I speak British English.
Clear consonants.
Properly enunciated t's that show up to work
right where they’re meant to be.
Melvin speaks American English.
We understand each other just fine,
but pronunciation is a sport in our house.
Take the letter t.
In the middle of a word,
Americans quietly escort it out the back door
and replace it with a d.
It’s not water.
It’s wadder.
Not better.
Bedder.
Not city.
Cid-ee.
To my ears, the t hasn’t gone missing.
It’s been mugged.
Then there’s aunt.
I say aunt.
The way it’s meant to be said.
Melvin says ant.
Every time.
I stop him mid-sentence.
Are you talking about
the creatures crawling around on the floor,
or a human being?
He looks at me, unfazed.
Oh, you’ve got so many ants, he says.
Where did all the uncles go?
Ants.
Really.
I have aunts.
And then we moved south.
That’s when English evolved again.
Sam becomes Sa-yam.
A one-syllable name
decides it’s no longer enough.
A pause appears in the middle.
A gentle stretch.
Two syllables where there was once one.
Say-yam.
Not Sam.
Not even close.
Then there’s Comcast.
Which is apparently not Comcast.
It’s Come-caast.
Or Cawm-cayst.
Or something that starts in one zip code
and finishes in another.
By this point,
I’m not even correcting anyone.
I’m just listening.
We banter about it endlessly.
Good-naturedly.
Mostly.
Melvin, to support his case,
occasionally pulls up videos –
linguists, comedians, professors –
explaining the differences between
British English
and American English.
See? he says.
This is a thing.
And then, just when I’m relaxed,
not even arguing,
he delivers the line.
The British gave us the language,
but we perfected it.
Perfected it!
He says this with a straight face.
With affection.
With complete confidence.
I look at him.
At this man who turned ts into ds,
aunts into insects,
Sam into Sa-yam,
and calls it progress.
Yeah right, I say.
You perfected it.
And somehow,
we’re still married.
And we still talk to each other!