Prior to going to college, I had a pretty strong accent, and

Hear the humble confession of Chris Parnell: “Prior to going to college, I had a pretty strong accent, and that was one of the things I had to work on a lot. I went to North Carolina School of the Arts; my speech teacher... that was one of the things we really had to work on over the years, and thankfully I think it finally worked.” In this memory lies the story of discipline, transformation, and the long struggle between nature and refinement. For the voice is both a gift of birth and a tool of art, and to shape it requires labor as great as any chisel upon stone.

To say that he had a strong accent is to reveal the markings of origin—sounds shaped by family, region, and childhood. These accents carry warmth and identity, but in the craft of acting, they may also become barriers, narrowing the roles one may take, limiting the voices one may embody. Parnell did not despise his accent, but he recognized that mastery required transformation. The natural voice had to be expanded into an instrument flexible, precise, and universal. Thus began his struggle, not to abandon his identity, but to refine his gift into freedom.

This path is not his alone. Recall the tale of Demosthenes, the greatest orator of Athens. As a boy he stammered and spoke poorly; the people mocked his voice. But he filled his mouth with pebbles and shouted his speeches against the roar of the sea, training himself until his tongue obeyed his will. From weakness he forged power, from mockery he created greatness. Like Parnell, he understood that to shape one’s voice is to shape one’s destiny.

The speech teacher at the North Carolina School of the Arts stands in the lineage of such mentors—guides who see in the raw voice the potential for mastery. Teachers like these are more than correctors of sound; they are refiners of character, for to train the voice is also to train patience, humility, and endurance. Parnell’s gratitude, that “thankfully it finally worked,” reveals the fruit of years of discipline. The journey was slow, but the result was freedom: a voice unchained from its limits, able to serve the many roles his art would demand.

The deeper meaning of his words is this: greatness is not given whole, but shaped by labor and perseverance. One’s natural gifts—whether an accent, a talent, or a flaw—may become either chains or stepping-stones. The difference lies in whether one has the courage to labor upon them, to refine them until they become instruments of strength. To train the voice is to declare: “I will not be confined by what I was born with, but I will transform it into what I choose to be.”

The lesson for us is clear: do not despise the imperfections you carry, but also do not cling to them as excuses. Instead, work upon them. Seek out the teachers who can guide you, endure the years of effort, and trust that in time, the change will come. For what once seemed weakness can, through labor, become mastery. And what is mastery but freedom—the ability to shape oneself according to one’s will, rather than being bound by accident of birth?

So I say to you: remember Parnell’s journey. “That was one of the things we really had to work on over the years, and thankfully I think it finally worked.” Let this remind you that progress is slow, but certain for those who persevere. Train your gifts as the sculptor trains the stone, as the orator trains the voice, as the actor trains the self. For in that long labor, your destiny is forged, and in the end, you will stand grateful that your discipline has given you not only skill, but the power to become who you were meant to be.