For the past three weeks, I've begun spending my Wednesday evenings at one of the food pantries we support at work. Every Wednesday, this organization supplies food and clothing to hundreds of individuals in the valley that would otherwise go hungry. We require they either fall below a certain income bracket or are recipients of medicaid, food stamps, SSI, TANF, or any other government program that assures us they are below the poverty level.
I've been placed in the new registration line. Also, Mother, you would be pleased to know that my Spanish has finally proven itself useful in the valley! I'm the unofficial on-call translator every Wednesday, which honestly does make me feel like I'm somewhat useful.
But, oddly enough, while this is also the one time a week when I can actually use my Spanish, aside from using the odd word here and there with OfficeMate, this is also the one time a week where I become painfully aware of what is happening to me.
I'm developing the southern twang.
I don't know if it's because the people I sign in have such thick southern accents, or what, but this is getting serious. I drop my 'g's and I can hear myself drawing out my vowels. Britannica called me out on it yesterday, which means it's becoming noticeable to other people as well.
I don't say 'y'all." I refuse to pick that one up. But, I am beginning to see why people use it.
The transformation has apparently begun.