I was first on the radio in the 5th grade. I was one of the winners of the school essay contest “Why I Like My Favorite Teacher.” The local radio station came and recorded the winners reading their essays.
It was a good day. We got out of class. The man from the radio station was in the Principal’s office with a reel-to-reel recorder he had brought (brung? Not sure.) Excitement. If I remember this correctly, we put on headphones as we read, but that may be totally false. I do remember that they played everyone’s recording back to us, and we all protested that we didn’t think it sounded like us. Then the principal explained that we don’t hear ourselves as we really are, because we hear our own voice as it echoes through the bones of the face, not just as it travels through the air. I’ve remembered that explanation to this day.
But this was also my first experience with editing. I was the type of child whose favorite teacher was whoever happened to be my teacher at that time. That year I had Mrs. Fair. The principal explained that we didn’t want to make any teacher feel bad that an essay had not been written for him or her, so we weren’t going to mention names on the radio. I remember watching as his thick, black magic marker traveled across my first line: “I like Mrs. Fair because she is fair.” He changed it to “I like my favorite teacher because she is fair.”
My words! He was messing with my words! It wasn’t the same. My clever turn of phrase was ruined forever, all for the sake of political correctness. If I hadn’t been scared to death of the man, I might have protested.
I still don’t like it when people mess with my words. At least now editors make me sound better, not bland and soulless.
Obedient child that I was, I dutifully read the essay. The radio station played them several times over the next week or so. My friends and family complimented me, never knowing how I had been censored. Even then, I was suffering for the sake of my art.
Yesterday my radio career continued. I taped an interview for The Book. Much scarier than reading an essay for my hometown radio station. I was reminded of the scene in Coal Miner’s Daughter when Loretta was explaining her interview strategy to her husband. “I don’t know what I’m saying half the time. I just open my mouth and out it comes.” Yeah. I’m pretty sure that nothing was said about Butcher Holler or my mama taking care of my babies while I sang at all the Honky-Tonks (because none of that would be true), but honestly? I don’t remember.
Some observations from yesterday:
I talk with my hands. A lot. This doesn’t translate to radio very well. Several times as I was answering, I was thinking, Wow, I really wave my arms a lot when I talk. Then I was thinking Hmm. I’m still talking, but I’m concentrating so hard on the arm waving I’ve forgotten the question. If you happen to hear me, please imagine the arm waving, as I’m sure that will make my points clearer.
I always think I sound more southern when I hear my recorded voice. I guess vibrations in the bones of my face filter out the twang. Yes, I’m from Illinois. Southern Illinois. No, the accent is not an affectation. Illinois is a long state. Chicago is hours and hours away, while Kentucky is less than an hour. I’m sure my years in Southeast Missouri have not, ahem improved this.
A speech pathologist friend advised me not to explode my S’s on the air. I had to ask her to explain what this means (in short: say it, don’t spray it). I have no idea if I was successful. I was too busy concentrating on not dropping the phone as I waved my arms.
Another friend advised me to pause after a sentence if I thought they may have to edit it out later. More great advice that I didn’t manage to follow. Again, the waving of the arms took up a tremendous amount of energy. Since I’m pretty sure nothing was said about Honky-Tonks, this probably won’t be necessary.
And save for the few years that I worked in a pharmacy housed in a building that had originally been a Honky-Tonk, I’ve never been in one. Honest. I don’t know why I keep bringing that up. Perhaps I need to send this blog post to my editor…
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I’m from the deep South which means every word I say has an extra syllable (or two…). That, plus I talk with hands as well. By the way, we’re so far south that southern Illinois is, to us, still yankee territory!
I know your interview went better than you think! Did you know I’m reading The Book (as in yours)? I think I’m about four or five chapters in. Great stuff!
Oh, yes. I realize I am very much a Yankee to you. But when I lived in St. Louis, people often asked me if I was from Texas. Accents are relative.
So glad you are reading the book! Hope it blesses you!
Congratulations on your book! How exciting.
As we’ve shared before, I understand completely the southern Illinois/southeast Missouri thing. Growing up in St. Louis, others made fun of my “hick” accent (i.e. southeast Missouri) cause I said “warsh the car”, etc. Living in southern Illinois now, people sometimes ask where I’m from because “you don’t talk like you’re from around here.” Hearing my own voice is usually a shock to me. It’s more nasally than it sounds inside my own head. Once in awhile I catch myself saying something with a real twang. When we visit relatives in Memphis, I pick up that southern accent very quickly.
Enjoy your book tour!
Sandy