A Love Letter to Yiddish

A Gentile word lover pays homage to a language that always has the perfect word.

My love for words runs deep. I’ve always been sensitive to how they roll off the tongue or the pen and, eventually, how they sound to the ears or imaginations that receive them. Why waste breath or ink with a meh word when you can take the time and effort to use the perfect word? My love and respect for words extend to many taboo varietals, particularly the f-word. Nothing is quite like a cathartic f-word in a situation deserving of it. My love for words also explains why I’m obsessed with typography. My website took ages to finalize due largely to my fixation on getting the fonts just right. 

My sister will tell you—we’ve had many laughs about this—that she thinks it’s tedious to type out whole words over text. One good-natured sisterly argument was about my use of ‘incessantly’ in a text message. I reasoned incessantly was way more impactful and funny and added to my story. My sister didn’t think it was worth the additional effort to type out (in the days before auto-complete), especially when you have perfectly good alternatives like, ‘all the time.’  We agreed to disagree. Though I appreciate my iPhone’s auto-complete function. It’s made me a much more efficient texter despite my clumsy thumbs and frivolous words.

During a bout of the flu a few months back, I was binge-watching deep cuts on Netflix, and I found myself absorbed in a series called Somebody Feed Phil. Phil Rosenthal, the host, is the lovably dorky and lanky former producer of Everybody Loves Raymond. His current series is a travelogue where food plays a central role, a major impetus for why I gravitated to the series in the first place. Food + travel + storytelling medium = my addictive substance of choice. The cloying intro song and his tendency to make lots of goofy faces aside, he'll endear you with the astute and hilarious lens through which he sees the world. He plays geeky bumpkin to Anthony Bourdain’s tortured philosopher. For the record, I enjoy both. At the end of each episode, Phil calls his Jewish parents on Long Island (for full effect, pronounce it “Longueyeland” as you read this), a bit that’s hilarious and charming in the way you’d expect. Middle-age Phil video-calling 80-something-year-old Helen and Max is pure comedy gold. 

One episode had Phil eating his way through Venice. As with many travelogues, his producers often have him do the requisite touristy stuff to make their eager and complicit host look like an ass and get a few laughs. In this particular show, they had him try out his gondoliering skills, of which he has none. After a few turns down sleepy, quiet canals, his coach takes him out into the churning lagoon, where, after struggling against the waves for a bit, he turns to the camera and says, “I’m beyond shvitzing, I’m chaloshing! I'm literally roasting in my own juices!” This line made me practically spit out my Emergen-C. I cannot wait to use this new word to describe my literal hell of melting to death in Austin during the summer.

For someone who enjoys words, there’s nothing quite like Yiddish. I’m reminded of how many Yiddish words I absorbed by osmosis living in Chicago and New York. I often take these fertile wordsmith training grounds for granted.  

There is so much to love about Yiddish.

There’s kvetch, as in whinge, whine, complain, and commiserate, usually with someone else during a coffee klatsch (informal social gathering). I used to kvetch incessantly about how much goddamn shlepping was necessary in New York. Shlepping groceries, luggage, laundry detergent, kitty litter, or any of the various home items essential for modern life. Shlepping lunch and a change of shoes and all my workaday stuff because I was sure as hell not going back home before happy hour. And all the shvitzing from all the shlepping. If you aren’t familiar with shvitzing, it means sweating heavily. And, all these years, I never knew that shvitz was inadequate to describe my reaction to extreme heat. Chaloshing. Thanks, Phil! 

There’s schmuck to describe someone acting like a fool or being generally inept. The first time I heard this word, it was part of the phrase “don’t be a schmuck,” directed at me by the crotchety neighborhood bagel-slinger because I didn’t know THE ordering system. Hot with shame and eager to blend in, I learned the system quickly. Eventually, once I knew the shtick, I earned his begrudging acceptance. I’m a natural klutz, so something schmucky usually happens. Fun for all! A klutz is also a shlemiel, but that doesn’t roll off the tongue, so I’m sticking with klutz. I can also be a schlump when I’m in my natural homebody mode. Technically, this means pathetic and useless, but I prefer my homegrown meaning of lazy lump. I embrace weekend schlumpiness with zero shame.

There’s also fercockt, when things have gone off the rails. As in, what the f%@k do we do about Donald Trump? It makes me want to plotz (collapse in frustration). Oy!

A multi-faceted word, one can also plotz, as in swoon, giddily. As in thousands of women plotz when one Patrick Stewart emerges on screen and stage. Am I right, ladies?

There’s a schmear, or a yummy dollop of cream cheese, on top of a chewy everything bagel. Or, disappointment when the guy behind the counter gives you bupkes cream cheese, or a pathetic amount, on said everything bagel. Then there are knishes, babkas, latkes, matzo ball soup….lots of good stuff on which to nosh. 

Then there’s your bubbe, or grandmother, who veers towards the schmaltzy, gushing over you and getting overly sentimental. And God love a mentsh, that sincere, authentic person who is always there for you. And, mazel tov (or good fortune). This beautiful expression is the soundtrack of weddings, births, and other celebratory life moments.

Finally, there’s shalom. It means deep peace. The way it flows off the tongue, it's a one-word meditation.  There is no better conclusion for this gentile’s love letter to Yiddish.

Shalom, friends.

*Since I wrote this, Helen and Max passed away. Rest in peace, Rosenthals.