Recycling Bends: An analysis of the Oregon accent (and beer)

I haven’t written much lately. But don’t feel left out; there hasn’t been much to talk about. Until now. Today in school I saw a student poster advertising recycling. Instead of writing “recycling bins,” the student wrote “recycling bends.” Now, for a Michigander, “bend” sounds absolutely nothing like “bin.” Unless you have some sort of bad head-cold. But I was pretty sure the student was perfectly healthy. So I stared at the paper for a few seconds before figuring out the root of the spelling error. You see, in Oregon, some people, like people in Michigan, claim that they do not have an accent. But as I have observed in my travels, everyone has an accent. (And when I say “accent,” I say it with the most nasally “a” I can muster.)

So anyway, the Oregon accent: I noticed pretty quickly after getting here that not everyone says his or her “en” the proper way. For many people (in Southern Oregon at least), “end” is “ind” and “enter” is “inter.” Whenever I hear my Oregon-born housemate throw out a word with a heavy Oregon “en” accent, I point and shout and try to convince everyone that I hear it. So far, I’ve been only slightly successful in convincing Oregonians and foreigners alike that this subtle accent exists. Until today. I now have written proof that in the mind of an Oregon-raised high schooler, “bends” sounds like “bins.”

So why does this matter? Well, really, it doesn’t. Except I love languages, including accents and dialects in my own language. And it’s one of the things I love most about traveling and exploring new places.

I’ve been marveling at the Oregon accent since Roseburg, Day One, when I first grabbed lunch with my roommate at a localish pub called McMenamins. Our first ever phone conversation went something like this:

Her: Hey, do you want to grab lunch and talk about housing options?
Me: Yeah, that sounds good. Where should we eat? I just got to Roseburg, I’m terrified of where I’ve decided to live for the next 11 months, and I don’t know of any good restaurants.
Her: Well, I went to a good place yesterday, called McMINamins or something.
Me: Oh, that’s funny; I’m standing across from a restaurant called McMENamins right now. Do you think that’s the same place?
Her: Yeah, McMINamins. That’s the place.
Me: Right, you mean McMENamins. I think that’s how it’s pronounced.
Her: Yeah, okay, I’ll see you there soon.
Me: (Thinking in my head) Am I going crazy? Does no one know how to read here? It’s very clearly written McMENamins.

The funny thing is, my roommate is from Minnesota. I guess someone had already told her the right way to pronounce the restaurant’s name.

*Another note about McMen(in)amins. I said it was localish, because it is an Oregon chain that stays in Oregon. Oregonians love their local stuff, especially their micro-brews. I experienced this love last weekend when I volunteered at the Umpqua Brewfest, a fundraiser for the local watershed council (Beer: “It’s all about the water.”) For three and a half hours I poured yummy smelling beer to people and talked to a good range of people from the area. It was a blast, although after spending nine hours there (most of it spent sampling beer after my volunteer shift), I grew pretty discouraged about finding many more young friends from here, outside my AmeriCorps social circle. And I really, really wish I liked beer. As I mentioned before, I like the smell of it coming out of the tap when I pour it, and the first sip of a nice micro-brew is good, but taking every sip after the first is like pulling teeth. I’ll have to just appreciate the local brews from the sidelines, I guess, and stick to my cider.