Clashing Punches

I have learned quite a bit about California over the last six years of living in the beautiful state. I’ve learned how to dress, what to order in a restaurant and what’s in season at the farmers market; but I have yet to learn how to fight like a Californian. Three years ago, while living in Santa Barbara I got into a drunken altercation with a feisty girl who was struggling to break into my home. I watched her trying to break open a window, attempt to pick the front door lock and as she began to climb the side of my house to get in through an upstairs window I walked outside to confront her. I asked her if I could help her with something. She chose not to respond but instead tried to shove past me into my home. At this point, one of my roommates returned home as did one of her friends whom I later surmised was her boyfriend. I blocked the entry to my home with my body as the three stood outside.

“Move,” she slurred, “You’re in my fucking way.”

“This is my house,” I answered, “I’ll move if you tell me why you’re trying to break into my house.”

In hindsight, I was a little drunk and probably should have just locked myself in a bedroom and called the cops, but like I said, I was a little drunk. She never answered my inquiry but announced that if I don’t move she was going to physically make me move.

I responded by saying, “Listen bitch, I’m from New York. Do you know what that means? Don’t mess with a New Yorker. We have fighting in our blood.”

At this, she turned as if she was walking away but her boyfriend was pushing my roommate and blocking her path, so she turned back and swung at me. Maybe she put on brass knuckles, maybe she had a sharp ring on her finger or maybe I’m weaker than I thought, but the blow made my eyebrow begin to gush blood. When she saw this, her and her boyfriend ran from the scene, never to be seen again. The following day I had a black eye and my pre-med roommate made me go to the emergency room where I got six stitches.

I realized that day that east coasters have a much different way of fighting than west coasters. On the east coast, we are physical fighters. We get in each other’s faces and yell. Here on the west coast people seem to take the passive approach. They seem to avoid fights at all costs, even if it means ending a friendship over it.

Personally, I prefer the east coast technique, but I’m probably biased.

I still have no clue why that crazy drunk girl was trying to break into my house.

Dialect Clash

Your dialect clashes with mine

I have been living in California for six years now but I still maintain the same dialect I had when I made the move in 2005. I know, shocking, right? Believe it or not I don’t speak like I just stepped out of Jersey Shore nor do I drop the letter “r” in my speech. If I had a car, I would park it, not pawk it.

I can’t begin to tell you how frustrated I am with the idiots who just can’t get over how quickly I lost my east coast accent. Newsflash: I grew up speaking the same dialect as 90% of Californians. I have learned that certain parts of California have southern (as in the Deep South, not southern California) accents, but you don’t see me asking them if they grew up in Georgia? No, that would be rude.

As soon as I tell someone that I grew up on the east coast I notice their eyes start to glaze over with confusion as they ask me how long I’ve lived in California. When I explain that I moved west for college I get an almost identical responses each time, “But, you don’t talk like an east coaster.”

What does that even mean? How can someone talk like an entire coast? Have these people ever even been to the east coast? Most of the time, no, they’re just going off of the stereotypes they see on TV. It’s starting to become a joke among my closer friends, but the reality is, it’s no joke. It’s incredibly aggravating.

Someone needs to make an accurate TV show, set on the east coast, with no accents. I’d watch it.