It was a strange and unexpected voicemail message left on my office telephone at the Washington Post, where I worked at the time as a staff writer—a blast from the past, the voice of a childhood friend.
“Wassup, John?” the message went. “You’ve changed,” he said, chuckling. “You sound like a white boy talking on your voicemail message.”
A white boy? Hmmm, I thought to myself, though understanding full well what my old friend meant. He was referring to my clear diction, the inflection and spoken-English perfection, the absence of any detectable Ebonics and ghetto slang.
I had heard it before. Still do. People sometimes marvel that I can speak “so well” having been raised in the ‘hood. My mama always expected and demanded nothing less.
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