Anthony Galli

“Would you like some tar-tar sauce?”, my mom asks my sister and I. “Some what?”, my sister and I respond. My mother whips out a jar of tartar sauce. Pronounced tar-ter sauce. We laughed as we explain the phonetic pronunciation of the word. However, I can’t play innocent. Salmon. Almond. Roosevelt. Chicago. Sometimes I will pronounce the silent L in “salmon” and “almond”. It simply does not make sense why the “Roose” in “Roosevelt” sounds like “Rose” when it has two O’s, or why “Chicago” does not have the same beginning sound as “child”. I know the correct pronunciation of these words, even if they do not make sense phonetically, but somehow as the words travel from my brain to my mouth they risk becoming contorted.

My mother grew up across Latin America and my grandparents are from Germany and Poland. Consequently, English is not the primary or secondary language in my mother’s family. Although I grew up in the United States, I inherited some of their pronunciation quirks.

These quirks are the reminiscence of my Omama’s youth in East Germany, my Opapa’s flight to South America during World War II, and the nomadic lifestyle they gave my mother. As well as the Chilean silver, Incan pottery, and Bavarian armoire that decorate my house; our tradition of lighting the Christmas tree with real candles; and our 9pm Latin American dinners. My family’s pronunciation errors are reminders of my multicultural background and for that reason, I am proud.