Dialect writing
I have been reading /Strange Talk, The Politics of Dialect Literature in
Gilded Age America/ by Gavin Jones.
For a time following after the Civil War dialect writing in American
literature was mainstream and intense. At first dialect writing occurred
in political journalism with authors writing under pseudonyms as it
allowed speaking out on subjects and expressing opinions that were
potentially, and recognized as, damaging to own's career if said
straight out. In many cases these were humorous skits that relied upon a
feeling of cultural superiority of the reader over the ethnicity of the
racial identity of the contrived authorial voice. In time the political
journalism went through a transformation into mainstream literary work,
best known for Mark Twain and Huckleberry Finn, and well as James Branch
Cabel and Uncle Remus. Along the way there seems to have been a great
deal of discussion, and recognition of the need to protect the American
language against alien infiltration and spoilage... and a great deal of
ambivalence as it was the very incorporation of "otherness" into the
American language that was touted as the strength of the language that
needed to be protected from infiltration. The politics also had an
integral role in the formation of a National identity, as well as the
move towards standardization of spelling and grammar as in an
"authorized" form of the American language.
What strikes me as particularly curious was the problem that dialect
writers had in their sometimes delibgerate, and sometimes inadvertent
making of their work obscure to their readership... people could not
always figure out what it was they were reading. The more strident an
author was in crafting a phonetic representation of an odd dialect the
more likely that they would reduce the pool of comprehension with a
smaller and smaller audience wondering what the hell the writer was
trying to say. There was also at issue that reading cross-dialect when
an author wrote for instance "I'se" it would be pronounced in Cajun one
way, and in Irish another... meaning that the literal sign of the
letters when placed in different cultural mixes would stand for totally
different pronunciations... so in effect an author could write in the
"authorized" language and in fact the reader would read it as dialect
because, quite simply, that is how they pronounce their words no matter
how they are written.
Another item that interests me is that authors touted the authenticity
of their renditions of dialect (Twain in a preface to Huck Finn claimed
authorial command of 6 distinct dialects... though there is considerable
discussion as to if there were or were not 6 distinct dialects displayed
in the novel -- I find it almost impossible to sort "written" dialects
and find his claim to be a trickster ploy)... and that in many cases the
"interpretation" of a dialectical representation was of one "literate"
race and cultural class making play of another... such as a white man
writing in the artifice of a San Francisco Chinese dialect... and going
to great pains to explain the basis of their authenticity in their long
and arduous study and exposure to the primitive language.
The intended reader usually is not a member of the culture or ethnicity
of the characters who are represented... so it is kind of like an
inter-cultural puppet show that goes on with dialect writing. If the
readers identify with the dialect representation then it tends more
often to their saying, "H'got dis wrung... we don soun lak dis, we soun
lik dat!"
In the end, dialect writing for the reader is a puzzle and the solving
of the puzzle, the comprehension of a message, sometimes of any message
at all, is the reward and the satisfaction in the presumed successful
reading of dialect. There is no rational relationship between the signs
of letters and words and the authentic representation of dialect... so
even to advertise authenticity in dialect is an artifice... a
three-card-monty with the reader as a willing and participatory dupe. I
believe it was the eventual recognition of the "game" and artifice of
dialect writing, along with the layers of built-up obscurity and masking
of the text from a wide audience [increased distribution channels for
periodicals & books combined with increased access to the leisure time
of a middle-class readership] that caused it to become less prevalent in
mainstream literature. I am reminded of James Toomer and the Harlem
Renaissance writers and their use of a black dialect -- as well as
contemporary Hip Hop. In both cases I think not fully conscious of the
socio-political implications of their breakout positions as supposedly
originating from the target speech/sound systems. A post-modern dialect
exploration in literature I presume would be very aware and cognizant of
the terrain of the language game and would freely employ strategies of
meta-dialect.
Though I have not finished the book I am curiously thinking about what I
read in it in comparison to contemporary expressions of dialect writing.
In particular the often found maxim that the appropriate technique is to
"suggest" dialect in the opening of a text, just enough of a taste to
identify the socio-cultural background of the characters, and that the
reader will tend to imagine dialect throughout... and at the same time
the reduction of the dependence on dialect will not compromise on the
rational understanding of the text to a wider audience. Also that
dialect is most often used in a humorous manner that puts down the
characters... such as hillbilly moron writing... of which I am partial
to enjoy like some folks are addicted to chocolate or raw oysters.
In my life and work environment I often encounter patterns of
"English/American" speech and sound that are totally unintelligible to me.
Living on Long Island I have encountered a local dialect, particularly
with groups of teen-to-adult that when I overhear them I have to admit
that I have absolutely no idea what they are saying. When I found out
that my son, in his mid 20's is fluent in the local dialect... by
overhearing him talking with a group of kids, I was amazed. We recently
heard together some girls talking on a local radio station and we both
agreed that they were using a local and distinctive speech pattern. This
is 60 miles East from NYC and it is a dialect I have never heard in
years of wandering around in NYC. I am curious as to how to figure out
if it is traceable to either pre-colonial Dutch, English or Unkechaug
Algonquin influences.
And here is an example of playing with the notions of dialect...
Again it was night, Skeesuks had been with his thumb out on a road
somewhere between Tennessee and hell when a super charged black car
weaved itself down the interstate and came to a halt a hundred yards
farther down the road. Car stopped brake tail lights red in wet air.
Black car on a black night, mystery box with a surprise inside. Charged
in reverse up the incline towards Skeesuks in pursuit of the shoulder
half on, half off asphalt. Stopped again. A blonde head poked out the
passenger window. Whatever that head said Skeesuks could not make out.
No hesitation he got in, always into and out of cars. Tight fit with
seven and a quarter case of cheap beer.
They took off like an elbow rocket, the driver's arms braced against the
wheel. FM radio roaring loud /Plastic Fantastic Lover/. Mad mad rush
into darkness. Two guys in the front, Skeesuks' age but like from
'nother planet, jib-jabbered at each other. The driver hit the wheel,
shakin' -- with his palms in time flat with the rock n' roll. From zero
Skeesuks looked round, saw that they topped over ninety, near
ninety-five on the dial. Friggin' fantastic. Shotgun rider shook his
head 'round like a dead rat shivrin' ina mutt dog's mouth. With a beer
can he motioned motioned towards the back seat. Loud the engine. The car
hump swerved then lurched, swerved again forward. They could have been
talkin' dialect.
"You want one help yourself there buddy. We got plenty."
Skeesuks had no idea what the guy was trying to tell him. He got that he
was being spoken to, that part was obvious. What was being said as far
as he was concerned was obscure. He kept listening.
"You want one help yourself there."
It was times like this Skeesuks knew there is a world of experience he
don't know. Listen. The frenzy in this rushed car shooting the dark road
was one shift of time to space that wanted him the head to bite a calico
kitten off. Twisted, listen. Just some experience that make even a best
person want to waffle -- laugh through it. Spit in the eye of the devil.
Spit in the eye of God.
Skeesuks wondered there in the back seat who he was to know when he spit
just whose eye it was that he spit on. Rules mean dip shit to death.
Sardine packing to come up quick enough around the corner or a next bend
of road. Push the rod and hammer throttle.
Three of them in this dark machine, a Cougar, shot off towards their grave.
Jethro and Tullie was AWOL from basic and they figured they had better
get home to their mamas pretty damn fast and that is why they kept going
faster than skat shit with a wayward Skeesuks in tow. But it was a short
trip. They left him off when they got to what looked like no town in the
darkness. No place that he had not been already. They as quick drove off
in another direction. Short skips and jumps and curious departures that
lead one to conspirate a secret order.
From back seat of a car the child watches the world pass around like
wind in a tunnel -- then it is as quickly gone like debris after a
perfect storm. Images of tree limbs, scattered leaves, rotted pumpkins,
broken corn stalks yellow left after a divine harvest to lie in a field
mixed with the brown mud and stone.
GO
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