I forgot to mention in my most recent post that, finally, a week or so later, I have finished my big New York post about Day 2. There are some pictures up and a description of my Lower East Side Tour. I backdated everything, so scroll down and enjoy. :)
Leah
16 July 2008
15 July 2008
איך רעד יידסיש
איך בין גוט אָבער איצט איך בין קראנק
מיר האָבן א סך הײמארבעט אבער איך לערן א סך
די מענטסן אין דער פּראָגראם זײַנען זײער קלוג און די פּראָפֿעסאָרס זײַנען זײער אינטערעסאָנט
כ'וועל שרײַבן נאָך באלד
מיט ליבשאפֿט
לאה–נחלה
Just in case you wanted some actual proof that I am, in fact, learning this language. Here's a translation:
I am well, but now I am sick.
We have a lot of homework, but I am learning a lot.
The people in the program are really smart and the professors are very interesting.
I will write more soon.
With affection,
Leah
To expand a little from my 6-year old's Yiddish, I got slammed with a stupid cold this week. The timing is actually okay: my body held out until after New York travel, and this is a light week in terms of assigned reading. I'm going through my typical virus trajectory. The sore throat phase is over and now I am losing my voice.
My research in New York was... well, kind of unsuccessful, unfortunately. That's the nature of archival research. The truth is, I was really unpleasantly surprised when I arrived at the Tamiment Labor Archives. I was expecting to be working with original materials, but the particular items I was examining (correspondence) was only available on microfilm. After sifting through microfilm for nearly three tedious hours, I was unable to locate what I set out to find. If I had more time there, I may have discovered the handful of things that I wanted at NYU. I shake my fist at microfilm! Fie!
Squandered hours aside, it is actually for the better in this case. The week after our trip, we were lucky enough to have Naomi Seidman from the Graduate Theological Union in Berkeley. We unfortunately did not have nearly enough time (2 or 3 weeks would have been much better) with her to delve into the material as deeply as I would have liked. Luckily, though, her focus was largely on the female voice in Yiddish literature, which is in large part what I set out to really explore in my project in the first place.
When we got to the Yiddish Modernist poets and authors in our readings, I was really, really into the discussion. Some of the better known writers, like Kadya Molodowsky and Cynthia Ozick, I had read a little on my own. But Naomi (no disrespect intended, by the way; everyone has been on a first-name basis this summer) also gave us some poetry by Celia Dropkin and Anna Margolin, two Russian-American avant-garde poets. I found Anna Margolin's poetry especially interesting for a Yiddish writer. In many ways, her poetry reflects a certain female tradition in Eastern European Jewish culture. Yet she also deals with many non-Jewish themes, uses Christian imagery, and seeks to redefine what (Jewish) womanhood means in a modern world.
The individuality Margolin asserts in some of her poetry we read reminded me of the way in which Emma Goldman articulated her stance on womanhood. Many find her outspokenness against women's suffrage to be incongruous with her otherwise "feminist" views. From reading Living My Life, one of her two massive autobiographies (she had a very full life), it is clear to me that Goldman relates deeply to her femininity and cherishes the role that women play in the world. However, her justification for her stance women's suffrage is quite nuanced and certainly fits in with her radical denouncement of all hierarchy.
Goldman believed that a political right like suffrage would do no good for the majority of women who (at the time) were tied to the patriarchal yoke of incessant childbearing and child rearing, and other worldly responsibilities. It was no coincidence to her that the most outspoken suffragists were also the most pious and the most burdened by the responsibilities of home. There would be no true political, economic, or social solutions for women until they learned to denounce the set of values that limited them to the domestic sphere. The key to the liberation of women, Goldman said, is to view the self as an individual worthy of men in any sphere.
To establish one's self as an individual and as a woman in the Modern world, whether politically or aesthetically, was no easy task, of course. The idea of the woman as an individual, free of any social constraints, was certainly quite radical. It is this idea that I am most interested in exploring in Margolin's poetry. She was not political, but was nevertheless a radical and innovative poet.
All in all, I am satisfied, and I hope that I will not reach another dead end with this project. Wish me luck!
By the way, the last day of the program is July 30th. I'll be back in Miami sometime in August with many stories to tell.
מיר האָבן א סך הײמארבעט אבער איך לערן א סך
די מענטסן אין דער פּראָגראם זײַנען זײער קלוג און די פּראָפֿעסאָרס זײַנען זײער אינטערעסאָנט
כ'וועל שרײַבן נאָך באלד
מיט ליבשאפֿט
לאה–נחלה
Just in case you wanted some actual proof that I am, in fact, learning this language. Here's a translation:
I am well, but now I am sick.
We have a lot of homework, but I am learning a lot.
The people in the program are really smart and the professors are very interesting.
I will write more soon.
With affection,
Leah
To expand a little from my 6-year old's Yiddish, I got slammed with a stupid cold this week. The timing is actually okay: my body held out until after New York travel, and this is a light week in terms of assigned reading. I'm going through my typical virus trajectory. The sore throat phase is over and now I am losing my voice.
My research in New York was... well, kind of unsuccessful, unfortunately. That's the nature of archival research. The truth is, I was really unpleasantly surprised when I arrived at the Tamiment Labor Archives. I was expecting to be working with original materials, but the particular items I was examining (correspondence) was only available on microfilm. After sifting through microfilm for nearly three tedious hours, I was unable to locate what I set out to find. If I had more time there, I may have discovered the handful of things that I wanted at NYU. I shake my fist at microfilm! Fie!
Squandered hours aside, it is actually for the better in this case. The week after our trip, we were lucky enough to have Naomi Seidman from the Graduate Theological Union in Berkeley. We unfortunately did not have nearly enough time (2 or 3 weeks would have been much better) with her to delve into the material as deeply as I would have liked. Luckily, though, her focus was largely on the female voice in Yiddish literature, which is in large part what I set out to really explore in my project in the first place.
When we got to the Yiddish Modernist poets and authors in our readings, I was really, really into the discussion. Some of the better known writers, like Kadya Molodowsky and Cynthia Ozick, I had read a little on my own. But Naomi (no disrespect intended, by the way; everyone has been on a first-name basis this summer) also gave us some poetry by Celia Dropkin and Anna Margolin, two Russian-American avant-garde poets. I found Anna Margolin's poetry especially interesting for a Yiddish writer. In many ways, her poetry reflects a certain female tradition in Eastern European Jewish culture. Yet she also deals with many non-Jewish themes, uses Christian imagery, and seeks to redefine what (Jewish) womanhood means in a modern world.
The individuality Margolin asserts in some of her poetry we read reminded me of the way in which Emma Goldman articulated her stance on womanhood. Many find her outspokenness against women's suffrage to be incongruous with her otherwise "feminist" views. From reading Living My Life, one of her two massive autobiographies (she had a very full life), it is clear to me that Goldman relates deeply to her femininity and cherishes the role that women play in the world. However, her justification for her stance women's suffrage is quite nuanced and certainly fits in with her radical denouncement of all hierarchy.
Goldman believed that a political right like suffrage would do no good for the majority of women who (at the time) were tied to the patriarchal yoke of incessant childbearing and child rearing, and other worldly responsibilities. It was no coincidence to her that the most outspoken suffragists were also the most pious and the most burdened by the responsibilities of home. There would be no true political, economic, or social solutions for women until they learned to denounce the set of values that limited them to the domestic sphere. The key to the liberation of women, Goldman said, is to view the self as an individual worthy of men in any sphere.
To establish one's self as an individual and as a woman in the Modern world, whether politically or aesthetically, was no easy task, of course. The idea of the woman as an individual, free of any social constraints, was certainly quite radical. It is this idea that I am most interested in exploring in Margolin's poetry. She was not political, but was nevertheless a radical and innovative poet.
All in all, I am satisfied, and I hope that I will not reach another dead end with this project. Wish me luck!
By the way, the last day of the program is July 30th. I'll be back in Miami sometime in August with many stories to tell.
10 July 2008
Overdue Update (of course), Part 1
After a short, but incredibly jam-packed trip to New York City, a brief side trip to visit with a friend in Connecticut, a really crazy trip back from NYC to Amherst* and a nearly full week dedicated to recovering from said events, I am back in Amherst. I have some extra time this morning because my Yiddish teacher, Yuri, suggested that we move today's class to the afternoon. We're going to order pizza and go swimming while we have a Yiddish lesson on some relevant topic. Sounds good to me!
So, New York: On the whole, it was an excellent experience. I think I would have enjoyed some portions of the trip more had they been scheduled in a more reasonable fashion. But I will try to recall the details of each day. For the sake of organization and for to make this entry a palatable size, I am going to backdate my entries by days of the trip. Scroll down to July 1st to read about my entire from the beginning.
*Side story: About half of the interns left New York City in the National Yiddish Book Center van on Thursday evening. The other half wanted to stay in various parts of the New York-New Jersey-Connecticut corridor and agreed to meet at the NYU dorms on Sunday to ride back in the other van. All went well with the meet-up: we managed to come from our various weekend travel spots and meet punctually. About halfway into our ride, about 15 miles South of Hartford, Connecticut, we hit a dead halt on i-91. We quickly found out from an adjacent trucker who hears traffic reports over his radio system that there had been a terrible motorcycle accident a few miles ahead of where we stopped. Two people were dead on the scene, one was airlifted and was in pretty bad condition, and the highway had to close for "3-4 hours." We made the best of it while we sat there, notwithstanding the fact that we had to pee in the dark bushes in Nowheresville, Connecticut. While I did some homework, someone took out a guitar, two of the other interns took out a harmonica and a violin, and they engaged in a "traffic jam" (yes, I know, very funny...). Several hours later, the traffic finally moved. Relief. But when we finally passed the scene of the accident, the authorities had not yet removed the two dead motorcyclists. They had white sheets spread over them, of course, but it was no less jarring an image to view, especially after we all had spent the last few hours in merriment with strangers we'd never see again. It was a really poignant scene. We didn't make it home until 1 AM, and, needless to say, I was absolutely exhausted (and a bit traumatized) on Monday.
So, New York: On the whole, it was an excellent experience. I think I would have enjoyed some portions of the trip more had they been scheduled in a more reasonable fashion. But I will try to recall the details of each day. For the sake of organization and for to make this entry a palatable size, I am going to backdate my entries by days of the trip. Scroll down to July 1st to read about my entire from the beginning.
*Side story: About half of the interns left New York City in the National Yiddish Book Center van on Thursday evening. The other half wanted to stay in various parts of the New York-New Jersey-Connecticut corridor and agreed to meet at the NYU dorms on Sunday to ride back in the other van. All went well with the meet-up: we managed to come from our various weekend travel spots and meet punctually. About halfway into our ride, about 15 miles South of Hartford, Connecticut, we hit a dead halt on i-91. We quickly found out from an adjacent trucker who hears traffic reports over his radio system that there had been a terrible motorcycle accident a few miles ahead of where we stopped. Two people were dead on the scene, one was airlifted and was in pretty bad condition, and the highway had to close for "3-4 hours." We made the best of it while we sat there, notwithstanding the fact that we had to pee in the dark bushes in Nowheresville, Connecticut. While I did some homework, someone took out a guitar, two of the other interns took out a harmonica and a violin, and they engaged in a "traffic jam" (yes, I know, very funny...). Several hours later, the traffic finally moved. Relief. But when we finally passed the scene of the accident, the authorities had not yet removed the two dead motorcyclists. They had white sheets spread over them, of course, but it was no less jarring an image to view, especially after we all had spent the last few hours in merriment with strangers we'd never see again. It was a really poignant scene. We didn't make it home until 1 AM, and, needless to say, I was absolutely exhausted (and a bit traumatized) on Monday.
03 July 2008
The Only Living Girl in New York
Hey all! Not much time for a big update at the moment. I have been in New York City since Tuesday afternoon and it has been a jam-packed crazy schedule. Right now, I am at the New York University Library where--after a much needed restroom/water stop--I will begin sifting through the Tamiment Library Labor Archives. For whatever reason, this special collection at NYU houses all the letters of Rose Pastor Stokes, one of the Jewish radical women I am researching. I'm interested in her relationship to Emma Goldman during the beginning of the birth control movement in the United States. She wrote this very obscure play called The Woman Who Wouldn't that touched upon many of the moral issues relating to birth control and abortion. According to some scholarship I have read, she was encouraged by the ideas of Emma Goldman to write this play, so I hope that I can find something useful in her correspondence to substantiate that. Wish me luck. My next update will have pictures and full details.
02 July 2008
Day 2 in New York City
This was definitely my favorite day of the entire trip to New York City. In the morning, we hoofed it to the Lower East Side, where Yiddish in America once flourished. It was really interesting to walk into the Lower East Side from the subway with that image in mind. The neighborhood is so different now. There are a few remnants of immigrant Jews, but most of the signs are Chinese/English amalgams. Very little evidence of the Yiddish world in America still exists in that area. Nevertheless, what does still exist in the Lower East Side gave me a little taste of what life in New York was like for Eastern European Jews.
Our first stop was the Eldrigde Street Synagogue, the first Eastern European Jewish Congregation in the United States. I had heard a little bit about this place on NPR. For many years, it was in a state of disrepair. Although people still attended the shul for worship, the upstairs was literally collapsing. After many years and much hard work, a group of dedicated donors and the city of New York fully restored it and opened it to the public for viewing.
It was certainly unlike most of the synagogues that I have ever seen. The architecture reminded me a lot of the basilicas I saw in Italy when I was there in high school. The building wasn't shaped like a cross, of course, but the columns, the stained glass, and the artwork on the ceiling were reminiscent of that style. As it turns out, the Eldrige Street Synagogue was modeled after Eastern European places of worship. There was really no distinction between Jewish, Christian, Catholic, etc. It was simply the way that places of worship were designed.
I won't post all of my pictures, but I'll give a small sampling. This was a view from upstairs. The lighting was kind of dim, but it was probably intentional. One of the obligations of historical preservation is to be as loyal to the original conditions of the building as possible. In the early 20th century, the building would have had (I think) alcohol burners in the chandelier. It is doubtful that it would have been much brighter than it was the day we were inside. It is certain, however, that it would have been much, much warmer.
The synagogue had a lot of character. It was clear to me that, in spite of the harsh conditions and poverty that Jews met in America, they made it a priority to build something beautiful in which to rejoice. At the same time, it was not ostentatious like many of the contemporary synagogues I have seen.
After the visit there, we took a walking tour of the Lower East Side. Fortunately and unfortunately, our tour guide was very enthusiastic about providing us a detailed history, much of which we just got from our readings for class. We heard a lot of details about the things we saw, but I found myself wanting to see more and do more walking at the end of the 2-hour tour. Thankfully, we did manage to see some very neat things along the way.
The most exciting stop on the tour was the building for the Forverts, the (I believe) longest running Yiddish language newspaper in the United States. Nowadays, I suspect that they have a larger circulation of their English language version, The Jewish Daily Forward. Despite a dwindling audience, they still publish their Yiddish paper.
I doubt you can see it from this admittedly crappy photo, but if you click on it, you might notice that on the top of the building, there is Yiddish script that reads " פֿאָרווערטס " and the FORWARD painted on the side of the building. It was bigger than any of the surrounding buildings.
The true peak of my Lower East Side experience came at the very end. With 30 minutes to shovel food down our throats before we had to meet up with the group that didn't go on the tour, we stumbled into an authentic Jewish Lower East Side dining establishment.
(Photo credit to my friend, Julie)
Our first stop was the Eldrigde Street Synagogue, the first Eastern European Jewish Congregation in the United States. I had heard a little bit about this place on NPR. For many years, it was in a state of disrepair. Although people still attended the shul for worship, the upstairs was literally collapsing. After many years and much hard work, a group of dedicated donors and the city of New York fully restored it and opened it to the public for viewing.It was certainly unlike most of the synagogues that I have ever seen. The architecture reminded me a lot of the basilicas I saw in Italy when I was there in high school. The building wasn't shaped like a cross, of course, but the columns, the stained glass, and the artwork on the ceiling were reminiscent of that style. As it turns out, the Eldrige Street Synagogue was modeled after Eastern European places of worship. There was really no distinction between Jewish, Christian, Catholic, etc. It was simply the way that places of worship were designed.
I won't post all of my pictures, but I'll give a small sampling. This was a view from upstairs. The lighting was kind of dim, but it was probably intentional. One of the obligations of historical preservation is to be as loyal to the original conditions of the building as possible. In the early 20th century, the building would have had (I think) alcohol burners in the chandelier. It is doubtful that it would have been much brighter than it was the day we were inside. It is certain, however, that it would have been much, much warmer.
The synagogue had a lot of character. It was clear to me that, in spite of the harsh conditions and poverty that Jews met in America, they made it a priority to build something beautiful in which to rejoice. At the same time, it was not ostentatious like many of the contemporary synagogues I have seen.
Hand carved stand on the pulpit.
Stars and a stained glass Star of David on the ceiling.
After the visit there, we took a walking tour of the Lower East Side. Fortunately and unfortunately, our tour guide was very enthusiastic about providing us a detailed history, much of which we just got from our readings for class. We heard a lot of details about the things we saw, but I found myself wanting to see more and do more walking at the end of the 2-hour tour. Thankfully, we did manage to see some very neat things along the way.
The most exciting stop on the tour was the building for the Forverts, the (I believe) longest running Yiddish language newspaper in the United States. Nowadays, I suspect that they have a larger circulation of their English language version, The Jewish Daily Forward. Despite a dwindling audience, they still publish their Yiddish paper.
I doubt you can see it from this admittedly crappy photo, but if you click on it, you might notice that on the top of the building, there is Yiddish script that reads " פֿאָרווערטס " and the FORWARD painted on the side of the building. It was bigger than any of the surrounding buildings.The true peak of my Lower East Side experience came at the very end. With 30 minutes to shovel food down our throats before we had to meet up with the group that didn't go on the tour, we stumbled into an authentic Jewish Lower East Side dining establishment.
(Photo credit to my friend, Julie)
That's me in the middle, standing between my friends and housemates, Rachel (left) and Sam (right). I think that the signs in the windows can really speak to the spirit of the place. [Oh yeah, side note for those who might be shocked to see this picture: I cut off 10 inches of hair and donated it to Locks of Love before I left for New York. After donating a foot about 4 years ago, I swore I'd never do it again. So much for that...]
Since it was a dairy kosher restaurant, they didn't serve meat, which made me pretty happy. I ordered something that I heard called "Mock Chop"--meatless chopped liver. I've never particularly wanted to eat the real thing, so having the vegetarian version was authentic enough for me. The food was good, but the people sitting in the restaurant were even better. Some of the interns sat and chatted with some of the Yiddish-speaking regulars. One of the men sitting there got up and tried to summon one of his (far less interested) friends, excitedly spreading the news: "Did you hear that? These kids are learning Yiddish!" One was a Holocaust survivor. Another was a 98 year old man from outside of Minsk who, in spite of his feeble body (he had his caretaker with him), was completely sound of mind. I wish I could have more fully participated in the conversation, but it was really enjoyable to simply listen, too.
As thrilling as it was to watch members of my generation connect with the past, there was something also sobering about the experience. Though we are learning Yiddish, there is something entirely inauthentic about it. The bygone days of Yiddishkeit will never be truly recreated. I may be able to speak more of the language with further study, but even if I were to achieve fluency, I would still be an outsider, a member of the audience. The last vestiges of this culture were sitting in that deli, and are still sitting in delis in other corners of the world. At least I can say I played a minute part in experiencing it and that I am playing a larger role in preserving its memory.
Since it was a dairy kosher restaurant, they didn't serve meat, which made me pretty happy. I ordered something that I heard called "Mock Chop"--meatless chopped liver. I've never particularly wanted to eat the real thing, so having the vegetarian version was authentic enough for me. The food was good, but the people sitting in the restaurant were even better. Some of the interns sat and chatted with some of the Yiddish-speaking regulars. One of the men sitting there got up and tried to summon one of his (far less interested) friends, excitedly spreading the news: "Did you hear that? These kids are learning Yiddish!" One was a Holocaust survivor. Another was a 98 year old man from outside of Minsk who, in spite of his feeble body (he had his caretaker with him), was completely sound of mind. I wish I could have more fully participated in the conversation, but it was really enjoyable to simply listen, too.
As thrilling as it was to watch members of my generation connect with the past, there was something also sobering about the experience. Though we are learning Yiddish, there is something entirely inauthentic about it. The bygone days of Yiddishkeit will never be truly recreated. I may be able to speak more of the language with further study, but even if I were to achieve fluency, I would still be an outsider, a member of the audience. The last vestiges of this culture were sitting in that deli, and are still sitting in delis in other corners of the world. At least I can say I played a minute part in experiencing it and that I am playing a larger role in preserving its memory.
01 July 2008
Day 1 in New York City
After our morning Yiddish language class, we all (that is, 18 interns and 3 staff members) hopped into two vans and headed out to New York at 12:30. We arrived with no problems at the NYU dorms at around 3, where we checked in, caught our breath for a second, and headed out immediately to Katz's Deli. I took some pictures, but I realize now that in my enduring technological brilliance, I deleted all of those pictures before I could upload them. I will try to get a few from others to post.
It's a good thing that it was a really, really long walk from our dorm at NYU because the sheer amount of food they serve at that place is astounding. As I am not of the meat-eating persuasion, I did not partake in one of the more typical New York deli dishes. Nevertheless, it was amusing to watch my friends try very hard to finish their sandwiches. Each sandwich was stuffed full with 2 or so inches of meat. Some others also got huge pieces of kugel, knishes, soups, deserts and, of course, pickles. I ordered an omelet (which was generous enough in size), but, like everyone else, I got an entire plate full of both sour and half-sour pickles. I ate the entire plate of pickles. It occurred to me later, when I found myself drinking cup after cup of water, that I was easily dehydrated from the pickles alone.
After Katz's, we hiked it a few blocks for an hour-long subway ride into the Bronx. Our destination was a small vestige of Yiddish culture that still exists in the Bronx. All 18 interns and our staff members filed into the house of Beyle Schaechter-Gottesman, a Yiddish-speaking relative of the great linguist Mordechai Schaechter. I wish I had not been stuffed with pickles and dead exhausted, or I may have been able to enjoy the experience more fully. What we attended is called a Zingeray--a circle of Yiddish speakers who get together every once in awhile to sing lesser-known Yiddish songs. It was neat to watch everyone with varying levels of musical talent lead the group. It was folksy and completely unpretentious. The best was watching Beyle, who is (I think) in her late 70s, sing these songs. Her delivery was soulful, even if she had difficulty recalling some of the words. My only complaint--aside from being utterly exhausted that evening--was that I felt a little bit uncomfortable. We (that is, the interns) were not asked to introduce ourselves to the circle at the beginning. They did not sing any songs we knew and it was difficult to hear the translations when they provided them. Some of the more advanced students were able to participate, but the beginners (more than half of us) were kind of excluded from the experience.
After an hour long train ride back to NYU, we finally got to sleep--with air conditioning, no less!--and anticipated an early morning.
It's a good thing that it was a really, really long walk from our dorm at NYU because the sheer amount of food they serve at that place is astounding. As I am not of the meat-eating persuasion, I did not partake in one of the more typical New York deli dishes. Nevertheless, it was amusing to watch my friends try very hard to finish their sandwiches. Each sandwich was stuffed full with 2 or so inches of meat. Some others also got huge pieces of kugel, knishes, soups, deserts and, of course, pickles. I ordered an omelet (which was generous enough in size), but, like everyone else, I got an entire plate full of both sour and half-sour pickles. I ate the entire plate of pickles. It occurred to me later, when I found myself drinking cup after cup of water, that I was easily dehydrated from the pickles alone.
After Katz's, we hiked it a few blocks for an hour-long subway ride into the Bronx. Our destination was a small vestige of Yiddish culture that still exists in the Bronx. All 18 interns and our staff members filed into the house of Beyle Schaechter-Gottesman, a Yiddish-speaking relative of the great linguist Mordechai Schaechter. I wish I had not been stuffed with pickles and dead exhausted, or I may have been able to enjoy the experience more fully. What we attended is called a Zingeray--a circle of Yiddish speakers who get together every once in awhile to sing lesser-known Yiddish songs. It was neat to watch everyone with varying levels of musical talent lead the group. It was folksy and completely unpretentious. The best was watching Beyle, who is (I think) in her late 70s, sing these songs. Her delivery was soulful, even if she had difficulty recalling some of the words. My only complaint--aside from being utterly exhausted that evening--was that I felt a little bit uncomfortable. We (that is, the interns) were not asked to introduce ourselves to the circle at the beginning. They did not sing any songs we knew and it was difficult to hear the translations when they provided them. Some of the more advanced students were able to participate, but the beginners (more than half of us) were kind of excluded from the experience.
After an hour long train ride back to NYU, we finally got to sleep--with air conditioning, no less!--and anticipated an early morning.
25 June 2008
The Yiddish Press
A new, not-so-shiny-but-no-less-fascinating object suddenly appeared in the Book Center the other day. A Yiddish printing press (**edit: According to my dad, who is an engineer and general machine-ophile far more attuned to these things than I am, it is a linotype machine. According to him, these machines were so well built that it could very well still work)! I am not sure of the exact year that this one was manufactured, but the patent plate on the side of the press says that the model received a patent in 1911.
The significance of the printing press cannot be understated in the development of a Modern Yiddish literary and political culture. This printing press is where it all really happened. Literary journals that published avant-garde poetry and fiction; political newspapers of the Anarchists, Socialists, Communists, Zionists, rival factions within each movement; and many other publications geared toward a Yiddish-speaking audience throughout Eastern Europe and the United States flourished in the early 20th century.
One of the ironic things I learned in my Yiddish Culture class--no slight against the Book Center intended--is that the Yiddish press was actually far more influential than books were in developing Yiddish as a literary language. Much of the Yiddish literature we see in book form at the National Yiddish Book Center today was originally serialized in newspapers.Newspapers were cheap, easy to circulate, and numerous in ideology and audience. Because of these practical reasons, culture, literature, and politics were largely a community experience. Unlike the more intimate experience of novel, the newspaper would be read by multiple people in a household and would be the subject of heated debate in cafes. That kind of populist literary consumption does not exist in the same way now.
I'm not sure if you can tell from the size of this photo, but those are characters of the Yiddish Alef-Beys, which comprises the Hebrew alphabet with some added combinations of letters and some added diacritical marks.
Pretty crazy looking, huh?
The significance of the printing press cannot be understated in the development of a Modern Yiddish literary and political culture. This printing press is where it all really happened. Literary journals that published avant-garde poetry and fiction; political newspapers of the Anarchists, Socialists, Communists, Zionists, rival factions within each movement; and many other publications geared toward a Yiddish-speaking audience throughout Eastern Europe and the United States flourished in the early 20th century.
One of the ironic things I learned in my Yiddish Culture class--no slight against the Book Center intended--is that the Yiddish press was actually far more influential than books were in developing Yiddish as a literary language. Much of the Yiddish literature we see in book form at the National Yiddish Book Center today was originally serialized in newspapers.Newspapers were cheap, easy to circulate, and numerous in ideology and audience. Because of these practical reasons, culture, literature, and politics were largely a community experience. Unlike the more intimate experience of novel, the newspaper would be read by multiple people in a household and would be the subject of heated debate in cafes. That kind of populist literary consumption does not exist in the same way now.
I'm not sure if you can tell from the size of this photo, but those are characters of the Yiddish Alef-Beys, which comprises the Hebrew alphabet with some added combinations of letters and some added diacritical marks.
Pretty crazy looking, huh?
17 June 2008
First Lecture
Last Friday was our introduction to the Yiddish culture unit of the internship. Aaron Lansky, the founder of the National Yiddish Book Center and the author of Outwitting History (a book that interweaves the history of Yiddishkeit with the story of how the Book Center came to be) delivered a lecture on two Yiddish short stories. The first is "Bontshe Shvayg" by an author well-known among Yiddish-speakers, Y.L. Peretz. The other, much longer story, is called "Gimpel the Fool" by Nobel Prize winner Isaac Bashevis Singer. Lansky's choice of these two stories as an introduction to the major themes in Modern Yiddish literature was deliberate. On the surface, the stories mirror one another. When he put each author into context, however, the stories reveal the great tensions plaguing Jews in the modern world.
In "Bontshe Shvayg," Peretz introduces the main character at the moment when he has just died and crossed the threshold into the "other world." Bontshe Shvayg is a meek man whose only outstanding characteristic during his life on earth is his perpetual silence, even in the face of the most painful circumstances: a botched circumcision, a wife who cheats on him, children who throw him out of his own house. You name the terrible circumstance, and this guy has probably endured it without a complaint.
When he arrives at the great gates of Heaven, complete with winged cherubs and gold everything, Bontshe meets a Heavenly Tribunal. In typically Jewish fashion, though, the tribunal is more like a courtroom trial. His defense paints a picture of a martyr who bore the great burdens of the world with no complaint. When the defense rests its case and the Heavenly Tribunal is ready to admit Bontshe Shvayg they, of course, decide in his favor: "The Heavenly Tribunal can pass no judgment on you. It is not for us to determine your portion of paradise. Take what you want! It is yours, all yours!" The humorous twist is that Bontshe is not a martyr or a saint. He isn't otherworldly. To the great amusement of the prosecution, his only request is "a warm roll with fresh butter every morning." In his overly literal conception of Heaven, Bontshe Shvayg mocks the preoccupation of many religious Jews with deliverance in the "other world" while ignoring life on earth
Isaac Bashevis Singer's "Gimpel the Fool" presents a similar main character with a far different philosophical implication. Unlike "Bontshe Shvayg," which is in the third person, "Gimpel" is a first person account of Gimpel's foibles and unfortunate circumstances. Gimpel is quite the gullible fellow, seemingly incapable of learning to be skeptical when others tell him outrageous things. He is tricked into marrying an unfaithful woman. Luckily, Gimpel has some redeeming factors in his life: he runs a successful business, he has children who love him, and he has an unshakable faith in God. Hell, he doesn't even want to divorce the woman that he catches cheating on him. Bashevis Singer also strays far away from the message Peretz delivers at the end of "Bontse Shvayg." At the end of "Gimpel, the imagery is mystical, the tone transcendent:
While faith and tradition may be imperfect--Gimpel is a "fool" after all (though on a side note, we were told that "fool" isn't necessarily a perfect translation of the word in Yiddish)--it's all the Jews have to unite them as a people. It's a cynical transcendence, at best.
The distinction between these two Yiddish stories would be unremarkable without putting them into historical context. Isaac Bashevis Singer wrote "Gimpel the Fool" in the years that immediately proceeded a grizzly time for Jews. Between the pogroms in Eastern Europe, the Holocaust, and the mass persecution of Jews in the Stalin regime, it is safe to say that Bashevis Singer saw the brutal consequences of Jewish "assimilation" in the modern world. Like gullible Gimpel, who takes blow after blow from others, Jews must hold onto their traditions, turn into their communities, and try to pick up the broken pieces of themselves for the true world beyond the earth.
While it is understandable, Bashevis Singer generated a great deal of controversy amongst the Yiddish literary world. Those who had helped to create and consume the culture of Yiddishkeit in the late 19th and early 20th centuries believed Yiddish represented cosmopolitan humanist values. Jewish isolation is exactly the worldview they worked so hard to shed. As a non-territorial language of a certain people,Yiddish promised to unite Jews everywhere while while allowing Jews to integrate into their own societies. Nevertheless, Isaac Bashevis Singer, not Y.L. Peretz, won a Nobel Prize. With the rise of nationalism, Jews eventually abandoned the promise of Yiddish and adopted Modern Hebrew and the nation-state of Israel. The drawbacks and benefits of that move have been debated for decades in numerous books, articles, and dissertations, so I will leave Israel out of the equation for now.
This debate is one of the conflicts that really draws me into the politics of Yiddish literature. I think it is a compelling question, especially for my generation: is it possible to reconcile one's identity with a particular community and one's identity in a larger society? My own answer to this question has always been complicated. I am an American, but I have always felt like an outsider as a Jew. At the same time, I am not educated so much in the religious aspects of Judaism, which makes identifying as a Jew in the United States a very difficult label. American society tends to reduce "religion" to a check box, to siphon off one's "faith" into a category entirely separate from the culture in which one lives day-to-day life. What I see in Yiddish and in the time when it was a flourishing literary language was an identification with a Jewish peoplehood that did not reduce one's identity in such terms. It represents humanism with a self-aware outlook.
Obviously, though, this is not without its problems. What does it mean to be Jewish without religion? More generally, what does it mean to identify as "American" and something else, or to be a global citizen? If history proves anything, lines, labels, and borders on a map (whether mental or geographical) are difficult to negotiate. Peretz lived in a world where Jews appeared to be flourishing as individual citizens and as a transnational group. The Old World ways were impediments to assimilation. Isaac Bashevis Singer witnessed the consequences of Jewish assimilation. No matter what Jews believed of themselves, they continued to be perceived as unquestionably different. Without religious traditions, Jews would continue to endanger themselves as a people. This post-Holocaust skepticism still exists in many communities, and even among more secular Jews. Integrate with the greater society, sure, but always walk with a mirror in hand, watching for the goy persecutor.
Luckily, I think much of my generation sees the problems and have become disillusioned with this outlook. Whether the extremists like it or not, the world's borders are becoming less and less relevant. While I don't see a Yiddish revivalist movement growing like wildfire, I think we do have many things to learn from the Yiddishkeit.
In "Bontshe Shvayg," Peretz introduces the main character at the moment when he has just died and crossed the threshold into the "other world." Bontshe Shvayg is a meek man whose only outstanding characteristic during his life on earth is his perpetual silence, even in the face of the most painful circumstances: a botched circumcision, a wife who cheats on him, children who throw him out of his own house. You name the terrible circumstance, and this guy has probably endured it without a complaint.
When he arrives at the great gates of Heaven, complete with winged cherubs and gold everything, Bontshe meets a Heavenly Tribunal. In typically Jewish fashion, though, the tribunal is more like a courtroom trial. His defense paints a picture of a martyr who bore the great burdens of the world with no complaint. When the defense rests its case and the Heavenly Tribunal is ready to admit Bontshe Shvayg they, of course, decide in his favor: "The Heavenly Tribunal can pass no judgment on you. It is not for us to determine your portion of paradise. Take what you want! It is yours, all yours!" The humorous twist is that Bontshe is not a martyr or a saint. He isn't otherworldly. To the great amusement of the prosecution, his only request is "a warm roll with fresh butter every morning." In his overly literal conception of Heaven, Bontshe Shvayg mocks the preoccupation of many religious Jews with deliverance in the "other world" while ignoring life on earth
Isaac Bashevis Singer's "Gimpel the Fool" presents a similar main character with a far different philosophical implication. Unlike "Bontshe Shvayg," which is in the third person, "Gimpel" is a first person account of Gimpel's foibles and unfortunate circumstances. Gimpel is quite the gullible fellow, seemingly incapable of learning to be skeptical when others tell him outrageous things. He is tricked into marrying an unfaithful woman. Luckily, Gimpel has some redeeming factors in his life: he runs a successful business, he has children who love him, and he has an unshakable faith in God. Hell, he doesn't even want to divorce the woman that he catches cheating on him. Bashevis Singer also strays far away from the message Peretz delivers at the end of "Bontse Shvayg." At the end of "Gimpel, the imagery is mystical, the tone transcendent:
"No doubt the world is entirely an imaginary world, but it is only once removed from the true world. At the door of the hovel where I lie, there stands the plank on which the dead are taken away. the gravedigger Jew has his spade ready. The grave waits and the worms are hungry; the shrouds are prepared--I carry them in my beggar's sack. Another shnorrer is waiting to inherit my bed of straw. When the time comes I will go joyfully. Whatever may be there, it will be real, without complication, without ridicule, without deception. God be praised: there even Gimpel cannot be fooled."
While faith and tradition may be imperfect--Gimpel is a "fool" after all (though on a side note, we were told that "fool" isn't necessarily a perfect translation of the word in Yiddish)--it's all the Jews have to unite them as a people. It's a cynical transcendence, at best.
The distinction between these two Yiddish stories would be unremarkable without putting them into historical context. Isaac Bashevis Singer wrote "Gimpel the Fool" in the years that immediately proceeded a grizzly time for Jews. Between the pogroms in Eastern Europe, the Holocaust, and the mass persecution of Jews in the Stalin regime, it is safe to say that Bashevis Singer saw the brutal consequences of Jewish "assimilation" in the modern world. Like gullible Gimpel, who takes blow after blow from others, Jews must hold onto their traditions, turn into their communities, and try to pick up the broken pieces of themselves for the true world beyond the earth.
While it is understandable, Bashevis Singer generated a great deal of controversy amongst the Yiddish literary world. Those who had helped to create and consume the culture of Yiddishkeit in the late 19th and early 20th centuries believed Yiddish represented cosmopolitan humanist values. Jewish isolation is exactly the worldview they worked so hard to shed. As a non-territorial language of a certain people,Yiddish promised to unite Jews everywhere while while allowing Jews to integrate into their own societies. Nevertheless, Isaac Bashevis Singer, not Y.L. Peretz, won a Nobel Prize. With the rise of nationalism, Jews eventually abandoned the promise of Yiddish and adopted Modern Hebrew and the nation-state of Israel. The drawbacks and benefits of that move have been debated for decades in numerous books, articles, and dissertations, so I will leave Israel out of the equation for now.
This debate is one of the conflicts that really draws me into the politics of Yiddish literature. I think it is a compelling question, especially for my generation: is it possible to reconcile one's identity with a particular community and one's identity in a larger society? My own answer to this question has always been complicated. I am an American, but I have always felt like an outsider as a Jew. At the same time, I am not educated so much in the religious aspects of Judaism, which makes identifying as a Jew in the United States a very difficult label. American society tends to reduce "religion" to a check box, to siphon off one's "faith" into a category entirely separate from the culture in which one lives day-to-day life. What I see in Yiddish and in the time when it was a flourishing literary language was an identification with a Jewish peoplehood that did not reduce one's identity in such terms. It represents humanism with a self-aware outlook.
Obviously, though, this is not without its problems. What does it mean to be Jewish without religion? More generally, what does it mean to identify as "American" and something else, or to be a global citizen? If history proves anything, lines, labels, and borders on a map (whether mental or geographical) are difficult to negotiate. Peretz lived in a world where Jews appeared to be flourishing as individual citizens and as a transnational group. The Old World ways were impediments to assimilation. Isaac Bashevis Singer witnessed the consequences of Jewish assimilation. No matter what Jews believed of themselves, they continued to be perceived as unquestionably different. Without religious traditions, Jews would continue to endanger themselves as a people. This post-Holocaust skepticism still exists in many communities, and even among more secular Jews. Integrate with the greater society, sure, but always walk with a mirror in hand, watching for the goy persecutor.
Luckily, I think much of my generation sees the problems and have become disillusioned with this outlook. Whether the extremists like it or not, the world's borders are becoming less and less relevant. While I don't see a Yiddish revivalist movement growing like wildfire, I think we do have many things to learn from the Yiddishkeit.
13 June 2008
Obligatory First Post: What am I doing here?
Hello, everyone!
Chances are if you have reached this blog, it is because I sent you here or you stumbled upon the link in my Facebook profile. Although I am documenting this for my own reasons, I look forward to sharing my experiences with everyone. Feel free to leave comments!
For those of you who do not know, I am one of 18 students from across the country, ranging from 2nd-year undergraduates to masters students completing a summer internship in Yiddish Language and Culture at the National Yiddish Book Center in Amherst, Massachusetts. It is a 7-week program that includes Yiddish language instruction, a class in Yiddish culture led by various scholars in Yiddish literature and culture, and, of course, some obligatory grunt work at the Book Center when necessary. Interns also have the opportunity to work closely with the faculty on an independent project that involves translation of Yiddish text and/or research on a particular topic in Yiddish culture. At the end of the summer, we will all present our work and, perhaps, contribute to some kind of future exhibition here at the Book Center. We will also get docent training if we want it, the opportunity for further involvement with the Book Center's upcoming projects, 6 credits of coursework through the University of Massachusetts-Amherst, and a small stipend for our work. All of the credits, the books, our housing, and various other goodies (which includes a familiar childhood toy renamed Yiddish-style as an "Oy-Oy") are fully paid for by the center. Yes, they actually PAY us to do something so cool.
Some of you may be baffled by this. Why learn Yiddish? What kind of 22 year old wants to speak like an old bube? Jewish assimilation in America came at the expense of an amazingly rich culture that I managed to stumble upon only recently. The Holocaust killed off about half of the world's Yiddish speakers. The post-World War II generation of Ashkenazi Jews that followed learned almost nothing of their parents' or grandparents' native tongue, typically abandoning it for English or Hebrew. What Yiddish my mother heard growing up only shows up in select words she has always used to describe certain things--shabbes, shmate, goyim, etc. Occasionally she will use a Yiddish word I never heard her say before. Ever since I can remember, I have always been fascinated at the power in those Yiddish words. There is something in the word shpilkes--used colloquially to mean a feeling of restlessness, but literally translated as "pins" or "needles"--that captures something that English cannot, at least to me.
Of course, it is only in retrospect that I see how Yiddish has always played a subtle role in my life. My trajectory into this program really began last summer when I was an honors summer research assistant with a professor of mine at the University of Miami. Much of what I was reading was about nationalism and the movements that have arisen as an answer to it. One day, as I was milling about the internet, I discovered Emma Goldman, the notorious anarchist of the early 20th century. When I read more about her, I also learned about her affiliation with the major Yiddish anarchist movements, both here and internationally.
Wait, what? Yiddish... Jewish... anarchists? I had certainly never heard about political radicals in Hebrew school. My Hebrew school--mostly attended by the irritating offspring of the reformed, observant-two-times-a-year type of Jews--was more of a bar mitzvah mill that taught us to read Hebrew and not much else. On top of it, we learned Sephardic (Middle Eastern) pronunciation of Hebrew when the vast majority of us were of Eastern European descent. We probably did talk about some Jewish traditions and certainly learned about the Holocaust. Yet somehow this entire Jewish secular cultural life that flourished before the Holocaust failed to make it into the curriculum. Since my Jewish grandparents passed away long before I was born, there was very little of that world left in my family. I had to discover this world on my own.
I first became interested in radical political thought and leftist literature at some point after my experience living in New Orleans from 2004 to 2006, both before and after Hurricane Katrina. In a former life, before I came to the University of Miami, I was a student at Tulane University. It was the beginning of my sophomore year when Katrina devastated New Orleans. Being even a small part of one of America's worst human rights crises provided me a deep perspective into the way poverty, race, and government neglect function in this country. Maybe it is another case of liberal white guilt, I am not sure. I certainly did not suffer financially or physically from my experience. But to this day, I empathize deeply with those whose entire lives were wrecked and who still are suffering in the aftermath of Katrina.
When I started reading about the Jews coming to America at the turn of the century, something clicked for me. Of course I knew a great deal about the Holocaust. For the first time, though, I read extensively about the pogroms in Russia and about the struggle Jews faced upon arrival in the United States. Along with the Italians, the Poles, the Irish, and many other immigrant groups, most Jews were poor and, accordingly, were treated like the absolute scum of the universe. My parents are both highly educated, but I wanted to know what it was like for my great-grandparents who came to this country from Eastern Europe, who learned a new language, and who had to make their way from scratch in a very antagonistic environment. My teeny, miniature diaspora during Hurricane Katrina made me empathize with how immigrants were feeling when they had to pick up and leave everything they had known for centuries.
That, in a nutshell, is how I ended up here. My senior thesis (to graduate with Latin honors) is exploring the writings of radical Jewish women in America at the turn of the century. I am interested in examining how these young women adjusted to America--to a new language, a new culture, oppressive working conditions, to Christian moralizing--and figuring out why it is that Jews ultimately abandoned Yiddish culture and many of the ethical values and political ideals that came along with it. With some encouragement from my thesis adviser to look into Yiddish immersion programs, I found this place, applied at the absolute last possible minute, prostrated myself at the feet of my letter of recommendation writers and, well, here I am. At the Yiddish Book Center, I will be continuing my research and I hope to learn through their writing (fiction and memoirs) about the way Ashkenazi Jewish women were acclimating to the New World. Learning Yiddish will help me to eventually use primary sources rather than relying on translations or on the select few females publishing in English at that time.
The other students here are incredibly smart and interesting people who have extremely varied interests and perspectives. It has been only 3 days here in Amherst and I know that I am going to learn so much just from the other interns in this program. Their topics range far and wide in Yiddish culture: comparative studies of Yiddish foods, Jacob Adler's Yiddish portrayal of Shylock in The Merchant of Venice, Yiddish Linguistics, Klezmer and folk music, Czechoslovakian Jewish History, the perception of Jews in contemporary Poland, Indian-Jewish intermarriage, and so many more interesting and novel ideas. It is actually pretty intimidating. I am sure that I will have to pay tribute to the people I meet through this program in numerous individual blog entries at a later point.
This week was short, but hectic. It felt like freshman year of college all over again, in a way: I probably had to introduce myself about 30 times, at least. Now that we are all moved in and settled, the real work will begin. Next week we start our 2-week course in Yiddish cultural history with Professor David Shneer, who teaches History at the University of Denver. If you are interested in some of what we will be reading in this course, check out http://portfolio.du.edu/dshneer. Needless to say, I am very excited about this portion of the curriculum.
Now, though, it is the weekend. My suite mates and I are going to take some time out of this hectic week to explore "downtown" Amherst. Keep checking back for updates!
Leah
P.S. In case you are wondering, the word in the address of this blog, "zitsfleish" is a Yiddish word I learned somewhat recently. It means "perseverance," which is what I believe learning this language is going to take.
Chances are if you have reached this blog, it is because I sent you here or you stumbled upon the link in my Facebook profile. Although I am documenting this for my own reasons, I look forward to sharing my experiences with everyone. Feel free to leave comments!
For those of you who do not know, I am one of 18 students from across the country, ranging from 2nd-year undergraduates to masters students completing a summer internship in Yiddish Language and Culture at the National Yiddish Book Center in Amherst, Massachusetts. It is a 7-week program that includes Yiddish language instruction, a class in Yiddish culture led by various scholars in Yiddish literature and culture, and, of course, some obligatory grunt work at the Book Center when necessary. Interns also have the opportunity to work closely with the faculty on an independent project that involves translation of Yiddish text and/or research on a particular topic in Yiddish culture. At the end of the summer, we will all present our work and, perhaps, contribute to some kind of future exhibition here at the Book Center. We will also get docent training if we want it, the opportunity for further involvement with the Book Center's upcoming projects, 6 credits of coursework through the University of Massachusetts-Amherst, and a small stipend for our work. All of the credits, the books, our housing, and various other goodies (which includes a familiar childhood toy renamed Yiddish-style as an "Oy-Oy") are fully paid for by the center. Yes, they actually PAY us to do something so cool.
Some of you may be baffled by this. Why learn Yiddish? What kind of 22 year old wants to speak like an old bube? Jewish assimilation in America came at the expense of an amazingly rich culture that I managed to stumble upon only recently. The Holocaust killed off about half of the world's Yiddish speakers. The post-World War II generation of Ashkenazi Jews that followed learned almost nothing of their parents' or grandparents' native tongue, typically abandoning it for English or Hebrew. What Yiddish my mother heard growing up only shows up in select words she has always used to describe certain things--shabbes, shmate, goyim, etc. Occasionally she will use a Yiddish word I never heard her say before. Ever since I can remember, I have always been fascinated at the power in those Yiddish words. There is something in the word shpilkes--used colloquially to mean a feeling of restlessness, but literally translated as "pins" or "needles"--that captures something that English cannot, at least to me.
Of course, it is only in retrospect that I see how Yiddish has always played a subtle role in my life. My trajectory into this program really began last summer when I was an honors summer research assistant with a professor of mine at the University of Miami. Much of what I was reading was about nationalism and the movements that have arisen as an answer to it. One day, as I was milling about the internet, I discovered Emma Goldman, the notorious anarchist of the early 20th century. When I read more about her, I also learned about her affiliation with the major Yiddish anarchist movements, both here and internationally.
Wait, what? Yiddish... Jewish... anarchists? I had certainly never heard about political radicals in Hebrew school. My Hebrew school--mostly attended by the irritating offspring of the reformed, observant-two-times-a-year type of Jews--was more of a bar mitzvah mill that taught us to read Hebrew and not much else. On top of it, we learned Sephardic (Middle Eastern) pronunciation of Hebrew when the vast majority of us were of Eastern European descent. We probably did talk about some Jewish traditions and certainly learned about the Holocaust. Yet somehow this entire Jewish secular cultural life that flourished before the Holocaust failed to make it into the curriculum. Since my Jewish grandparents passed away long before I was born, there was very little of that world left in my family. I had to discover this world on my own.
I first became interested in radical political thought and leftist literature at some point after my experience living in New Orleans from 2004 to 2006, both before and after Hurricane Katrina. In a former life, before I came to the University of Miami, I was a student at Tulane University. It was the beginning of my sophomore year when Katrina devastated New Orleans. Being even a small part of one of America's worst human rights crises provided me a deep perspective into the way poverty, race, and government neglect function in this country. Maybe it is another case of liberal white guilt, I am not sure. I certainly did not suffer financially or physically from my experience. But to this day, I empathize deeply with those whose entire lives were wrecked and who still are suffering in the aftermath of Katrina.
When I started reading about the Jews coming to America at the turn of the century, something clicked for me. Of course I knew a great deal about the Holocaust. For the first time, though, I read extensively about the pogroms in Russia and about the struggle Jews faced upon arrival in the United States. Along with the Italians, the Poles, the Irish, and many other immigrant groups, most Jews were poor and, accordingly, were treated like the absolute scum of the universe. My parents are both highly educated, but I wanted to know what it was like for my great-grandparents who came to this country from Eastern Europe, who learned a new language, and who had to make their way from scratch in a very antagonistic environment. My teeny, miniature diaspora during Hurricane Katrina made me empathize with how immigrants were feeling when they had to pick up and leave everything they had known for centuries.
That, in a nutshell, is how I ended up here. My senior thesis (to graduate with Latin honors) is exploring the writings of radical Jewish women in America at the turn of the century. I am interested in examining how these young women adjusted to America--to a new language, a new culture, oppressive working conditions, to Christian moralizing--and figuring out why it is that Jews ultimately abandoned Yiddish culture and many of the ethical values and political ideals that came along with it. With some encouragement from my thesis adviser to look into Yiddish immersion programs, I found this place, applied at the absolute last possible minute, prostrated myself at the feet of my letter of recommendation writers and, well, here I am. At the Yiddish Book Center, I will be continuing my research and I hope to learn through their writing (fiction and memoirs) about the way Ashkenazi Jewish women were acclimating to the New World. Learning Yiddish will help me to eventually use primary sources rather than relying on translations or on the select few females publishing in English at that time.
The other students here are incredibly smart and interesting people who have extremely varied interests and perspectives. It has been only 3 days here in Amherst and I know that I am going to learn so much just from the other interns in this program. Their topics range far and wide in Yiddish culture: comparative studies of Yiddish foods, Jacob Adler's Yiddish portrayal of Shylock in The Merchant of Venice, Yiddish Linguistics, Klezmer and folk music, Czechoslovakian Jewish History, the perception of Jews in contemporary Poland, Indian-Jewish intermarriage, and so many more interesting and novel ideas. It is actually pretty intimidating. I am sure that I will have to pay tribute to the people I meet through this program in numerous individual blog entries at a later point.
This week was short, but hectic. It felt like freshman year of college all over again, in a way: I probably had to introduce myself about 30 times, at least. Now that we are all moved in and settled, the real work will begin. Next week we start our 2-week course in Yiddish cultural history with Professor David Shneer, who teaches History at the University of Denver. If you are interested in some of what we will be reading in this course, check out http://portfolio.du.edu/dshneer. Needless to say, I am very excited about this portion of the curriculum.
Now, though, it is the weekend. My suite mates and I are going to take some time out of this hectic week to explore "downtown" Amherst. Keep checking back for updates!
Leah
P.S. In case you are wondering, the word in the address of this blog, "zitsfleish" is a Yiddish word I learned somewhat recently. It means "perseverance," which is what I believe learning this language is going to take.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)