#yidish

[timriva-blog]

Traducir ao galego

Portada de ‘Cumes Torboentos’ © Laiovento Escrito por L. C. Carballal Co gallo da recente aparición da miña tradución dunha novela universal que hai tempo que debera estar traducida ao noso idioma: Cumes Torboentos, de certo por alguén máis arteiro ca min, xurdiu cun amigo unha discusión, na súa acepción máis amábel de debate, sobor da pertinencia de traducir ao galego libros, e xa por extensión…

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#Castellano #Français #Galego #Ivrit #Ladino #Literatura #Ortografia #Português #Tradução #Yidish

[bubbbeleh]

Some of you need to re-evaluate the way you talk about Yiddish because it's getting weird.

Disclaimer: Yiddish is my native language. I was forced to stop speaking it at a very young age and am only now getting back into it. I am very immersed in the academic discourse and am sick and tired of it.

I've been seeing people pitting Hebrew and Yiddish against each other for ages, and it is truly disgusting.

Yiddish has a difficult standing in Israel. It was the language of a large part of the Jewish people killed during the Shoah. But, contrary to popular belief, it is not a dead language.

Pitting Hebrew and Yiddish against each other is counterproductive at best, but also really dangerous. I've been called a traitor for learning Yiddish "in a time like this". I've been told that it's a useless language, that I would be much better off learning modern Hebrew. And I see all of the bad-faith takes from goyim, switching back and forth between painting Ashkenazi Jews as the ultimate Evil and vilifying (((the Zionists))) for 'erasing' Yiddish culture in Israel.

I have had the privilege of meeting and working with Mendi Cahan, founder of Yung Yidish Tel Aviv, who is one of the most inspiring people I've met. His life's work is a collection of Yiddish books, about 80.000 volumes strong, located in the Bus Station in Tel Aviv. And as he put it, it's easy to give into the hopelessness, that such a huge chuck of that culture was killed. But we cannot let that happen. Yiddish is alive and well. Native speakers exist and if you genuinely, truly want to help maintain it, there are ways for you to do that:

YIVO

Yiddish book center

Yung Yidish Tel Aviv

Medem Library

Video of Mendi Cahan talking about Yiddish culture in Israel (German website with German subtitles but the video itself is in English)

If you don't have anything productive to say, don't say anything.

#judaism #jumblr #jewish #eden talks #yiddish #young Yidish tel aviv #yiddish book center #yivo #jewish languages #jewblr #israel

[garden-ghoul]

rebloguí (???) eso uh post pero hablo español tan mal que mi cerebro trata sustituir vocablos en yidish

#(kh'kon oykh nit redn yidish) #derfar ikh zog nit vos. oops

[johannestevans]

Cold Comfort

Queer fiction. A mob boss takes in a rival’s hostage, and tries to keep him from suicide.

14k, M/M, rated E for equally explicit sex and violence. Set in 1920s New Jersey. Nasty and violent.

Alvis Hunter, boss of a significant crime operation, steals a captive out from under a hostage —Naham,  a rabbi’s son who immediately attempts to kill himself. In the aftermath, Alvis tries to keep him alive; Naham tries to find something worth living for.

Some philosophy and introspection in this one along the way of the rape recovery. Warnings for rape and sexual violence, mental health issues, a crisis of faith, trauma, homophobia, intersexism, antisemitism, and other assorted violence.

---

“Hey, you speak English?” he asks. “Polsku? Italiano? Elliniká? Deutsch?” The boy freezes for a second, still shuddering, still whimpering, but his eyes flit to Alvie’s. “Deutsch, yeah? Sprechen sie Deutsch?” He narrows his eyes at the boy’s expression, wonders how old he is. With how fucking thin he is, all the bruises, his skin has turned sallow from lack of sun, and he’s gaunt, his cheeks hollowed, bags under his eyes, it’s hard to tell. “Redt ir Yidish?”

The boy’s breath hitches in his throat, his eyes widening, his head tipping back just slightly. It’s like he’s forgotten to cry, all the tears thick in his red-rimmed eyes like water in a glass, but not falling down his cheeks just yet.

“Okay,” says Alvie softly. “Okay. Ikh heys Alvis, olrayt? Uh… Fuck. Ikh… nisht keyn Yidish gut. Ikh— Is that right? Redt ir English?”

The boy is staring at him as if Alvie’s some kind of new invention, as if he’s something he can’t quite comprehend. When Rosa and Felix get to the landing, he hears Felix gasp and mutter something under his breath – Rosa tells him to shut the fuck up.

The boy glances at them, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looks between them – and fuck, that must be sore with the fucking shiner he has on him – and then slowly back to Alvie.

“Redt ir English?” he asks again. “Du bist… kholye? Krank? Es iz schmerzlich? Dayne hent?” He holds up his hands, pushing them together like the boy is holding his, forced to hold his, and the boy looks from Alvie to his hands.

“Hant,” he whispers, holding up one of his hands as best he can from where they’re tied together, wiggling his fingers. Then he pushes his wrists together demonstratively, the way that Alvie just was. “Ha’ntgel’enk.” His voice is thick and hoarse from screaming.

“Okay,” Alvie says slowly. “Nisht… uh, nisht dayne hent. Dayne he’ntgel’enk?”

The boy laughs at him. He looks about as surprised to hear it as Alvie does. Laughing has shocked a few tears free, but he looks a little calmer now, slightly more relaxed.

“Ha’ntgel’enkn,” he corrects him, as if Alvis gives a fuck about the proper plural right about now. His lips are still curved in a smile, and the smile must fucking hurt with the way the skin’s been split – his front teeth are all in place, but Alvie can see a gap where one or two teeth have been knocked out on one side.

“Do they fucking hurt, or not?” Alvie asks.

Read on Medium / / Read on Patreon.

#musings #original fiction #queer fiction #pleaaaaaaaase let me know what you think of this one bc it has been consuming me for months

[sashayed]

Vivas To Those Who Have Failed: The Paterson Silk Strike, 1913

Vivas to those who have fail'd! And to those whose war-vessels sank in the sea! And to those themselves who sank in the sea! And to all generals that lost engagements, and all overcome heroes! And the numberless unknown heroes equal to the greatest heroes known! —Walt Whitman

I. The Red Flag

The newspapers said the strikers would hoist the red flag of anarchy over the silk mills of Paterson. At the strike meeting, a dyers' helper from Naples rose as if from the steam of his labor, lifted up  his hand and said here is the red flag: brightly stained with dye for the silk of bow ties and scarves, the skin and fingernails boiled away for six dollars a week in the dye house.

He sat down without another word, sank back into the fumes, name and face rubbed off by oblivion's thumb like a Roman coin from the earth of his birthplace dug up after a thousand years, as the strikers shouted the only praise he would ever hear. 

II. The River Floods the Avenue

He was the other Valentino, not the romantic sheik and bullfighter of silent movie palaces who died too young, but the Valentino standing on his stoop to watch detectives hired by the company bully strikebreakers onto a trolley and a chorus of strikers bellowing the banned word scab. He was not a striker or a scab, but the bullet fired to scatter the crowd pulled the cork in the wine barrel of Valentino's back. His body, pale as the wings of a moth, lay beside his big-bellied wife.

Two white-veiled horses pulled the carriage to the cemetery. Twenty thousand strikers walked behind the hearse, flooding the avenue like the river that lit up the mills, surging around the tombstones. Blood for blood, cried Tresca: at this signal, thousands of hands dropped red carnations and ribbons into the grave, till the coffin evaporated in a red sea.

III. The Insects in the Soup

Reed was a Harvard man. He wrote for the New York magazines. Big Bill, the organizer, fixed his good eye on Reed and told him of the strike. He stood on a tenement porch across from the mill to escape the rain and listen to the weavers. The bluecoats told him to move on. The Harvard man asked for a name to go with the number on the badge, and the cops tried to unscrew his arms from their sockets. When the judge asked his business, Reed said: Poet. The judge said: Twenty days in the county jail.

Reed was a Harvard man. He taught the strikers Harvard songs, the tunes to sing with rebel words at the gates of the mill. The strikers taught him how to spot the insects in the soup, speaking in tongues the gospel of One Big Union and the eight-hour day, cramming the jail till the weary jailers had to unlock the doors. Reed would write: There's war in Paterson. After it was over, he rode with Pancho Villa.

IV. The Little Agitator

The cops on horseback charged into the picket line. The weavers raised their hands across their faces, hands that knew the loom as their fathers' hands knew the loom, and the billy clubs broke their fingers. Hannah was seventeen, the captain of the picket line, the Joan of Arc of the Silk Strike. The prosecutor called her a little agitator. Shame, said the judge; if she picketed again, he would ship her to the State Home for Girls in Trenton.

Hannah left the courthouse to picket the mill. She chased a strikebreaker down the street, yelling in Yidish the word for shame. Back in court, she hissed at the judge's sentence of another striker. Hannah got twenty days in jail for hissing. She sang all the way to jail. After the strike came the blacklist, the counter at her husband's candy store, the words for shame.

V. Vivas to Those Who Have Failed

Strikers without shoes lose strikes. Twenty years after the weavers and dyers' helpers returned hollow-eyed to the loom and the steam, Mazziotti led the other silk mill workers marching down the avenue in Paterson, singing the old union songs for five cents more an hour. Once again the nightsticks cracked cheekbones like teacups. Mazziotti pressed both hands to his head, squeezing red ribbons from his scalp. There would be no buffalo nickel for an hour's work at the mill, for the silk of bow ties and scarves. Skull remembered wood.

The brain thrown against the wall of the skull remembered too: the Sons of Italy, the Workmen's Circle, Local 152, Industrial Workers of the World, one-eyed Big Bill and Flynn the Rebel Girl speaking in tongues to thousands the prophecy of an eight-hour day. Mazziotti's son would become a doctor, his daughter a poet. Vivas to those who have failed: for they become the river.

Martín Espada from Vivas to Those Who Have Failed, 2015

#poetry #national poetry month #long post #martin espada

[jewishicequeen]

Ok you got me intrigued with the forbitten toppics for them ears (i cant spell the yidish word no matter how many times i try) so pls, my dearest friend, tell me 12 again wrong answers only (your top 5 most favorites XD)

in no particular order-

Mayonnaise

Hummus and Chocolate(together, as hashem intended)

ממרח חרובים(i don't know what it's called in english and i don't wish to learn)

Scrambled egg

Glitter

#purim #i put a lot of thought into it believe it or not #purim ask game #if you can't make everyone happy make everyonr mad

[rotzaprachim]

one little piece of yidcourse (Yiddish discourse & yidisher discourse) is all non-ultra orthodox Yiddishism being Labelled “secular.” I think that the word has been used - even as a standard in academic publications - because it seems nicer than “non ultra orthodox” but it’s a pretty deep systemic misreading of modern Yiddish & the spaces Yiddish is used in, with broad implications given that chasidic Yiddish seems to be moving in a distinctly different linguistic direction than all other Yiddishes spoken by non ultra orthodox people. Yes there are absolutely some moments of crossover esp in the ultra orthodox and modern orthodox worlds, but a lot of the time it’s modern orthodox, totally secular, reform and masorti, and gentile learners & yiddishists in the same klal-sprakh and dialect spaces. Arun Schaechter-visnawath, the translator of Harry Potter into Yiddish and with the whole Schaechter-visnawath mishpokhe one of the generally inescapable modern “secular” Yiddish presences, is a modern Orthodox Jew. Jessica kirzane, editor of in geveb, is a rebbetzin for an entire reform congregation

#Not all but in a lotttt of cases a modern orthodox Yiddish speaker speaks Yiddish more like a completely secular yiddishist and moves in #Closer yiddishist Spaces than either do to an ultra orthodox Yiddish speaking community #And yeah this has linguistic fallouts for data research that are pretty significant

[eggtrolls]

losing my mind revamping the wikipedia page for Dinstagishe un Fraytagishe Kuranten, the first Jewish newspaper in the world (1686). every part of this story is bonkers - it was founded by the grandson of a famous rabbi, then taken over by his detested rival who had started a not-explicitly Jewish newspaper but who else was reading SPANISH NEWSPAPERS in AMSTERDAM but the Sephardim??), the guy who translated and edited everything from Dutch to Yiddish was in fact a German convert who had 10 kids and moved back to Germany to started a newspaper with all 10 of his kids as workers. the record of it was found by the librarian of the Portuguese Synagogue when he bought a random book from a street peddler in 1902 while watching the Flora Theater burn to the ground. the book was shipped to GERMANY during WWII for....safe-keeping??? and then returned, was displayed at the Anne Frank House in the 60s, and then disappeared in the 70s. we have no idea where it is. it was the only copy of 100 issues of this paper. all that's left are photos and photocopies and microfilm.

Max Weinreich (who actually got to see the book in 1920) called die Kuranten 'di bobe fun der yidisher prese' (the grandma of the Yiddish press) which I think is so lovely and tender. that being said, Jacob Shatzky is trying to stab me in the ribs with his 1937 anthology where he talks mad shit about everyone else who had published about it

#it's me and Hilde Pach against the fucking world I tell you #life and times in the wikipedia pits

[confusedjewishnoises]

Me levanto todos los dias y me acuerdo que soy judio, bailo rikudim y educo jovenes de manera no formal y soy un poquito mas feliz...

pero despues abro las redes sociales y me acuerdo que vivimos en un mundo antisemita que usa su desinformacion y odio injustificado hacia mi pueblo para llevar una bandera de la cual no saben nada, gritando ser "antisionista no antisemitas", pero despues dicen que la unica solucion es que Israel deje de existir, como si la paz no hubiese sido e intentara ser una opcion. Pidiendo paz por el pueblo palestino pero reclamandole al gobierno equivocado (no defiendo al gobieno de bibi nethaniayu porque es la peor mierda que le paso a israel), que yo recuerde gaza es gobernado por un grupo terrorista que pone municiones en incubadoras, tira misisles desde departamentos, pone tuneles abajo de escuela y mata a aquellas personas que intentan huir o buscar ayuda humanitaria. Asi pensemos bien, no seria mas facil dejar su odio hacia un pueblo lastimado desde hace milenios, para ayudar a otro a recuperar su democracia y libertad de estos terroristas?. no es mejor pedir que liberen a los secuestrados? Que nos digan que paso con Kfir y Ariel? que tienen 1 (kfir cumplio el año en cautiverio) y 4 años y son ls unicos niños que siguen secuestrados, lo que significa que Hamas (para sorpresa de nadie) no cumplio con su parte del trato de liberar a TODOS los niños.

Por que ustedes pueden caminar con baderas palestinas y carteles que piden el exterminio de un pais entero (el unico estado judio, el cual esta rodeado por mas de 5 paises arabes que varias veces en sus 75 años quisieron destruirlo) y yo me tengo que preocupar si se me ve el maguen david o las letras en hebreo o digo una palabra en yidish, porque tengo que ver como un nene de 10 añostuvo que ser expatriado por su seguridad y ser traido a un pais donde nadie habla su idioma, donde tiene miedo y no sabe cuando es seguro volver a casa, porque le tengo que explicar a mis alumnos que hacemos una ceremonia con duelo porque se murieron miles de personas. les parece justo que la primer vez en la historia de las marchas del orgullo argentinas que iba a haber una carroza de las juventudes judias tuviese que ser cancelasa, porque estaba la posibilidad que nos lastimen, nos piedreen, nos pintara o nos balearan? mientras que las personas antisemitas caminaban con carteles y carrozas pidiendo que deje de existir el unico estado que realmente me protege como judio. Mi primer marcha y la tuve que vivir con miedo y escondido para que no me lastimen

Piden el cese de fuego, sabian que despues de la liberacion de algunos secuestrados, hubo un cese? Ah no? Sabian que Hamas rompio ese cese de fuego bombardeando una ciudad israeli 30 minustos despues de que haya arrancado el cese? Y quw cada vez que se pidio un cese con la unica condicion de que se liberaran a los secuestrados y los cuerpos de los muertos HAMAS se nego?

No hay que "liberar" a Gaza de el falso apartheid israeli que los medios nefastos inventaron, hay que liberarlos de los terroristas que no les permiten huir, comer, vivir en paz, VIVIR. Les mismes gazaties les piden a las FDI que saquen a Hamas. Esto no es una guerra contra un pueblo es una guerra contra terrorista, no voluntaios, no luchadores por la libertad, no martires ni heroes ni nada de eso, TERROSITAS, que se visten de civil y se rodean de civiles para que sus muertes parezcan una masacre intencional.

Estoy cansado de ver como el pueblo judio sufre, como desde hace mas de 4 meses lo unico que queremos es que la pesadilla pare y todo vuelva a como era antes del 7, pero no se puede, porque los muertos siguen muertos, los heridos heridos, los niños traumados, los padres sin hijos y los hijos sin padres, mi amiga sin sus tios, las casas siguen quemadas, kfir sigue cumpliando meses en un pozo, los soldados siguen cayendo, las bombas tambien, el pueblo israeli y palestino sigue sufriendo por culpa de Hamas, les judies de la diaspora sigue escondiendo su maguen david y llorando a gente que nunca conocio y aun asi esta contectada a todes nosotres. Pasaron mas de 4 meses y no vamos a parar hasta que la ultima persona vuelva a su casa

Y hoy mas que nunca grito y gritamo

AM ISRAEL JAI

EL PUEBLO DE ISRAEL SIGUE Y SEGUIRA VIVO

#bring them home now #i stand with israel #jewish and proud #fuck hamas #fuck antisemitism #free gaza from hamas #I STAN WITH ISRAEL #judaism #i hate antizionist so much it hurts #same goes to antisemits #and hamas #fuck them #yo estoy con israel #judaismo #orgullo judio #queer and jewish

[gatherround]

Source: Selections from Yidishe dikhterins

#like a lighthouse #yiddish #yiddishkeit

[timriva-blog]

Yidis: un idioma para celebrar también por sus palabrotas hilarantes

Que crezca como cebolla con la cabeza bajo la tierra Captura del canal de video I Love Languages de YouTube  que presenta los lineamientos básicos del yidis. Escrito por  Filip Noubel – traducido por Mariela Arnst El yidis, que hablaban más de 11 millones de judíos en Europa Oriental y Central antes de la Segunda Guerra Mundial, lo utilizan actualmente un estimado de 600 000 personas, en…

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#Apprentissage de langues #Dicionarios #Expressões #Formation #Français #Ivrit #Ritos #Yidish

[prairiesongserial]

23.7

It wasn’t that Val had wanted to stay on the first floor of the tower; he just hadn’t understood what was happening until Cassidy was halfway up the stairs with the princes and it was too late to protest. He still only had the most basic grasp on what Cassidy and the schoolchildren had been arguing about, but he knew he’d been volunteered to stay behind. Which was fine by Val–he still hadn’t gotten to rest since yesterday. Let John do all of the stair climbing and interacting with whatever a “floor master” was.

Dismayingly, there was nowhere to sit down or rest on the first floor landing. It was more of a lobby area, with the staircase that led up to the second floor landing and a hallway that led deeper into the tower. There was probably a kitchen somewhere back there, and a dining hall where the children could eat meals together. Bedrooms, too, unless each floor had its own set of dormitories. It all vaguely reminded Val of the convent, if the convent had been stacked into a vertical space rather than spread out over acres of land.

Several of the schoolchildren were still gathered at the second floor railing, blinking owlishly down at Val. Val understood–any excuse to abandon their studies was a good one, and strangers showing up to the tower was particularly interesting. He was beginning to get the idea that these children were cloistered like the novitiates in New Orleans were, but didn’t have the vocabulary to confirm it.

“I guess none of you speak English,” he said aloud, on the off-chance that any of the children did. He doubted it. None of them had spoken up to help translate since Val, John, and the princes had walked through the door.

The schoolchildren talked amongst themselves for a moment.

“Redstu yidish?” one of them returned.

Val sensed that his own question was being turned back on him. He understood a few words in Yiddish that he’d gleaned from Johannes, but nothing that felt especially useful right now. He shook his head.

“Daytsh?” The same voice asked.

Val shook his head again. He was beginning to understand Cassidy’s frustration with the fact that neither he nor John could speak any of the local languages.

The schoolchildren were murmuring amongst themselves, still. Some broke off from the group at the railing and disappeared beyond the bookshelves, apparently eager to get back to their studies. Or bored with the stranger who only spoke English. Maybe both, in some cases.

Val sat on a step at the bottom of the staircase, legs splayed out in front of him. He’d seen the commotion when John had tried to ascend to the second floor with Cassidy; he had no desire to cause another stir, or make the children think he intended to challenge the floor master. Instead, he tipped his head back and stared towards the ceiling, wondering to himself exactly how many floors the princes were going to have to walk up before they were allowed to plead their case for staying here. Hopefully Cassidy was breezing through the tests. They’d seemed to know what they were doing, in any case.

The lights in the tower were dim, mostly flickering oil lamps mounted to the walls. Still, Val closed his eyes against them and, without really meaning to, fell asleep.

*

Something nudged him in the ribs. Children were tittering and laughing very close to his ears. Val groaned–he was unsurprised to find his throat dry and scratchy from snoring–and opened his eyes.

There was a girl standing across from him. Older than the other children he’d seen so far; maybe sixteen or seventeen. She was dressed in an oversized sweater and dark pants, eating an apple, and regarding Val through half-lidded eyes as a stream of younger children flowed around and past him on the steps. Val stared back at her, still not entirely awake.

“Gutn morgn,” the girl said, deadpan. Val could guess what it meant, and felt horror begin to creep over him.

“Did I sleep here all night?” he asked. Then his memory caught up to him–she probably couldn’t understand what he’d asked. “Uh. Wait–”

The girl flapped a hand at him before he could say more. “No Yiddish. I know. You’ve been asleep for an hour, maybe.”

“You speak English?” Val asked.

“Best in my class,” the girl said. Her short hair was flat on one side and sticking straight up on the other, like she’d also been asleep and hadn’t had time to fix it. “The first-years wanted me to tell you that you��re in the way. And that it’s dinnertime.”

The children stampeding around him on the stairs suddenly made sense. They had mostly filed out by now, and Val took advantage of the regained personal space to slowly rise to his feet, using the bannister for balance. He winced as something in his spine popped, stomach arms wriggling against their hidden sheathe inside his shirt as pain radiated up his lower back. Evidently, he was getting too old to fall asleep sitting up.

“I’m not hungry,” he said. He probably needed to eat something, but he wouldn’t have felt right doing it without John and the princes.

“Yes, you are,” the girl said, and threw an apple at him. Val fumbled it, still somewhat bleary, but still managed to catch it before it hit the ground.

“Okay,” he said. He knew better than to argue with a teenage girl. “Thank you. For the apple.”

She flapped her hand at him again. “I’m Alte. You are?”

“Valerie.” Val took a bite of the apple, and swallowed. It was good. “Val is fine.”

Alte mirrored Val, taking another bite of her own apple, then asked, “Where are you from?”

“New Orleans,” he said. “That’s in America. I grew up in a convent.”

Alte nodded sagely. “Goyische.”

“I know that one,” Val said. He’d heard the Madsen and Graves brothers sling the term around; the context was more obvious in hindsight. Alte raised her eyebrows at him in a silent invitation to continue, so he did. “My–someone I traveled with spoke Yiddish. With his family. He didn’t teach me any, but I picked up a few things like that.”

Another nod from Alte. She was leaning sideways against the wall and staring at him again, sizing him up.

“What happened to your neck?” she asked.

Val’s fingers flew to the bandage in spite of himself. It was peeling; he checked to make sure all the younger kids had gone before he unstuck the bandage the rest of the way to show Alte the healing bite wound. She made a face.

“Someone bit you?”

“On the boat, after we left America,” Val said. He really didn’t feel like explaining the Demeter twice in one day.

Luckily, Alte didn’t seem to care for much more explanation than that. She turned on her heel and gestured for Val to come along with her, only pausing long enough to make sure he’d actually begun to walk before she started off down one of the first floor hallways. She was fast, but Val had the advantage of much longer legs, and kept pace with her easily.

“You’ll come up with me,” she said. “To the tenth years’ floor. We have bandages, and better places to sleep than the stairs. And the first years will leave you alone.”

“I thought you had to take tests to get up and down the floors,” Val said. He still wasn’t entirely clear on that part.

Alte gave him a bemused look. “That’s why I’m sneaking you up the back staircase. You thought we only had one set of stairs?”

Val shrugged back at her. He hadn’t given much thought to the layout of the tower, but a second staircase did make sense now that she mentioned it. With this many students in one place, you’d probably need more than one way to get up and down the tower.

“But you’ll probably have to answer questions anyway,” she added. “Everyone’s still studying. They’re going to use you to practice English and philosophy.”

“I was a priest,” he said flatly. “I’m used to it.”

“Was?” Alte asked, glancing sideways at him. Now it was Val’s turn to flap a hand dismissively at her, as they turned the corner and found themselves at the foot of a stone staircase that spiraled up and out of sight onto higher floors.

“Ask me when we get to the top,” he said, then amended, “if I make it there.”

He hadn’t thought until just now about how much climbing ten floors’ worth of stairs was. It would be a miracle if he made it to five without collapsing.

Alte broke into a grin. “You’ll be fine.”

Val sighed. “Well, no reward without pain.”

“What a Catholic thing to say,” Alte replied, in what Val was beginning to understand as her usual wry manner, and started up the stairs.

Val started to protest, thought better of it, and began his ascent behind her.

23.6 || 23.8

#story

[brightgnosis]

Not all the peculiarities of Odessa Russian, however, can be attributed to the influence of Ukrainian. Odessans are [also] caricaturized as misusing cases, and that is sometimes blamed […] on the influence of Yiddish […] Such "barbarization of the Russian language" was opposed by the defenders of linguistic purity. Around 1912 the Odessa newspaper Russkaia rech' consistently referred to the city as Iudessa (Judaeodessa) [… But] Whether or not the misuse of cases in Odessa Russian had anything to do with Yiddish, there is certainly ample evidence of lexical and phraseological influences from Yiddish […] Phraseology also testifies to Yiddish influences […] Odessa Russian [also] uses Yiddish formulaic models of what the linguist James Matisoff called "psycho-ostensive expressions" (curses, oaths, and so on) […]

Just as Odessa Russian is sui generis, [however] so too is Odessa Yiddish unlike the Yiddish of Warsaw or Vilna. In fact the Great Dictionary of the Yiddish Language [even] has an entry for 'adeser yidish', which it explains as 'full of Russian words'.

From Robert Rothstein in “How It Was Sung in Odessa: At the Intersection of Russian and Yiddish Folk Culture” in the Slavic Review Volume 60, Issue 4 (Winter 2001); Cambridge University Press (My Ko-Fi Here)

#Robert Rothstein #How It Was Sung in Odessa: At the Intersection of Russian and Yiddish Folk Culture #Slavic Review #Slavic Review Volume 60 Issue 4 #Volume 60 Issue 4 Winter 2001 #Cambridge University #Cambridge University Press #Jewish Studies #Ancestral Connections #Slavic Folk Tradition #Quote

[jouissanceangel]

"Of all religious rituals, the practice of Sukkot is nearest to theater: the Sukkah is literally a stage — boards nailed together, a roof of branches overhead, and a window to look through, though one needn't really look elsewhere. Every religious Jew used to live in his house, and in his yard build a theater for a week's time — in which to perform. Eating in one's home is eating, but to eat in the Sukkah is to stage a play. The same meal transferred from house to Sukkah is an act of theater." - B. Rivkin, Yidishe yomtoyvim

#yiddishposting #translationposting #sukkot

[ravensvirginity]

es geyt mir a bisl af di nervn ven menchn firn zikh vi yidish afn internets MUZ hobn englishe untertitln. s'iz a bisl troyrig tsu mir az me firt zikh vi me muz kenen dergreykhn english reders oykh, ober vos iz vegn di fun unz vos redn take yidish? kenen mir nisht hobn epes far zikh?

#geshribn mit englishe oysies vayl tumblr hot faynt rekhs af links shrift un oykh vayl ikh bin foyl #yiddish #ikh trakht nor

[oiseau--jaune]

as someone who grew up w yiddish as one of first languages there are so many aspect of yivo i find irritating

but something annoying me atm is the way standardisation of phonology means that it becomes impossible to explain a thing to a new learner that is just second nature to me

like, i'm no linguist or teacher, and standardisation means that familiar intricacies of pronunciation that come naturally to ppl like me aren't taught to klal yidish learners who then become teachers &c.

and it's this endless cycle of little things getting lost for people who hadn't grown up with it

#yivo delenda est #mostly #me.txt