When Dialect Becomes a Doorway
Recently I listened to a podcast episode that focused on the regional dialects of North Carolina, and how certain towns have very certain pronunciations. (Word to the wise: Beaufort, North Carolina and Beaufort, South Carolina are. not. the. same.)
Pronounce a word one way, and you’re an automatic insider. Pronounce it differently, and you can create a barrier that’s hard to come back from. Since the days of Shibboleth, dialect serves as a doorway: one that can shut tight just as well as it can open wide.
It reminded me of a moment several years ago where I learned this first-hand. Let me set the scene for you:
I was tasked to lead a group of volunteers for a denomination’s annual gathering. There would be almost 20,000 people in attendance, and my team would lead the guest services side of the event.
The only problem was, I knew very few of these volunteers in advance. Over 200 of us would meet in person for the first time on the first morning of the convention. They didn’t know me. I didn’t know them. And while there wasn’t necessarily a reason for us not to trust each other, there’s wasn’t necessarily a reason that we would.
In addition, all of my volunteers were locals, and I was the out-of-state guy coming in to lead them over the course of two days. It had all the makings of side-eyes and suspicions, of distrust and dysfunction…
…until Demonbreun.
I should mention that this convention was held in downtown Nashville, Tennessee: the birthplace of country music, the world headquarters of bridesmaids on beer trolleys, and home to one of the most unpronounceable streets that you’ll ever encounter: Demonbreun.
In the lead-up to the event, I shot a series of prep videos to help volunteers get ready for everything from protocol to parking, and one of the words I had to say was … DEEmonbroon? DEEmonBREEun?
Thankfully, because the convention was in Nashville, and I just so happened to grow up about 90 minutes south, and my Dad practically memorized the streets of downtown Nashville as a kid, I knew that the correct pronunciation was “Duh-MUHN-bree-un.” (And if you’d like a bonus podcast on that, check out this rather fun one.)
Fast forward a few weeks to the day that those volunteers started to pour in. Sometime during the day, one of the older gentlemen pulled me to the side and said, “Son, as soon as I heard you say Demonbreun on that video, I knew you were one of us.“
I tell you that ridiculously long introductory story to illustrate a ridiculously short point: your dialect matters. Whether you’re brand new or have a few years of service under you, whether you’re the little fish in a new pond or the lead whale in a big ocean, your understanding of the local culture, customs, and pronunciations matter. A few examples:
- You habitually call it the auditorium when it was cemented as sanctuary a couple of decades and a few cantankerous arguments ago.
- You refer to your number of visitors when prevailing culture knows we never use the v-word.
- You have an instilled habit of honoring your pastor as Brother Jerry when everyone around you calls him Pastor Jerry.
For me, whenever I’m speaking at another church, I make sure I know whether they’re called small groups, life groups, or Sunday School. Does the volunteer team I’m there to speak to go by First Impressions, Guest Services, or the Welcome Team? And of course, do I thank Brother Jerry, Pastor Jerry, or Big J for the invitation? (Pro tip: never call him Big J, even if everyone around you does.)
Dialect shouldn’t matter all that much, but the truth is it matters a great deal. It serves as a doorway that will open wide between you and others…or shut fast to keep you separated. It sends a subtle signal that you’re dialed into or out of the local culture. It proves that you’re paying attention…or not.
