In March, co-vocabularists were invited to revel in the delights of Yiddish and pose questions to Michael Wex – author of the bestselling “Born to Kvetch,” and, most recently, “ How to Be a Mentsh and Not a Shmuck.”

This is part two of Michael’s answers; part one was posted yesterday.

Q.

Are members of the Jewish community flattered, pleased, annoyed, or offended by outsiders’ failed attempts at using Yiddish words? I first heard my first few Yiddish words in my mid-twenties but didn’t have the confidence to use any until at least a decade later. — Carol Shelton

A.

Unless the failures just keep on coming like hits on A.M. radio, members of the Jewish community are as likely to be amused as annoyed at failed attempts to use basic Yiddish words correctly. One or two co-vocabularists alluded to the scene in Woody Allen’s “Sleeper” in which the protagonist is told to “stop whining and eat your shikse;” real-life malapropisms tend to generate similar pleasure, especially when they’re repeated in the outsider’s absence.

My favorite recent example of complete failure to use a Yiddish word correctly comes from a report on the unrest in Tibet a couple of years ago. A London, Ontario-based eyewitness interviewed in The Globe and Mail declared, for no reason that I’ve been able to fathom, “I was schmuck in the middle of it” (Globe and Mail, March 21/08). One wonders just where she happened to be and, with Woody Allen in mind, shudders to think what she might have been eating.

Q.

Way back in college there was a woman in my dormitory who spoke Yiddish (some? lots?), and I asked her to teach me some words. She taught me a few, but then declined to continue, saying that she felt that it was disrespectful to her language/culture. I have always wondered whether this was about issues she had (or if I was giving off bad vibes somehow, for example by taking it too lightly), or if there is a broader feeling within all/some/a small part of the Yiddish speaking world against teaching the language to outsiders and/or its pidgin use by outsiders being a bad thing. Any input on this? — Dan

A.

Your dorm-mate’s problems must have had something to do with the words she was teaching you or the uses to which she feared you might put them – or maybe she just ran out of body parts. There’s certainly no taboo or prohibition about teaching Yiddish to outsiders; as the clip of James Cagney in “Taxi” proves beyond any shadow of a doubt, there were once plenty of non-Jews with a healthy command of the language. Gentile domestics in middle-class Jewish homes in pre-War Europe often spoke Yiddish as well as any Jew and, as a fringe benefit of working in kosher kitchens, frequently had a better knowledge of the practical, day-to-day rules concerning meat and dairy, kosher and non-kosher, than many Jewish housewives. As the proverb has it: Di shikse baym rov ken oykh paskenen a shayle, “The rabbi’s non-Jewish domestic [which is what shikse means in this context] can also provide an authoritative ruling on the kinds of kitchen-questions for which rabbinic advice is usually sought.” Such a proverb implies a fluency that was broadly cultural as well as narrowly linguistic.

As to pidgin Yiddish: it’s often felt to be a bit insulting when both parties to the conversation speak fluent English.

Q.

I assure you, this member of the Yiddish community is made very tired by outsiders’ failed attempts at using Yiddish words. Not that it’s only goyim; I’ve heard more than my fair share of English speaking Jews contort both Yiddish meaning and English syntax in an attempt to shoehorn as many half-understood Yiddishisms as they can into a single embarrassing sentence. If there’s anything I’d like our correspondents to speak on, it’s the ‘ludic’ treatment Yiddish is given by nearly everyone, where it’s not so much a full language as much as a stereotype rendered in speech. Symptomatic of that is the haphazard, catch-as-catch-can approach taken to spelling, where even in the most august publications Yiddish words are rendered in a bizarre mishmash of recalled childhood pronunciations, or Germanisms, or worse, often violating their own ad-hoc standards even within the context of a single sentence – totally ignoring the way Yiddish is spelled in any Hebrew-alphabet orthography, not to mention the pretty well-established YIVO standards for Romanization. — Z, D, Smith

A.

The “ludic” treatment mentioned in this post has bedeviled Yiddish for so long now that I’ve become loath to say oy even when it’s the right thing to say. I think the real problem rests on the fact that Yiddish, a language without a country, has never been subject to the kind of authority that can successfully impose linguistic standards and make them stick. I was in Germany at the time of the controversial spelling reforms of the 1990’s. Opponents of these changes were free to complain, but their dissatisfaction was no match for their lack of choice in the matter. Similarly, when the Chinese government decided that Peking was henceforth to be known as Beijing in the English-speaking world, English-speakers nodded and said “Beijing.” Yet when I tried to explain to a Yiddish ham-actor that the word he needed to say was rishes, which means “malice, wickedness,” not rishus, which means “permission,” he told me to get lost: since he’d never heard the former, it simply didn’t exist. And this despite the fact that I had written the script.

Such an attitude to a language in which one is demonstrably not fluent suggests that it’s being used in what Yiddish scholar Jeffrey Shandler has called “post-vernacular” fashion. It’s the fact of the words, their presence rather than their meanings, that lends them significance. Yiddish becomes an ideational tchatchke rather than a verbal system, and you can’t really expect anybody to worry about the minutiae of tchatchke reproduction.

That said, there’s still a place for the kind of humor provided by Milt Gross or Leo Rosten’s Hyman Kaplan. And let’s not forget that Yiddish spelling in Yiddish still varies considerably from community to community and that even people who speak nothing but Yiddish have as “haphazard, catch-as-catch-can” an approach to Yiddish spelling as those who know only a few stock phrases. The hasidic papers in Brooklyn not only ignore all the Yiddish spelling reforms of the past eight or nine decades, they sometimes spell the same word differently from one page to the next. And that’s always been the problem with Yiddish; it can’t take itself any more seriously than it takes anything else.

Q.

All I wanna know is does it have case endings? I tried German–forget it. — LogicGuru

A.

Not as many as German, but if you were hoping to avoid them, you’re out of luck.

Q.

Could the experts offer some examples of differences between (high) Yiddish and Poylish? Is it a question more of spelling, pronunciation, and/or actual vocabulary? For example, in Polish there are two different words for “potato”: “kartofle” and “ziemniak.” I’d assumed that the former had come from the German “Kartoffel”; however, isn’t “potato” in Russian a variant of “Kartoffel”? So, although Polish is very likely to have picked up a German word because of its subjugation under the Prussian empire, why would Russian have picked up a Germanic word? Or am I barking up the wrong tree? (I don’t know enough Yiddish to come up with the appropriate idiom for the dog metaphor.) — C. Ostrowski

I realize that my first post (#376) was unclear and a bit disjointed; I was rushing to write it before going to a bat mitzvah. Anyway, the first thing I attempted to ask was the relationship between what might be considered mainstream Yiddish and what I’ve heard of as “Poylish” – a Polish dialect of Yiddish. I was wondering about differences in spelling, pronunciation, and/or actual vocabulary? If anyone can give one or two examples of words in mainstream Yiddish and Poylish, I’d be grateful.

The next question really concerned intermingling of various languages. Take my question about the word “potato,” which is German is “Kartoffel,” in Polish is either “kartofle” or “ziemniak,” and in Russian seems to be something related to Kartoffel/kartofle. I just found this at Language Hat:

“He also notes that Yiddish terms for the halakhically appropriate vegetable species for a Passover seder have been documented since at least the 12th century, and that ‘potato’ is regionally known as búlbe, búlve, bílve, kartófl(ye), kartóplye (!), érdepl, ekhpl, ríblekh, barbúlyes, zhémikes, mandebérkes, bánderkes, krumpírn, etc.”

Does anyone know to what extent Yiddish influenced other languages vs experiencing modifications in the context of other cultures?

I hope my mind was clearer this time. Thanks. — C. Ostrowski

A.

I hate to have to tell you this, co-vocabularist Ostrowski, but your question isn’t really a question. It’s like asking about the difference between American and “mainstream English.” Although the YIVO institute, which was founded in Vilna and can be found today on 16th Street, developed a standard language decades ago, this standard was intended to regularize written grammar and spelling and to provide an agreed-upon system of phonology – pronunciation, that is – for use in schools, media and other public fora, in order to keep people from storming out of Yiddish-language lectures on quantum physics because the lecture was being given by a Litvak who said kugel instead of kigel. Such a standard was never meant to replace the various dialects in day-to-day use, merely to provide a certain consistency in spelling and a broadly consensual standard for public speech. Think of the spoken version as Broadcast Yiddish.

“Poylish,” technically known as Central (Eastern) Yiddish, is that dialect of Yiddish spoken in the area once known as Congress Poland and that includes such cities as Warsaw, Lodz and Lublin. By 1939, it had the largest Yiddish-speaking population in the world and was, for all intents and purposes, home to the language’s most widely-spoken form. While the YIVO standard language took much of its phonology from the Litvishe (Lithuanian) dialects, its grammar cleaves much more closely to Poylish: Litvish has only masculine and feminine nouns, while Poylish preserves the neuter; Litvish has no accusative case for personal pronouns; Poylish does. This is a very involved topic; my main point is that Standard Yiddish – spoken by virtually no one on any street – was an amalgam of features taken from all major dialects of the language. It existed alongside the regional dialects, not in opposition to them. I.B. Singer was a Poylish speaker; the recently deceased Avrum Sutzkever was a Litvak. Their works reflect some dialectal difference but are no farther apart linguistically than Faulkner or Flannery O’Connor are from Thomas Hardy or Patrick White.

As to regional variations in the names for various vegetables, the same rules apply to Yiddish as to any other language. Yiddish is what’s called a fusion language and tends to pick up words from co-territorial languages or dialects: the standard North American Yiddish word for a chicken that has been butchered is – chicken. We need to know where, when and how a word was used in order to pass judgment about how or why it might have entered the language. I grew up speaking Polish Yiddish in Canada; generally I called a potato a kartofel; on occasion I’d use bulbe, a word that I rarely heard at home (I can’t say never because it figures in a famous folksong) but that didn’t sound particularly outré to me, either. If either of my parents used the word ziemniak – which I would never have done – I’d have known instantly that there was something wrong with the potato itself; that someone had served it in place of a proper main course; or that the potato had been purchased from a Polish-speaking grocer. Ziemniak was of limited utility, however. While the Hungarian Jews down the street would have understood kartofel or bulbe, ziemniak would have been as foreign to them as krumpli or burgonya would have been to us.

Q.

I am a second generation Jew. My parents were born here in the States. My grandparents were born in “the old country,” i.e. Czarist Russia.



Unlike today’s immigrants, where it is important to pass down their native languages, my grandparents had refused to teach my parents Yiddish. This was because they wanted my parents to be completely American, maybe due to all of the suffering they went through in Russia with the pogroms and such, or maybe because that was the prevailing immigrants attitude at the time.



As such, I’ve always had a resistance to learning Yiddish, feeling that as a Jew, the more important language to learn (and where my energies should be focused on) is Hebrew. To me, that is the language of the future for the Jews, and the national language of Israel, the Jewish state. I always felt that if I were meant to learn Yiddish, I would have learned it at birth.

Yiddish still has its place, but in that of the past, good for studying Eastern-European Jewish culture before the Holocaust. There is a revival of wanting to learn Yiddish going on in this country, and my parents have been studying it intensively. All power to them, but I do not share their same enthusiasm. I don’t mind reading Shalom Aleichem or I.L. Peretz in English or Hebrew.



I suppose my question is: Am I the only one who feels this way? — Former Unemployed

A.

Former Unemployed, if you’re only interested in speaking a language that you learned at birth, you shouldn’t be speaking at all. You can hardly consign Yiddish to the past if you don’t really know what it is. Assuming that your grandparents arrived in the U.S before the establishment of the State of Israel in 1948, you don’t even have a consistent reason for refusing to learn Yiddish. If you don’t want to, don’t bother. Your parents should be able to tell you what you’re missing.

Q.

After the latest round of corporate downsizing, is it more insulting to call your (former) boss a shlemiel, a shmegegge or a schmendrick? — jms

A.

Sorry to have to tell you this, JMS, but if you’re the one who has been downsized after years of devoted service to the company, then you’re the shlemiel, the shmegegge, the shmendrik – the hapless patsy who staked his or her whole future on the idea of continued employment. The boss who did the downsizing could be described as a putz, a shmuck, a paskudnyak (roughly, S.O.B.), a mamzer (bastard), a ganef (a thief) voos hot dikh gekoylet oon a meser, who slaughtered you without a knife. These are all pretty insulting. The Yiddish for unemployment insurance is pushke.

Q.

Question: I know “putz” and “schmuck” both mean literally “penis.” But how does their common usage differ? It is worse to call someone a schmuck or a putz? — Judah Greenblatt

A.

Think of putz as a shmuck rampant; it’s definitely worse. While both can mean fool or jerk, putz also has a sense closer to “s.o.b.”or the more pejorative meanings of George Carlin’s favorite twelve-letter word. While a shmuck can be a jerk, he can also be a poor fool. He can even be you. The downsized shemgegge in the post above could well describe himself as a shmuck: “Like a shmuck I didn’t even bill for my overtime.” You can have pity for a shmuck: “The poor shmuck got fired two days after buying a house.” A putz is always vicious and always someone else.

Q.

I was wondering about Rube Goldberg and his Machines. Is it the same thing to suggest one is a cog in an inefficient system to call them a Rube, or is that a slur I’m unaware of? It feels slurry. Do I worry too much? — Abby

A.

To the best of my knowledge, “rube” means only “hick” or “apple knocker,” a term that has nothing to do with Rube Goldberg.

Q.

My grandparents, who were from Lvov, Poland, always pronounced Yiddish words slightly differently than the transliterations I usually see in English. For example – they would say “mishshigenah” (pardon my transliteration) rather than “meshuggener” and “pipik” rather than “pupik.” Is this just a quirk of my grandparents … or a regional twist/accent? I am wondering if their Yiddish was more Polish than German. — Lisa

A.

Don’t worry, their Yiddish was definitely Yiddish. Central and Southeast Yiddish dialects (“Poylish” and “Galitsiyaner”) front the “u” vowel to “i,” giving us the differences you mention. It’s a completely legitimate pronunciation and was more widespread in pre-War Europe than forms with “u.”

Q.

There’s no Jewish humor, only Yiddish humor! Right, or wrong? Can Hebrew or Ladino humor compete with Yiddish humor? Would Mel Brooks, Woody Allen, Larry David, and many, many, MANY others, have been so funny without their Yiddish roots? And what is it in Yiddish culture that makes this great sense of humor possible? It’s certainly can’t be the German influence… and don’t Jews, who abandon Yiddish for Hebrew, lose this exceptional sense of humor…? — Spritzer



A.

Your statement will come as quite a shock to someone like Eugene Levy, who is of Syrian-Jewish background. Nor do I understand why Jews who abandon Yiddish for Hebrew should be less funny than Jews who abandon Yiddish for English. You can say what you want about Mel Brooks; I still think Cagney’s Yiddish was better.

The irony and wordplay that characterize so much of Yiddish humor can be traced all the way back to the Bible and Talmud and are the common property of Jews all over the world. I’ve seen plenty of Sephardi stuff that wouldn’t be at all out of place in Yiddish. Don’t be so quick to discount the German influence, either. Medieval Germanic humor – in German, Old English and Old Icelandic – tends toward a sort of ironic understatement that blends well with the Yiddish approach to jollity and seems to have exerted some influence on Yiddish ideas of funny. This unique blending of the Talmudic and the Teutonic reached a climax of sorts with The Three Stooges, who have a lot more to do with traditional Yiddish ideas of humor than most of their detractors would care to admit.

Q.

Blintzes, latkes, and hamantaschen. Are the names of these culinary delights all Yiddish? — CraigieB

A.

Yes, they’re all Yiddish. Blintzes and latkes come in from the Slavic side, homentashen – Haman pockets – were originally mon tashen, “poppy seed pockets,” which were renamed in honor of their consumption on Purim.

Q.

My father, who can understand conversational Yiddish somewhat well as his grandmother primarily spoke Yiddish, uses the word “nuchschlepper” often, or someone who is basically a loser, a lightweight (I think). Is this word Yiddish, Yinglish, or made up altogether? I use a lot of Yiddish words and learned a few choice ones from reading Leo Rosten’s books. Shpilkes is my favorite! — Sorka

A.

A nuchshlepper (nokhshlepper in Standard Yiddish) is a person who tags along where it’s clear that he isn’t wanted; he’s either too stupid or too desperate to take a hint. The verb nokhshlepn means “to drag after”; a nokhshleper is a follower whom you have no desire to lead.

Q.

What Yiddish word or phrase best describes Larry David’s character on “Curb Your Enthusiasm”? — Joe Carino

A.

If it isn’t shmuck, it’d have to be putz.

Q.

The only Yiddish curse I know is: “May all your teeth fall out, except one, for a toothache.” Can someone translate that for me please? (into Yiddish). Thank you thank you! — Louise Rose

A.

It goes like this: Ale tseyn zoln dir oysfaln, nor eyner zol dir blaybn af tsonveytik. Use it in good health.

Q.

I, too, have a “frage”: which textbook would you recommend for learning Yiddish, which dictionary and are there online courses? I look forward to your answers. — Shloime Perel

A.

The two leading textbooks are “College Yiddish” by Uriel Weinreich and “Yiddish” by Sheva Zucker. They’re both excellent; Weinreich’s approach works well with students who already have some knowledge of grammar and are not afraid to learn paradigms. Zucker’s book is more structurally-oriented; it can be supplemented with specially-made CD’s that can be ordered separately. I’d be remiss not to mention Bernard Bleich’s “The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Learning Yiddish,” which is both solid and enjoyable; Bleich is a rabbi who teaches at Yeshiva University and puts more emphasis on traditional Jewish life than the other two writers.

The main dictionaries are Uriel Weinreich’s “Modern English-Yiddish Yiddish-English Dictionary” and Alexander Harkavy’s 1928 “Yiddish-English-Hebrew Dictionary.” Harkavy gives only Yiddish to English, but he gives a lot of it; Weinreich’s dictionary is much smaller but also much newer. The English-Yiddish section is particular valuable for students. You need to be able to read the Hebrew alphabet to make any use of either dictionary.

eYiddish offers on-line Yiddish lessons. I’ve seen the site, but haven’t looked into any of the lessons.

Q.

Is there a published English-Yiddish dictionary? If so, is it available for the Kindle? I’m sitting on shpilkes (sp?) waiting for an answer. — Surferdude

A.

See answer to Shloime Perel above. Amazon’s Kindle store doesn’t list either book.