Part of what makes New York so dynamic and cool are its characters. I’m not necessarily talking about the city hipsters, those arrivistes that may have spent most of middle school in an affluent suburb stuffed in a locker but now pick up young models on the L-train, or the beautiful and the powerful tottering around the meat packing district at 2am; as far as I’m concerned, these folks are tourists. I am talking about the people who have lived here for generations and have cultivated certain attitudes, traits and yes, accents that make them so identifiably “New Yorkish.” And though New York City, where I have lived intermittently for six years, has a fantastic people-watching culture, it is the “people-listening” that really floats my boat.

I am especially enticed by regional accents, and although I am an intent eavesdropper it’s often irresistible to jump in and add an opinion, a piece of information, or some unsolicited support. These attempts are usually met with nodding and inclusion. It is a myth that New Yorkers are unfriendly. “New Yawkahs” are very, very friendly.

I used to live in Yonkers and am originally from New Jersey (or as we say, “Joisey.”) I am accustomed to “Local Color.” My city friends who have seen me flirt with guidos know this. “AW YEAH RIGHT JERKY!!” “WHATEVA THERE! IZZAT YOUR IROC PARKED OUTSIDE OR IZZIT YOUR MOTHAS??” “AW YEAH! YA THINK THAT’S FUNNY!” (Well yes, I do!) We usually wind up having a nice conversation about Van Halen (EDDIE KICKS ASS) and it’ all good. Despite their rambunctious sensibilities, I find some of these guys are pretty smart and gentlemanly. So Carmine my dear, if you are reading this, I swear I am not describing our meeting. I still have your number. And I thought “1984″ was definitely their best album.

Going to the grocery store in “Yonkas” provided added value in not just the low produce prices, but in fun. Buying grapefruits once earned me a fond exchange on the checkout line. “YOU LIKE GRAYPFRUIT!” Came a shrill caw from behind me. The five foot tall blue-haired, bifocaled, housecoated woman with the personalized push-cart vehemently lauded my methods of staying slim. “IT…CUTS…THE…FAT! IT JUST CUTTS IT. YA EAT FYAT? GRAYPFRUIT? IT CUTTS THUH FYAT! CUTTS IT!”

These accents were tremendously contagious. I sat in my kitchen on Bronx River Road with a friend whose speech is as unmarked and clear as a newscaster from Maine. We craved dinner, but it was only 4. “HAVE A CRACKA” I extended a box of assorted pepperidges. She gazed grouchily at the box and then at me. Her long hair was in a tight bun. She squinted. “I DON’T WANNA FILLUP ON CRACKAS.” My answer was automatic. “OK THEN HONEY LET’S GO KETCH THA OILY BOYD.” “YEAH,” she acquiesced, “I WOULD LIKE TO HAVE A NICE PIECE A FISH. LET’S GO GETTA NICE PIECE A FISH.” We went to a large old place adorned with ropes and nets and had FLOUNDA.

I don’t want to bore you with too many dialect stories, but I have one more from that time and place. One of my two housemates at the Bronx River Road pad, a boyish little thing with slow, self-conscious speech, overheard a precious old-lady-debate on the bus that crawled our neighborhood, which I liked to call Bronks/Yonks.

Glasses on a chain: “I LOVE CHOYNEEZ FOOD BUT IT’S NOT SO GOOD FOR YA.”
Pillbox hat: “AYNDJA ALWAYS FEEL HUNGRY LAYTA! AWL THE VEJTABALS!”
Glasses: “YEAH, AYND IT’S GOT THA SOYA SAUCE. I DONNO ABOUT THE SOYA SAUCE.”
Hat: “OHH, YEAH, THE SOYA SAUCE. LOTTA SODIUM IN THE SOYA SAUCE.”
Glasses: “IT’S GOT A LOTTA GREASE TOO. VERY OILY, AND IT’S GOT THE
SOYA SAUCE, BUT I STILL LOVE CHOYNEEZ FOOD.”

Put that conversation in a British accent and it might sound wacky and glib; try it with an Indian accent and it could sound warm and whimsical. But for me, the Yonkers accent really made it really adorable and special. Try it in your regional accent and maybe you’ll feel the same way.