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YIDDISH

Savoring the ironies of a language built on irony

Distinctions

''Feh'' and ''meh'' are used similarly, but the former generally connotes disgust and the latter indifference.

The difference between those ''Laverne & Shirley'' theme-song terms? Neal Karlen, author of The Story of Yiddish, explains: ''A schlemiel is someone who always spills their milk or drink, while a shlimazel is someone who always gets a drink spilled on them.''

Whutz up with all those -utz words? They all connote rather foolish people. A ''putz'' is the least likable of the bunch, at the very least annoying (if ineffectual) and often reprehensible. A ''klutz'' tends to be more physically clumsy, a ''yutz'' more socially clumsy.

Some words that you might not know are Yiddish: dreck, glitch, maven, mishmash, spiel.

Star Tribune (Minneapolis)

``Onomatopoeia'' is not a Yiddish word, but perhaps it should be. Expressions like ``schmooze,'' ``kibbitz'' and ``chutzpah'' sound like exactly what they are, the very definition of onomatopoeia.

Ay (or is it oy?), but there's the rub, the whole chicken-and-egg quandary. Were these words devised to sound like what they mean, or was that a happy accident? Indeed, are they even really onomatopoetic -- a la ``roar'' and ``cuckoo'' -- or is it just that they're so evocative they seem to fit after a single hearing?

``That so many Yiddish words sound onomatopoetic is the ultimate irony of a language built on irony,'' says Neal Karlen, author of The Story of Yiddish: How a Mish-Mosh of Languages Saved the Jews (Harper, $13.99 in paper). ``The language was created so that Jews could let their hair down and say what they wanted without being understood or misunderstood by the ruling classes of the diaspora.

``Context, not the sound of the word, which is the essence of onomatopoetic, is the critical component.''

Thus, it's only after we encounter ``mazel tov'' at a wedding, or ``nudnik'' in a harangue about someone who's a pain in the neck (``nik'') that the words take on that ``just right'' sound.

Yiddish originated in the Middle Ages in Germany and quickly spread among Jewish populations in central and eastern Europe. Although many of the words are Hebrew in derivation, it is considered a Germanic language, and indeed the two lexicons often have melded.

``Dumkop'' is literally ``dumb head'' in Yiddish, but most Americans are more familiar with the term ``dummkopf,'' thanks -- talk about irony -- to the bumbling Nazis on television's Hogan's Heroes.

On these shores, Yiddish bubbled up outside Jewish circles only via entertainers, particularly Borscht Belt comedians. (As Lita Epstein notes in If You Can't Say Anything Nice, Say It in Yiddish, Rodney Dangerfield was ``the ultimate kvetcher.'')

Otherwise in midcentury America, the language remained mostly underground. Karlen's parents, for example, used it when they didn't want their children to understand what they were saying.

``My real Yiddish education began during that torturous annual ritual of Midwest families -- the never-ending car trip,'' says the Minneapolis author. ``Just when conversation in English in the front seat sounded like it was beginning to get interesting, they'd switch for extended periods into that enticing, incomprehensible tongue of Yiddish. With it came hushed voices, sighs, belly laughs.''

The young Karlen noticed that the language ``sounded incredibly filthy'' and that the sharpest put-downs had a common trait.

``The sh- and shm- sounds, I deduced, were reserved for the biggest insults,'' he says. ``So I had to wait in the back seat for more data. And then I would be rewarded when my parents would say a few words in English, then end their sentence with a `sh.' Like `Can you believe Irv? That schmuck can't keep his zipper zipped and his shvantz in his pants. Can you believe he left Adele for that blondie shiksa [non-Jewish] secretary of his? It's a shanda [disgrace]!' ''

In the end, Karlen says, a language that was meant to be secretive and expressive turned out to be too much of the latter for its own good.

``It's all a big mistake that so many Yiddish words . . . have come to mean exactly what they sound like. It's ass-backwards, but Yiddish was built ass-backwards, as a way to express every emotion and person there is, in far more minute detail than English.

``Again, for a language built on irony, this is perhaps the biggest irony: Yiddish was created not to be understood by `outsiders,' but now it has permeated English.''

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