How to Talk Minnesotan
Page 2
I am happy to report that federal funding for the Minnesotan as a Second Language outreach program came through in late 2011, and we now offer fully accredited classes at the University of Wisconsin in Madison, Ole Miss, and UCLA. We are in the final phases of negotiations with the University of Iowa, Harvard, and MIT.
It is my pleasure in closing to include the following remarks by Jane and Jake Gratley, fully certified Minnesota marriage counselors, who can’t say enough good about the value of Mr. Mohr’s guide for struggling marriages.
“Marriage counselors in Minnesota frequently deal with UOS (unions on the skids), where women from such exotic areas as Chicago, New York, Los Angeles, and Atlanta, marry a Minnesota man and within a few months are throwing up their hands in frustration. Counselors have found that the union can be saved if the wife is given a copy of How to Talk Minnesotan. The Minnesota man is truly a complex species, though nice enough guys, really, who try to do their best to be better, not that they are all that bad. We have seen no other book that is as helpful to our main clientele.”
—J & J Gratley
Once more, Mr. Mohr, congratulations and thank you for being you.
—Emmet C. Borde, PhD, Chair, MSL Program, U of M
Getting Started in Minnesotan
Handy Words and Phrases
You bet
That’s different
Whatever
These three workhorses of Minnesota conversation will carry you through your first scary hours here. Memorize them, work on them at home with your family, repeat them until they are second nature. They are the building blocks of all dialogue.
You Bet
If you fly in, your first chance to try Minnesotan will likely occur at the airport:
—“We found your suitcase, it got caught in the conveyor belt. Some of your underwear fell out and was shredded by the pulley. Otherwise it’s okay. We taped the handle back on, it should last you.”
—“Oh, thanks.”
—“You bet. But your dog is another matter. We think he’s on the plane to Kansas City, but no problem, we’ll find him.”
—“I appreciate that.”
—“You bet.”
On the other hand, if you drive to Minnesota you could have car trouble right away and be towed to a gas station:
—“I don’t like the sound of that thing. At first I thought maybe just moisture in the distributor cap, but now, I don’t know, I think we’re talking valves here, or a broken piston.”
—“I appreciate your concern.”
—“You bet. Goin’ far?”
—“I guess not.”
A common use of you bet is in response to thank you or I appreciate it. If you buy something in a Minnesota store—say a bag or two of tiny marshmallows for a salad—the sales clerk might say thank you, in which case you would say you bet. But generally the customer says thank you first in Minnesota, and the clerk says you bet.
You bet is mainly used to answer questions. If you can’t think of anything else, say “You bet.” You bet is meant to be pleasantly agreeable and doesn’t obligate you to a strong position. In fact, hardly anything obligates you to a strong opinion in Minnesota.
—“Warm enough for you?”
—“You bet.”
—“Walter Mondale’s been keeping a pretty low profile since the election, hasn’t he?”
—“You bet.”
Sometimes the question is only implied.
—“I kinda like flannel pajamas.”
—“You bet.”
—“This humidity sorta gets to you.”
—“You bet.”
—“The heat I don’t mind, it’s the humidity.”
—“You bet.”
—“You get a real hot day, say 95 even, and with low humidity it’s decent. But take a day when the humidity’s about 100 percent and I don’t care if the temperature’s only 75, it’s uncomfortable.”
—“You bet.”
It’s worth pointing out that you bet has nothing to do with betting or gambling of any kind, even though Minnesota is the Bingo Capital of the Midwest. But you bet can occur in a Minnesota wagering situation, so don’t be confused.
—“You want to go out to Bingo Bonanza after supper? There’s a full moon, and today’s date is half my age. It’s my night.”
—“You bet. I feel lucky, too. I’m gonna try playing twelve cards at once.”
Pronunciation Note: Most Minnesotan phrases look like
Minnesotan is not a musical language. Some people with an ax to grind have said it is the musical equivalent of a one-string guitar. What I say is, what’s wrong with a monotone—at least you don’t startle anybody, but it does mean that Minnesotans are not asked to be on talk shows as much as residents of other states, not that we care.
That’s Different
That’s different is indispensable in Minnesota. You bet is a blanket reply on neutral ground, with the mere suggestion of opinion. That’s different is deployed in all other cases, except where whatever is called for (see below). That’s different means you have an opinion, but you’re holding back the details. Here are two Minnesotans discussing bullhead bait.
—“I suppose you use night crawlers for bullheads?”
—“You bet. Whadda you use?”
—“Stink bait. I make it out of rotten hamburger and moldy cheese, with oatmeal for a binder.”
—“That’s different.”
If somebody shows you the Holstein paneling he covered his living room walls with, you say
—“That’s different.”
If a new family moves in down the block and they’ve got four big dogs, six old cars, and three teenagers, you say
—“They’re different.”
If you are dining with Minnesotans during your visit and they ask you if you like the Macaroni/Herring/Pinto Bean hotdish staring up at you from your plate, you might say
—“You bet.”
But probably you’d say
—“It’s different.”
Whatever
Whatever expresses emotional turmoil of many varieties and takes over in Minnesota conversation when you bet and that’s different won’t do the job.
Whatever can be used to express disappointment.
—“Your work is good, Bud, we don’t have any complaints, but we’re gonna have to let you go. It’s the economy.”
—“Whatever.”
Or it can express resignation.
—“I’ve been an electrician for twenty years, but I tell you this house of yours is the worst I’ve ever seen. I’m surprised you didn’t have real trouble long before now. I’m gonna have to replace all the wiring. It ain’t gonna be cheap.”
—“Whatever.”
If your wife tells you that her sister and brother-in-law are gonna come stay with you for a few months while they find themselves, you might say
—“You bet.”
Or you might say
—“That’s different.”
But more than likely you’d say
—“Whatever.”
(Declassified Details Released in 1996)
After the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989, Mikhail Gorbachev and his wife Raisa announced a stop in Minnesota on June 3, 1990, during their big tour of America. Most people I know out where I live on the southwestern Minnesota prairies, including my good friend and neighbor Harold Mire, figured it would turn out to be one of those typical deals where a bunch of Minnesota’s Metro bigwigs would commandeer the festivities.
But miracles happen. Harold Mire’s name was picked out of a hat by the Russian advance team in early May to represent all Minnesotans. Mikhail and Raisa Gorbachev would spend their six or so hours with Harold and his family in “Greater Minnesota,” a term invented in the Twin Cities to sound better than “boondocks,” which is how they really regarded rural Minnesota.
At the last minute, Governor Rudy Perpich was invited to ride along with the Harold and Gorby entourage, if he wanted t
o, in spite of the fact that his name was not drawn from the hat, but he declined.
Itinerary
1:00 P.M.—Mr. and Mrs. Gorbachev (R&MG) are greeted at MSP International by Harold Mire (HM), who has a clearance to drive his black 1980 LTD out on the tarmac. Harold tells Gorby through Boris, the translator and bodyguard, that it has 168,000 miles on it and counting. “It’s got that great Ford V-8 in it.” Gorby tells Harold he could get big bucks for that LTD back in Russia. Harold says it is not for sale.
1:05—Against his better judgment HM takes Crosstown west and holds it at seventy miles per hour, just below the threshold where it tends to shimmy. At the 35W infamous mixmaster interchange, where Crosstown narrows to one lane, Harold asks R&MG to join him in a moment of nondenominational prayer and gets his first good chuckle from the Gorbachevs.
1:12—HM drives through Burger King and orders two salads in those weird clear plastic greenhouse-style containers, with the dressing in little packets that tend to squirt every direction but toward the lettuce, as Boris finds out, to a car full of laughter, including his.
1:20—By request, Harold drives through Hardee’s and orders a Big Beef for Gorby and a Fisherman’s Fillet for Boris, who says nyet to the tartar sauce in the trick squirter.
1:30—Harold drives through McDonald’s because Gorby wants to try his English. He says “Two large fries” into the drive-through menu board, but the girl at the pickup window gives him Chicken McNuggets. Raisa eats the McNuggets.
1:34—They eat in the car while heading southwesterly into Greater Minnesota on Highway 5, connecting to Highway 212 at Young America. Fast food leads to grogginess as R&MG take short snoozes. Boris shoots the bull with Harold about the Vikings.
2:50—Harold stops at an undisclosed self-service gas station. He fills the LTD with no-lead. The clerks watch from the window as two police cars pull up beside the LTD. Harold buys two twelve-ounce bottles of water at the C-store for eighty cents each. MG says, “Eighty cents for a cup of water? That’s more expensive than the gas per gallon.” Harold says, “It’s a rip-off, Gorby, but people have been conditioned to think tap water and well water are no good. It’s called marketing.” MG slaps his knee and laughs at that capitalism joke.
3:35—Harold drives by an old and defunct coal-fired generating plant where a power company wants to burn PCB-contaminated oils contrary to the wishes of area citizens. MG is reminded of the darker days under Stalin.
3:52—They arrive at Harold’s place in the country, south of Hanley Falls and north of Cottonwood, where R&MG are greeted by HM’s wife, Ethel. Daughter Lily says “Howdy” and then leaves for her church-league softball game, an important grudge match between Holy Redeemer and Our Savior’s. Raisa wonders out loud if it is common for American churches to battle with each other on the playing fields. Harold is about to reply to Raisa, but Ethel reads him like a book and taps his shoulder.
What the Gorbachevs and the Mires did in the next two hours is pretty much undisclosed, but Harold surely mentioned the recent good rains making the prairies come alive. Gorby and Harold without a doubt also looked at Harold’s brother’s corn crop, a good nine inches high by then. The soybeans were just peeping through the topsoil.
For their part, Ethel and Raisa took a walk on the gravel road that runs east and west past the Mire place so they could talk privately.
The biggest show Harold and Ethel provided had to be the native flowers and the birds, the best in twenty years, Harold told the Gorbachevs. At the Mire place so far that spring they had seen a cardinal, an American redstart, three goldfinches, Baltimore orioles, mourning doves, crows, downy woodpeckers, wrens, and the day before their visit, a nesting pair of indigo buntings.
5:45—With a sack of Ethel’s health-nut oatmeal cookies to control munchies on the trip back to Minneapolis, the Gorbachevs depart Ryan Field in Marshall in a rented Piper Aztec, with Raisa and Ethel in the backseat, Harold as pilot, and Gorby in the right seat. They see the sweep of the rich farming country and small towns from 5500 feet, flying through the cleanest air in the nation. Harold lets Gorby take the controls for a few minutes. Gorby says, “You didn’t hear me say it, but I could get used to this life.” “You bet,” says Harold, “a guy couldn’t do better.”
6:05—In the Twin Cities area, on approach to Minneapolis International, R&MG look down on the future site of the Mall of America, Canterbury Downs, and the Humphrey Dome. After landing, Harold taxis the Aztec behind the Follow Me truck to the Russian equivalent of Air Force One.
Ethel and Raisa hug each other, and contrary to everything Gorby had heard about Minnesota men, Harold gives him a bear hug, which raises a big cheer from the Minnesotans behind the security fences.
The Power of the Negative
A Word About Emotional Outbursts
—“Oh, great, just wonderful, terrific. I love it!!!”
Get that excited about something in Minnesota and you might as well paste a bumper sticker on your forehead that says I’M NOT FROM AROUND HERE. I don’t know what you were taught where you came from, but you shouldn’t let your positive feelings run amuck while you’re here. It’s okay to have good feelings but there’s no sense running down the street telling people about it at the top of your voice. There’s a good chance it won’t last, anyway. Good things happen—yes—but when they do, Minnesotans are a little nervous because they know something bad will eventually happen to balance it out. But if something bad happens they know they’re safe for a while from something else bad, probably, but you never know.
If you have to overdo it in Minnesota, overdo it on the downside, not the upside.
Minnesotans prefer to express their positive feelings through the use of negatives, because it naturally levels things out. This will be one of your hardest lessons, and don’t expect to learn it overnight. Some people who were born in Minnesota still haven’t got the hang of it.
If you just got married or bought a late-model pickup under book price with low mileage and hardly any rust, or it’s dawn on opening day of the duck season, a Minnesotan would say
—“I wouldn’t want you to think I’m not happy.”
That’s a strong statement here.
Phrases
It could be worse
Not too bad
Not so bad
Can’t complain
If somebody asks “How’s it goin’?” and you’re feeling mainly average and life in general is okay at the moment—not perfect, of course—you’ll say
—“Not so bad.”
On the other hand, if you’re feeling better than average and you haven’t noticed any ill winds, you’ll say
—“Can’t complain.”
Can’t complain actually means you could complain if pressed, because there’s always something, that’s just the way it is. But you’re saying that since you feel so good (within reason) for the moment—with no illusions that it’s permanent or anything—you’re going to pass on the complaining for now, but you’ll catch up on it later.
If you reply
—“It could be worse,”
you could be saying exactly what you mean, because of course things can always be worse than they are. In fact, things can be worse than they are more often than they can be better than they are; it’s a fact of life. If it’s not going real well—say the pipes busted in the basement while you were in town seeing the sheriff about your stolen car—you say “It could be worse” because you know very well that if you start thinking this is the end of it, the water heater’s gonna short out or your daughter’s gonna need braces.
TV reporters hired from other states generally come out of the chutes too fast and aren’t properly trained for Minnesota-style reporting. So when the Action News Team takes the helicopter out to the site of a tornado touchdown, these newcomers generally end up putting a microphone in a Minnesotan’s face and asking how he feels. I know that goes over on the coasts, but in Minnesota we’ll just look at you over the tops of our glasses.
—“How do you feel?”
—“It could be worse. I think we can salvage some of the lumber from the barn. That pile over there looks pretty good. It’ll be a smaller barn—some of the boards are in the next county.”
Tears begin to well up in the reporter’s eyes.
—“It must be terrible for you, the mixture of emotions, the shock.”
—“Well, not really. It happens, you know. It’s not like we didn’t expect it.”
The reporter begins weeping. The producer cuts to the news anchors back in the Twin Cities. They are holding each other, weeping. The reporter is barely able to squeeze out the next question:
—“Where do you go from here? I’m sorry for breaking up like this—it’s so awful.”
—“We’re not going anyplace. I’m gonna set up the tent over there where the granary used to be and then work on getting the top story back on the house. Look at that thing, would you?”
—“John, Nina—back to you. I can’t take it anymore.”
When John and Nina get the reins, they turn to the weatherman at their left and say in unison:
—“Well, Larry, can you explain this for us?”