Country folk talk funny

Every time I meet someone new for the first time, it almost always follows the same script. I'll say, "Hi, I'm Chelsea" and extend my hand to cordially greet whoever it is I'm meeting. While shaking my hand, people will cock their head to the side, look at me strangely and address this noticeable little problem I've given up trying to hide. \n"Where are you from?" they'll ask. Pretending I have no idea why they're asking, I just smile and say, "I'm from Kentucky ... " And then it hits them. Their college education has enabled them to tap into their marvelous deductive reasoning powers. "Ooooh, OK," they say, diagnosing my disease. "You have an accent." Really? Thanks for telling me.\nWhen I first came here last year, I honestly didn't know I had an accent. I hail from a small town in southern Kentucky unheard of by 99.9 percent of the IU population. Practically every member of my family has lived in the same town since my great-grandmother was a girl. It's easy to understand why there was no one who could warn me of the language barrier I would face when I came up North.\nNow, Kentucky isn't by any means what I would call the Deep South, but I guess we do have a bit of an accent. As my friends at home like to say, "Our accent isn't southern; it's country." And since I've been here, I've had all of my little country quirks pointed out to me. My "i"s sound funny, my Monday actually sounds like Mundee, I can draw any word out to at least three syllables and I rarely put the "g" on -ing words. \nNot only is my pronunciation odd, but I say foreign words as well. Y'all is a staple I can't live without. (No matter what anyone tells you, it is a word.) Y'all isn't the only odd word in my country vocabulary, however. Last year, the first time my roommate and I went shopping, I asked her if we needed a buggy. She stopped dead in her tracks, gave me a blank stare and said, "A what?" I repeated myself, but she still didn't get it. When I defined "buggy" for her, she informed me around here it is called a shopping cart. I guess I've been misinformed my entire life.\nOn another occasion, I thought it would be nice to compliment a friend. "Nice toboggan," I said, thinking his hat looked good on him. Again, I got an odd stare. "But I don't have a sled," he said. I thought he was joking, but no, my word choice had once again muddled the mind of a northerner. You'll have to excuse my backwoods vocabulary.\nNo one up here ever "fixes" to do anything, either. I'm always fixin' to do something ... I'm fixin' to go to the store, fixin' to go to class or fixin' to do my hair. Evidently, fixin' is something only us country folk do on a daily basis.\nAfter a while, I begin to feel like the butt of a Jeff Foxworthy joke. It can be incredibly tiring to smile and act surprised when people inform me of my accent. But every time someone tells me, it just reminds me where I'm from. No, I'm not from here. I do have an accent, and like it or not, I talk funny. So when you see me on the sidewalk goin' to class, stop and say hi. I'll say "Hi," back, and it'll give you something to laugh about for the rest of the day. But please, please, whatever you do ... don't tell me I have an accent.