Plant Names in Yiddish

One of the most encyclopedic Web collections I've seen recently was created, ironically, to put to rest a supposition that I've never heard of. Plant Names in Yiddish is the Web adaptation of Di Geviksan-Velt In Idish, a 2005 publication by Yiddish linguist Dr. Mordkhe Schaechter -- who, according to the site, "confronts the stereotype that 'there aren't any plant names in Yiddish'."

I can see where the stereotype would come from -- since, you know, Yiddish was developed primarily in climates where the ground was encrusted with snow for 90% of the time. However, I can honestly say that, in all the conversations I've had about Yiddish {and I've had a bunch, at least, compared to the average American} the issue of plant names has never come up.

Which isn't to say that it isn't interesting. As Apodion.net notes, "The somewhat-uninspiring English title belies the amazing nature of the work." He proceeds to kvell:

As a reference work it’s indispensable. But as a simple joy—as an impossibly rich and dense body to dive into at immediately satisying random—it is even dearer. At a random page turn I can tell you that the Yiddish name for Artillery Clearweed, Pilea microphylla, is הארמאטניק.. Harmatnik, that is, ‘cannoneer’—I have never heard of Artillery Clearweed but apparently its offensive associations are not unique to English. Sweetflag, the genus Acorus, goes by the name שאװער, or shaver....[F]ar from being some wasteland of natural terminology, where the urban, mercantile Yid is happy to lump all ferns with ferns, trees with trees, birds with birds, and so on, stemming from a general lack of engagement with nature, Yiddish natural terminology is a happy and well-churned melange of influences, Polish, Hebrew, German, Russian, French, Ukrainian and original coinages, where the language’s syncretic, cosmopolitan nature joyously shines through.

My own Yiddish, and my own understanding of the book, is not nearly as poetic. I struggled through a few lines in the first chapter before turning ahead to the shorter and more digestible later chapters. But I'm bowled over by the potential for this knowledge to exist. That, say, one day, when I finally settle down and learn Yiddish -- or, if we stay in Brooklyn, when my kid speaks fluent Yiddish -- that, if she ever wants to describe the most perfect seeded dandelion in the world, or a beautiful ghost orchid, she'll have a way to do just that.

The Yiddish Alphabet, as sung by Spider-Man

I have no idea what's going on here. But a secular Israeli in a Spider-Man outfit and a shtreimel -- who seems to be accompanied by a giant llama and the Village People -- singing the Yiddish alphabet...well, you can't not watch it.

As far as I can tell, Gimel stands for a fat goy. Vov is a vildechaya, which is one of my favorite books, and an English expression ("Wild Thing") that comes from the Yiddish slang for wild children. Zayin is a shotgun. One letter stands for getting punched in the face, but I can't tell which. And I'm pretty sure lox, bagels and beer made cameos.

One could try to deeply analyze this video for hidden messages and for subliminal attitudes of secular Israelis toward religious Israelis (or "dosim," which is what Dalet stood for.) But really, my instinct (as someone who isn't Israeli, but has spent a bunch of time there) is to chalk it up to a combination of making fun of the Orthodox, making fun of themselves, and a healthy amount of totally random imagery of hedonism and violence. What do you think?

Yiddish 2.0

It's weird and somewhat scary to realize that you can put a cap on the number of Yiddish books ever published -- and, by most reckonings (for the secular world, anyway), the number of Yiddish books that will ever be published. But that's exactly what the Steven Spielberg Digital Yiddish Library says in its introductory statement: "Over ten thousand Yiddish texts, estimated as over 1/2 of all the published works in Yiddish, are now online" -- and the implicit notion is, there aren't going to be that many more Yiddish works published.

This by no means diminishes the excellent, massive, and spotlessly-presented Yiddish library on Archive.org, which came online a few weeks ago -- one of the most unbelievably selfless and thorough nonprofits on the Web. They've been collating every single website since 1996 and keeping track of them (so, if you ever wanted to see your first-ever freshman-year I-just-learned-HTML site, you can), and they also have a massive Live Music Archive with tens of thousands of concerts.

In a way, perusing their archive feels kind of like looking at a time-capsule after the end of the world: It's a perfect fossil record of the Web at any point in time. Michael Chabon, while talking about the impetus to write his Yiddish Policemen's Union, spoke of finding a Yiddish travel phrasebook with translations like "How much is a ticket to Lublin?" and instructions for ordering in restuarants...like a key to a lost world. If the world was no more, and all that remained were the echoes of the Internet bouncing off distant quasars (I know that isn't how it really works), Archive.org would be the container with every nuanced bit of what we are contained inside, from badly-scrawled blogs to even worse-scrawled CNN and MSNBC reports, and all the beauty that they contain.

The Spielberg Archive is kind of like that, only using Yiddish books instead of websites. Der Purim-Ber is a children's book, as far as I can tell, narrated by the bear itself. A Shṭeṭele in Poyln is a travelogue of the author's trip to his hometown of Ciechanowiec -- which, like Chabon's idea, no longer exists.

This, of course, doesn't include the hundreds of new Yiddish books being published every year, almost exclusively by religious Yiddish publishers, for the Haredi public...one of which my daughter is currently chewing on at this very moment. I don't speak Yiddish, but we can both read it. It's kind of the exact opposite of this archive -- I certainly didn't grow up with this language, but in the place where I live now, it's almost certain that she'll learn it in school, and it will almost undoubtedly come in handy at some point.

common

i never treasure quarters anywhere so much as new york, where one of those silver discs will buy you a bag of potato chips, pretzels, rippled Dipsy Doodle corn chips or, occasionally, even weirder fare. party mix is what i eat (constantly, constantly) when i write. tonight, erez and i both stacked up on day-glo orange spiral things, grabbed some Tastykakes as dessert, and sped off toward the brooklyn memorial highway.

we sat on this little catwalk by the river, stared at manhattan across the water, and watched it sparkle back at us. erez was curled up against the metal gate and my feet dangled over, scraping the water like teeth and nails.

presently the police came and took our IDs, walked around with flashlights and looked at us sternly for trespassing on city property. the people on the other end of the pier kept insisting that they lived here, only they'd never changed their drivers' licenses. at the time it seemed like the absolute dumbest thing in the world. eventually they waved us away, handed us back our licenses and told us they were letting us off with a warning. they looked like nice guys, honest, just tired. we could relate.

then we drove down the road, to the actual park, where the water was right up against us. glittering boulders got smaller and smaller and ran right into the water. a bunch of punk rock kids sat on the rocks, swilling 40s and combing their mohawks. i thought of hava, sneaking out after hours to visit them.

i'm in new york. it's always felt a little bit like a nightmare and a little like a dream. it's never felt like home. but now?

we've got a book in common, baby.

i'm learning yiddish from children's picture books about the Vilna Gaon. wish me luck.