[StBernard] To be a yat

[Westley Annis]

Well, it took me decades ta drop the Erl, berl, terlet and ersters
vernacular. It seems jokesters like me contrived ta keep it around a bit
longer after we abandoned da ruins in New Orleans in the late 50's ta jern
ebbyone in da parish. Now dat mah autheritis kicked in, I'm slower ta change
da old ways, but always tryin' like 'ell ta do da right thing wen it comes
ta speech. 

..jest hard ta kick, yo' know.

Merry Christmas and forget dis "'oliday inclusion" stuff. It's still a
Christmas Tree, (so it always will so be) and no attemp will be made ta try
like 'ell ta forget why and how da tree came to symbolize dis blessed
Christmas as an angel or star mounts its pinnacle in observance of prob-bly
da Greater Person whoever used da dat language--Jesus. <smile>. 

He might have said, "I fo'give y'all fo' y'all sins, dear loved ones".
 
..and we would have understood da true meaning of Christmas at dat purnt.

--jer-
(ps. Perdon da gramma). 
Thanks, Big Dave.
___________________________
Hold onto 'Flying Horses'
Yat expressions make local language unique 
Tuesday, November 27, 2007 
Angus Lind
 
In the past couple of weeks, there have been several newspaper stories and
TV, radio and online reports about the exciting reopening in City Park of
what I've always called the "Flying Horses." 

Except for one story in this paper, to the best of my knowledge, in
virtually every instance, including headlines, the term used to herald the
return of this historic New Orleans landmark has been "carousel" -- which is
very disappointing. 

The last thing we need in this quirky, eccentric city, where cultcha shock
slaps visitors silly the first time they come here, is standard, boring,
proper American English taking over. 

It's time to draw a line in the sand, or marsh or Mississippi mud. We cannot
let this happen. Our colorful, confusing yat language has been kept alive
and defended for years by true Orleanians who appreciate its subtleties and
idiosyncrasies. 

People such as Ricky Graham, Becky Allen, Bunny Matthews, Phil Melancon,
Ronnie Virgets, Frank Davis, Benny Grunch, Al Scramuzza and the late
sportscasters, Buddy Diliberto and Hap Glaudi, are and were practitioners
and guardians of this treasured tongue. 

In Earl Higgins' best-selling book, "The Joy of Y'at Catholicism," there is
a chapter titled "New Orleans and the Perception of Reality." In that
chapter, he discusses the "flying horses" vs. "carousel" phenomenon, calling
the former "the quintessence of the New Orleans idiom and its perspective on
reality." 

Outside of Bienville's humid, mosquito-infested settlement, Higgins points
out, "carousel" is "no more than a generic name for a mechanical device that
goes around in a circle." For generations, the carousel in City Park and the
now-defunct carousel in Audubon Park were known to New Orleanians as "Flying
Horses." 

The term "Flying Horses," Higgins says, signifies the "fantasy and magic and
appropriate images in harmony with the city's spirit of exhilaration and
celebration." And if you ride them one evening as daylight gives way to dusk
and then to twilight, you "enter into the heart and soul of a kaleidoscope
of sight, sound and color. 
"The Flying Horses are not just a carousel; they are magic." 
And they are a city treasure. 
 
As are uniquely N'awlins words and phrases such as banquette and beignet,
po-boy and parasol, neutral ground and lagniappe, ersters and swimps (or
swimpses), terlet and erl, foist and thoid, sittin' on da stoop, go by ya
brudda's house, and stop off in da batroom to freshen up. That's not
including our version of GPS, local directions: 

Uptown, downtown, toward the river, toward the lake, riverside, lakeside, as
in "downtown riverside, katty-corner across from dat ol' snowball stand dat
ain't dere no more." Talk about pinning it down. Then there's "over da
river," "da parish," and when people from Algiers, Gretna, Marrero or
Westwego on the West Bank decide to cross the river, they do not "go to the
East Bank," they "go into town." 

It's beautiful stuff; it absolutely is. No other city has this. You take the
King's English and Noah Webster; I'll take N'awlinsese and da characters who
speak it, any day. Jesuits, da Quarters, da Channel, dis, dat and da udda,
where y'at, cap? You can't find that in any dictionary.

You don't hear "banquette" as much as you used to, sadly. But my grandmother
-- excuse me, my "gramma" -- used it regularly; I'm not sure "sidewalk" was
in her vocabulary. It was pronounced, "BANK-it," obviously. Well, maybe not
so obviously. 

Locals today, unfortunately, seem to be wearing "sneakers" almost as much as
they wear "tennis shoes," or its shortened form, "tennis," as in, "Me and da
ol' lady went to Kmart, and I got me some new tennis." Perfectly understood;
no questions asked. 

And it was always "alligator pear" for avocado and "parasol" for umbrella. A
refrigerator was either an "icebox" or a "Frigidaire" -- the latter no doubt
because that was the brand name on the first one my gramma ever owned. "Look
in the Frigidaire" was a very normal instruction at her house. 

As was "Close da door so all da air don't get out." 

You live your whole life here and it all seems so normal, so routine,
everything you hear: Sugah, dawlin', honey, hey babe, chirren, "Da caw needs
erl, Oil -- whatcha gonna do about it? Jesus Gawd! You some lazy!" 

If you want a true sample of the real N'awlins accent -- as Graham puts it
so eloquently, "N'awlins people just get a word and make it sound more
betterer" -- all you have to do is flip through the pages of John Kennedy
Toole's "A Confederacy of Dunces," and you'll pick up on it. 

Santa Battaglia is talking to Irene Reilly on the telephone: "It was hard in
them days, Irene. Things was tough, kid." 

"You can say that again," says Mrs. Reilly. "We sure had us some hard times
down on Dauphine Street. Poppa was very poor. He had him a job by a wagon
works, but then the automobiles come in, and he gets his hand caught in a
fan belt. Many's the week we lived on red beans and rice." 

"Red beans gives me gas." 

"Me, too. Listen, Santa, why you called, sugar?" 

And when Patrolman Mancuso tells Mrs. Reilly that their three kids make his
wife nervous, she says: "Nerves is a terrible thing. Poor Miss Annie, the
next-door lady, she's got nerves." 

Me, I got da arthur-itis. But it ain't gonna keep me of da Flyin' Horses.