9 U.S. State Names Almost Everyone Mispronounces

It looks like it should rhyme with “Kansas,” but that final s is silent: it’s “AR-kan-saw.” The two states got their names from the same root, but Arkansas kept its French spelling and pronunciation while Kansas went the English way.

The state felt so strongly about it that its legislature passed a resolution back in 1881 making the “AR-kan-saw” pronunciation official. Not many states have gone to the trouble of putting it in the law books.

Same trick, different state: the s at the end is silent, so it’s “ill-ih-NOY,” never “ill-ih-NOISE.” Blame — or thank — the French again, who adapted the name from a Native American word and spelled it their way.

Say the s out loud in Chicago and you’ll get a gentle correction almost every time.

This one splits the state itself. Some folks say “mih-ZUR-ee,” others say “mih-ZUR-uh” — the famous “Missour-ah.” Both are used by people who have lived there their whole lives.

Politicians have been known to switch between the two depending on which part of the state they’re speaking in. When even the locals can’t agree, a visitor can hardly be blamed for guessing.

There’s a c hiding in the middle that nobody pronounces. It’s “kuh-NET-ih-kut” — that first c in “-nec-” stays silent. The name comes from a Native American word for the long river running through it.

The spelling has tripped up schoolchildren for generations. Say it slowly and the extra letters practically disappear.

Outsiders love to give it a soft, Spanish-sounding “nuh-VAH-duh.” Locals will set you straight fast: it’s “nuh-VAD-uh,” with the middle syllable rhyming with “bad.”

People there care about this one. A politician who gets it wrong at a rally can practically feel the room cool off.

The ending is the giveaway. It’s “OR-uh-gun,” soft at the finish — not “or-uh-GONE” with the last part stressed like the word “gone.” Newcomers almost always lean too hard on that last syllable.

Get the gentle ending right and you’ll pass for a local, at least until the next state name comes up.

You’d expect it to sound like “Mary” plus “land,” two clear pieces. In practice locals run it all together into something more like “MER-uh-lund,” quick and smooth.

The careful, two-part “Mary-Land” is a dead giveaway that you’re from somewhere else.

This one is more about survival than subtlety — just getting through all those letters is the challenge. It breaks down to “mass-uh-CHOO-sits,” and once you hear the rhythm it’s easier than it looks.

The name comes from a Native American word meaning roughly “near the great hill.” Spelling it correctly on the first try is a separate accomplishment entirely.

Most of us say “huh-WAH-ee,” and that’s perfectly understood. But in the Hawaiian language that w often carries a softer “v” sound, so you’ll also hear “huh-VAH-ee” from people honoring the original.

There’s even a small mark, the ʻokina, that signals a little catch in the middle of the word. It’s a good reminder that these names carry a lot of history in just a few syllables.