My Yiddishe Papa and Mama

At the dinner table my parents often resorted to Yiddish speak when they didn’t want my sister and I to understand what they were talking about.

After awhile, we finely tuned our 97% Ashkenazi ears to the onomatopoetic funny words that came out of their mouths, and figured out what they were saying.  I was the klayner (the youngest); I keyed right into that word whenever they discussed me.   The other word that raised a red flag was shtup (fuck).  They discussed who was shtupping who, or who was being shtupped,  and we weren’t supposed to have a clue what any of that was about.

They had multiple words for speaking badly about someone, a virtual litany of

insults, many referring to male body parts.   Schmuck, putz, yutz, mamzer, nebbish, nar, schmendrick chmegeggy, goniff (penis, dick, incompetent boob, fool, bastard, ineffective person, idiot, someone full of hot air, thief).  When my dad got really angry with someone, he might tell them, “Ge kakken offen yam.” (Go take a shit in the ocean.)

Whenever we started kvetching, (complaining) that we were bored, my parents told us, “Klup kup on vant.”  (Go hit your head against the wall.)  If we kept noodging (bugging) them, we were threatened with a potch en tuckes, (light smack on the butt) though they rarely followed through.

We were encouraged to have chutzpah (nerve, bravery, moxie), except when standing up to them.  “You pishers,” (insignificant person) my dad would admonish us.

On Sunday mornings when my dad took me to his drugstore to work the cash register, he would roll down the window, and intone, “Goyim…..goyim….goyim,”(non-Jews) like a church bell ringing. “Goyim come out and spend your money.” His inventory was in not your tstandard fare.  The more dreck (shit) and shlock (inferior goods) we sold, the better. 

Later in his career, my dad left the pharmacy business.  He had tsuris (troubles) with the anti-Semitic pharmacy board, and they suspended his license for a year.  He then sold tchotchkes (small cheap souvenirs) schlepping (taking a long arduous journey) to yenavelt (Timbuktu) to call on accounts.  He was a master at schmoozing (chatting), part yenta (busybody), part tummler (an entertainer/comedian). He was full of shtick (jokes) and everyone loved him. He’d make you laugh until you plotzed (fell down from extreme excitement). I get verklempt (choked up) thinking about what a special guy he was. 

He would go into restaurants, and when he had to leave his name with the host he would tell them, “Meshuggenah”  (crazy person).  In the next twenty minutes we’d hear, “Meshuggenah, Mr. Meshuggenah, your table is ready.”

My dad was fundamentally a mensch (a kindhearted and righteous person), and he taught us kids to do good in the world.  He kvelled (to be overcome with pride) when I got my first newspaper feature article published.  He kvelled when I got my first play produced in San Francisco.   He kvelled watching his granddaughter play her violin. He would shep naches, (derive pleasure) whenever any of us accomplished our goals. He was my biggest supporter.  My daughter would say the same.

My dad generated mishegoss (craziness).  Mostly good crazy. This isn’t to say that he wasn’t a little fercockt (all fucked up).  His best buddy, a divorce lawyer named Fred and he would line up the six girls in both families.  They’d go down the line saying, “Miskeit, miskeit, miskeit, miskeit, miskeit, miskeit.” (Ugly).  Occasionally one of us would break down and start pishing from de oygen (peeing from the eyes), victims of their relentless teasing.   

While we’re on the subject of eyes, my dad called my mom “dirt eyes.”  She was always cleaning up after his schmutz (debris). My dad had terrible eyesight, without his glasses he could see bupkis (nothing). Unlike my dad, my mother has always been concerned about appearances. She is vain and fashion conscious.  She worried that her daughters, left to our own devices, would leave the house wearing schmattas (rags).  What a shanda (a shame) we were in our jeans and work boots and flannel shirts (which to this day are still my standard attire).

Oy, oy vey, oy vey ist mir, oy yoy yoy (variations of woe is to me) oy gevalt (enough already).  Like breathing, we naturally incorporated into our being these progressive expressions of surprise, shock, worry, and doom.

I learned all these Yiddish words from my parents and now sprinkle them into my language like spices into my favorite dishes.  Since I was little I loved decoding this mishmash of Hebrew, German, and Russian languages, evoking the humor, hubris, and neuroses of my personal and collective mishpocah (family).