Some years ago I published a reflective piece in a spiritual magazine. To my surprise, I received a phone call from a reader who wanted me to help her unravel a powerful dream she’d had a few nights earlier.

Dreams are not an area of expertise for me, and I probably wasn’t much help. But we had a pleasant talk anyway about an interest we shared in common – Jungian psychology. The clue to our shared interest came from one word in our conversation: she described her dream as “numinous.” Only someone who’s read Carl Jung, Marion Woodman, or another Jungian would be likely to use that word.

And that brings me to today’s point: Our language practices transmit many clues about our backgrounds, interests, and education – often without any awareness on our part. It’s an idea I’ve been thinking about ever since I read a provocative article in a recent issue of The New Yorker: “The Case for Black English.” 

I will leave it to the experts to argue about Black English (often called “Ebonics). It’s another topic – like interpreting dreams – that’s largely outside my experience. But I do have something to say – a lot, actually – about the kinds of language choices we’re faced with as English speakers in the 21st century. To me, they all revolve around a single question: Do I want to sound like myself?

I know that sounds strange, but to many people (like me) it’s a huge issue. We reveal parts of ourselves every time we open our mouths, pick up a pen, or tap a keyboard. And even though our language patterns are intimately our own, we may not be aware of the messages they’re sending.

I once spent a morning with a Hispanic activist who was proud of her down-to-earth, woman-of-the-people persona. She was astounded when I asked how she’d come to attend an expensive private school as a child – it was a part of her life story she never revealed to anyone.

But there it was, in her speech: why else was she using a possessive noun with every gerundive? (Example: “I was delighted about John’s making the team.” Most people would just say “John making the team.”) Nobody in public school is ever taught that rule. (I came across it in a book I was reading for graduate school.)

My personal Achilles heel is my @#$%! Long Island accent.  Every word out of my mouth carries a Long Island label. It’s especially noticeable in my vowels: We Long Islanders purse our lips when we talk, so that we say cawfee, not coffee, and dawg, not dog. My grammar and usage immediately tag me as a college graduate, but my accent plants me firmly in a middle-income town on Long Island (even though I moved away in 1974).

I have a friend who comes from a background similar to mine. She grew up in middle-class Long Island and holds a doctorate. She has a high-powered job and a very public presence in academia. And – most interesting of all – she has not a trace of a Long Island accent. How did she do it? I’ve never dared to ask if she went to a speech therapist – she’d probably rather have everyone think that those perfect vowels came naturally to her.

There are plenty of highly qualified – even brilliant – experts out there who insist that we should leave people’s language habits alone. Long Islanders can sound different from Bostonians and Chicagoans. Bring on the Hispanic accents, Ebonics, and Valley Girl slang. Let freedom ring!

I have a different take on all of this. I would never presume to tell anyone to change their language habits. But over the years I’ve told many students about my struggles to tame my born-in-New-York speech. The point is that each of us can – and should, I think – have some control over the messages we transmit when we talk and write.

And so I’ve parted ways with some New York speech habits. I’ve replaced radiator (the first syllable sounds a little like “rat”) with radiator (similar to “radiate”). I usually (not always, alas!) remember to put an “r” into words like sparkle and particular. The result is that I sound a little less insular (ha!) and slightly more worldly. I’ve been to Europe multiple times – why shouldn’t I sound like it?

I wish experts would focus less on regionalisms and more on empowerment. It’s ok to make choices – even if they involve (gasp!) deciding not reveal your ethnicity or background with every sentence.

Despite my quest for a more neutral accent, I have firmly rejected some of the language advice that was foisted on me in college. When I talk, diaper is two syllables (even though it’s supposed to have three), and I always say that I went to St. Joseph’s College (with an s, not the z you’re supposed to use).

Choices. Power. That’s what language is all about – or should be about. And we, not the politicians or bureaucrats, should be the ones making the decisions. Yes, let freedom ring – but let it be an enlightened freedom, with an array of possibilities to choose from.