Mit ahn aahsent! (With an accent)

Zoog mir in Yiddish

By Sol Awend, GenShoah SWFL

It’s been said that you should never mock someone who has an accent. Chances are they know at least one other language.

Coming to this country with my parents and becoming newly minted Americans was a real adventure. They came here mit gooshnist (with nothing) because they lost alles (everything). They were Holocaust survivors who experienced one terrible side of life. By the Grace of God, they survived, made it here and embraced the American way of life.

That embrace was a real test of who they were, because the road was rocky at times: learning new customs, changes of dress, finding work and establishing a life. And one defining factor was the language. Without being able to speak and understand those around you, you were lost.

Try getting on a bus, now that you finally have a job, and the bus driver tells you the fare — and you stand there, paralyzed. It happened to my Dad. Or my Mom bringing lunch to school, because I forgot it. Addressing the secretary with “Dis is ah sonoffahbitch for my son Salehmon.” You can’t make this stuff up!

Anyone have that picture of themselves on a horse, oss geh stroyet, all dressed in cowboy gear? Imagine running into the house in a huff, “Mameh! Siz doo a fayet!” (Mom! There’s a horse!) I’m sure my Mom was not familiar with the wild, wild West and thought her son lost his marbles.

Ever hear the term “Greener?” If you came to America as a refugee, you were given that name by fellow Yiddlec’h who were here long before you were. It was shorthand, describing those unfamiliar with American ways and customs. Even though it was a slang to describe our shortcomings, I’m proud to say my family were, in fact, “Greeners.” They battled the outside world every day, trying to make their way here, but coming home? Ah mah c’haya!” (a pleasure). Ah yooh cheh (a soup familiar to us) was probably cooking on the stove. Tahteh would come home from a 14-hour day and give Deh Mameh ah kish in kep’l a kiss on her forehead.

Imagine Shabbos, back then, after a harrowing week. “Deh Mameh“ot geh t’zinden laac’ht,” Mom lit the candles, Dad wished the family Ah Gitt’n Shabbos after reciting Kiddish. Both of them giving us ah kish t’zin geh zint (a kiss for health).

I salute those who had accents and kept Yiddish alive ín deh Heim (at home). Or spoke in public and absolutely blew away salespeople. It was nothing to switch from English to Yiddish in mid-sentence explaining to my Mom, let’s say, what was said. And then back to English, getting the point across.

I trust you get to shmooze ah bissel with someone who spiks mit an ahksent and reminisce about good times past. Until next time, got something to say? Zoog Mir in Yiddish!