. The second lieutenant, Hawkeye realized, was probably the most entertained by this prospect, as it would mean that he would no longer be the person in the room with the least desirable and most embarrassing accent. It would be the colonel.

Old memories drifted up from the back of Riza’s mind. She thought about the teenager who’d studied alchemy with her father. He’d indeed had an inner city accent then, before he met Maes Hughes and tried to copy his best friend’s upper middle class dialect best he could. By his early twenties, most–though not all–of his childhood speech had been changed. But Hawkeye wasn’t going to encourage her colleagues’ conversation by bringing these memories up.

“I told you, I think he’s hiding it,” said Fuery. “You’ve heard how he says ‘dog,’ right? That’s slightly off. The vowel’s weird.”

“I’d have to hear it again.”

“What about ‘coffee?’ ”

“Ohhhh. Oh yeah. I think you’re right.”

“No, you’re imagining it. He doesn’t say ‘coffee’ any different than I do.”

“He does. Just listen for it next time!”

“And if you don’t believe me on ‘coffee,’ try ‘short.’ He’s messed that one up, too.”

“You’re right, you’re right! I always thought that was just a weird quirk of his. But no. That’s totally the colonel hiding an accent.”

“You guys are making things up. You’re not any better than conspiracy theorists.”

“Don’t listen to him. We’re so right.”

“Look, we just need to pay closer attention. The evidence will be right in front of us. What’re words that he’d pronounce different? Things like… uh… ‘hot’ and ‘thought?’ It’s that ‘aw’ sound that gets changed, right?”

“Yes. That is one distinctive feature. Vowel shifts have lowered that vowel. And the ‘æ’ sound in words like ‘black’ are more likely to be diphthongized, and drawn out almost to the point a single syllable word sounds like two.”

“Falman, you know we have no idea what you just said, right?”

Intense discussion persisted.

“If any of you have to work overtime because of this,” Hawkeye said, finally turning away from the heated whispering session, “don’t tell me I didn’t warn you.”

However, instead of returning to her own tasks, the lieutenant stepped straight toward the colonel’s desk. Something about her brisk step alerted Falman, Fuery, Breda, and Havoc, and all of the men, sensing some unique internal motivation within Hawkeye, paused to watch the conversation.

“Sir, I’m heading down to the cafeteria for lunch.”

“You don’t have to tell me that, lieutenant.”

“You look rather busy,” Hawkeye observed. If she were indeed planning something, none of the eavesdroppers could yet determine it. This sounded like nothing but typical conversation between the two. “I was wondering if you’d like me to bring food up for you to eat at your desk.”

“Oh. Well, aren’t you thoughtful,” he grinned.

Coincidentally, that word ‘thoughtful’–which contained ‘thought’–was one of the words the men had just been discussing. Glances passed between the four, facial expressions wordlessly debating and disputing whether they had heard anything phonologically unusual here.

“Something like a hamburger or a hot dog?”

“Couldn’t complain to a hot dog.”

Everyone at the other side of the room froze. Both the words ‘hot’ and ‘dog’ had been on their List of Possible Mispronunciations, too. ‘Thoughtful’ on its own could have been a handy accident. But getting Mustang to say ‘hot’ and ‘dog’ one after the other seemed too well-timed to be mere chance.

“Something to drink?” Hawkeye continued.

“Coffee.”

Fuery bit back a laugh.

“Anything in it?”

“You know me. Just black.”

Gawking, Havoc slapped his hand on the desk–repeatedly–as he turned to mouth the words black coffee to Fuery and Falman.

“Alright.” Hawkeye gave a nod, but as she turned to go, commented, “I should be back soon, assuming the lines are short.”

“At this time? They should be short. By the way, thanks, lieutenant.”

She turned to leave. By this point, everyone sitting in the back of the room covered grins with hands clasped over their mouths, and half of them were also audibly sniggering. Mustang seemed completely oblivious to both their laughter and how Hawkeye had played him. Havoc was almost cackling, though, from the revelation of what had just passed. The fourth word from their list–and the fifth–and the sixth–had all been pronounced… slightly strangely.

Still maintaining a perfectly even facial expression, Hawkeye stepped past them. She didn’t turn to look anyone in the eye as she headed for the door. But all of them heard the comment she gave in a low voice.

“You should have heard him when he was sixteen.”

And with that, Lieutenant Hawkeye left the room.