Reiter, Rider, Writer

       Gussenhoven offers a detailed explanation on the physical processes of speech production and a thorough introduction of phonetic symbols. Kenstowicz, however, dives into the [t] phoneme, its allophones, and the important distinctions many native speakers are unaware of. 

       There are “collective phonetic illusions” that are made possible by our “organs of speech”. Put together, Gussenhoven helps explain many of the terms used in Kenstowicz’s arguments. Gussenhoven, for example, details the brief closure and subsequent opening of the glottis that results in a glottal stop. Kenstowicz writes on the glottal stop [ʔ] allophone of [t]. As a native English speaker, I often take pronunciation of the letter t for granted— I know that when one says a word that sounds like “hodest”, he or she is saying “hottest”. However, although I, as Kenstowicz puts it, am “unconscious of these rules” (66) in pronunciation, I glaringly recognize when non-native speakers are themselves unconscious of these unspoken rules. When my younger Israeli cousin pronounces “tree” with a “plain” t, it is glaringly obvious to myself. Both my cousin and I are generally “unconscious of these rules”, but he did not grow up in an environment in which English was his native language. 

       Having a cold while reading Gussenhoven’s work, specifically, made the reading feel very relevant. I knew congestion blocked one’s naval cavity, and always left one sounding odd; however, I never fully understood why. We as individuals do use our nasal cavity to make many sounds, it is even a column in the International Phonetic Alphabet. Therefore, when the velum, or soft palate, that opens or closes the nasal cavity cannot function normally due to mucus, one loses the ability to correctly pronounce certain words. 

       However what really struck me the most was Kenstowicz’s discussion on the relation between writer and rider. My last name, Reiter, actually means equestrian in German. I, and all of my family, pronounce Reiter more like the word writer than rider. Almost exclusively in dinner reservations and over the phone conversations, my last name gets written down as “Rider”. However when I, as Gussenhoven describes, “build up pressure” and deliver a “‘popping’ sound” (2) like that of a plosive consonant to clearly articulate the [t] in my name, I get vastly more obscure answers. I have seen “Raiter”, “Ryter”, and “Rhyter”; however, I have never seen “Writer” or “Riter”. Perhaps “Riter” seems as if it should be pronounced like “critter”, and “Writer” would be unrealistic.  All of this information leads me to believe that in the absence of context, the distinction of writer, rider, and Reiter becomes almost completely up to chance. The listener tries his or her hardest to come up with a spelling that most closely matches what I said, while not conflicting with other words already in the English vocabulary. My adding an emphasis on the “t” only creates more confusion— almost as if I make the native speaker suddenly feel foreign.