Good day, everyone! I am happy to report that I left the train station known as THE FLU, transferred to a horse and buggy, & am currently headed to a town called flu recovery. I say horse and buggy because it’s a long journey full of bumps and minor setbacks. At any moment I fear we could break an axle and be forced to head back from whence we came. Having the flu is exactly like playing the Oregon Trail computer game in the early 90s. Things are prone to disaster. Enough about me! Let’s get on to the topic at hand. Siri hates southerners. I said what I said.
Conceptually, I’ve experienced this phenomenon in real, pre tech life. There was the time my parents sent teenage me to Europe as a graduation present. I thought I would be completely indistinguishable from the native Parisians. For months I practiced how I would walk, hold my hands elegantly, gaze in an unfocused manor with a look of boredom. Think of Lucille Ricardo when Ricky did his European tour. I was crushed when, at a café ordering my 3rd croissant of the day, the Englishspeaking waiter looked at me with disdain and said, “What part of Texas are you from?” Heartbroken.
Similarly, there was the early 2000s experience from corporate America. I had just inherited Minneapolis as part of my traveling trainer territory. Firstly, it’s beautiful there. Lakes abound. The Mall of America is there! They make tater tot casseroles for you if they really love you. I know this because I OD’d on one more times than I’d care to admit. On a random Tuesday morning, I found myself in a boardroom explaining something with an analogy that linked a certain sales concept geared to how selling (to a returning customer) is preferable to a single, unrepeating action (take care of your own garden first) with a late night informercial that promised free string for life if you purchased this company’s weed eater cartridges. I was knee deep in weed eater 101 when their confusing looks told me they did not know this topic I spoke of. They say weed whacker. Apparently, my Texan mouth was conjuring up visions of prehistoric anteaters. Awkward.
So, what does Siri have to do with any of this? I have not one but two humorous anecdotes to tell you. First, there was the time I ran into a friend of my mother’s at Brookshire’s. He asked me if I remembered the time my parents came out to his house to look at a tractor he was selling. The tractor was cranked and running when they arrived. The gentleman was talking to my parents and leaning against the tractor. My father told a joke, as he was prone to do, and the gentleman laugh/slapped the tractor, hit a random knob (I’m not pretending to understand tractor mechanics) and caused the tractor to run over his own legs somehow. Amazingly, no bones were broken. As I was leaving Brookshire’s, I sent a voice text to my mother saying: he said he still has nightmares. Later, my mom called me to ask if the man was or wasn’t the mayor of Forney. After a very confusing “who’s on first” routine, I checked my text and was horrified to read Siri’s translation. Instead of nightmares, Siri thought I said, “not mayors.” Mortified.
Speaking of my mother, Marsha was the queen of maxing out her voicemail time. Back when we used answering machines with timed limits, she would call back and max that tape out as many times as she needed, to finish her story. That would also include a later day phone call where she would repeat said story with even more theatrical umph. The days of Apple provided her with the perfect option of limitless voicemail time. Despite my pleas of how this action was futile (who even checks voicemails anymore) she would not be thwarted. My voicemail indicator was forever lit up with more of her messages than I could possibly listen to in a given day. Then, with one of the relentless updates, came a miracle known as Siri’s predictive translations. I’m sure it has a better name, but essentially, you can read the voicemail – or Siri’s version of – instead of listening. This was perfect for quiet times, meeting times, or anytime you wanted to know what someone was trying to tell you without them telling you. Siri was no match for Marsha.
Here are a few snippets from the highlight reel. “Hi sweetie. I got to be sure. Psychologically, because I want to drink early in the morning. When I get up, you know. Thanks. Bye-bye.” “Hi sweetie. Know if you will be around in the morning. Got to get a white male so we’re coming tomorrow. That’d be a good diet for you, too. Let me know. OK, byebye.” “Hi sweetie. I’m sorry I punched you. The psyche has a denteley. I didn’t know I was stalling you. Going to go back and find that house. Have a great one. Bye-bye. Oh. I looked up. I’m just doing.” Cue laugh track.
Dear Siri, we are southerners. We use all the vowels and extra consonants, all in the same word. Our syllables know no end. Our speech has a flair for the dramatic. The southern accent is fading faster than a dinosaur watching the comet approaching. It is up to us Texans to save it. Please do better. Sincerely, Marsha’s daughter.
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