Pank, Bald Peanuts

It took a room full of Peruvians playing Pictionary on the Fourth of July to make me realize I'm starting to develop a Southern accent.
Carolina, my loving Peruvian-born fiancée, and I drove up north to Indiana to visit her family over the holiday weekend, and now three weeks later, I fear I may never be the same. The trip started out great. Carolina had secured some doggie sedatives from the veterinarian to help Tony -- our super-hyper, high-flying mutt -- relax over the nine hour car ride. For the first time in his life he managed to make it through the curvy ups and downs of Dolly Parton's Tennessee mountains without throwing up.
With a clean pet carrier we arrived at Carolina's parents' house ready to celebrate Independence Day. My future mother-in-law, a former beauty queen who also happens to be a great cook, whipped up the traditional Fourth of July fare: steaks, hamburgers, hot dogs and papas a la Huancaina. After dinner, Carolina's 12-year-old sister, Natalie, and I (the only U.S. born citizens in attendance) danced around the driveway with low-budget sparklers while the neighbors launched show-worthy fireworks from their backyard. When the Bobby Knight mosquitoes started to attack, we went inside to play Pictionary -- the mad-capped drawing game from Milton Bradley that's fun for the whole family.
By this time Carolina's older brother Jim and sister Alejandra had joined the party and it felt good to be there playing games and laughing with all of my new family.
"Sure we're different," I thought. "They all speak Spanish and are a different color than I am -- but we're all family here. This is what America and the Fourth of July is all about -- a big melting pot."
The Pictionary game picked up with the arrival of Alejandra's boyfriend Raul, a Venezuelan artist who makes his living drawing and painting. While I struggled to make stick figures, Raul was creating mini-masterpieces that will probably sell for thousands of dollars some day. I was getting a little frustrated that Raul's team was catching up on the color-coded board. I rolled the dice and hit a six. We were moving forward, but to what color and what category?
"What category is that, pank?" I asked out loud to my new family. Every one of their non-native English-speaking heads turned my way. "What did you say? Pank?"
"Pink," I said.
"No, you said, 'pank'." I might as well have exposed myself. I was turning a bit pank in the face.
"Cuello rojo," laughed Carolina's dad. Directly translated that means "Redneck."
For about a year now I've tried to deny that I've picked up a bit of a twang. I called my brother in Chicago last year and after talking for a bit he said, "Boy, you've got an accent."
He should know. He lived in Mississippi for several years and developed a real rebel accent there. I used to make fun of him, especially after the time I overheard him ask someone on the phone, "Y'all got pro-payne down there?"
Since that conversation, I've noticed little words here and there that seem to be missing their precise Midwestern pronouncements and I blame you folks down here in Clinton. I live in Greenville and nobody has an accent there because they're not from 'round these parts.
No, it's my days spent working here in Clinnon that are to blame. Never before could I imagine myself saying I "might-could" do something or using "'preciate it" in place of thank you. Don't get me wrong. I'm not ashamed of my new accent. I actually wear it like a badge of honor. A real Southern accent is quite dignified, but it gets a bad reputation because most Yankees think a Kentucky accent is a Southern accent. And I do declare that nobody should sound like they're from Kentucky.
Dagnabit, I came to the South three years ago to experience something different and that's what I've got. I'll take the accent and vigorously defend its virtues, but you can keep your hash and bald peanuts.