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Contemporary Yiddish in America: Intersections with Politics, Race, and Sexuality

Francine Levy

Franklin & Marshall College

Department of Anthropology

Class of 2021

A thesis submitted for Departmental Honors

Submitted April 23, 2021

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Introduction

At the beginning of the 20th-century, my paternal great-great-grandparents immigrated to the United States from Kyiv, Ukraine. Yiddish was their familial language – thus, when my father tells me about his “schlep” across town for work, he communicates his lengthy commute while also repeating language he learned from his grandparents. Yiddish often is referred to as a

“dead” language, yet I notice its ubiquity in my everyday conversations and pop culture: my

English professor extending an invitation to her home for a “nosh” to continue a class discussion, or as I watch the characters of the television show, “The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel,” exchange

Yiddish phrases in 1950s New York City. While Yiddish phrases are integrated into casual exchanges and Hollywood scripts, I now experience the language on a deeper, more academic and personal level. By tracing Yiddish’s development in America from the arrival of Eastern

European Jews in the late 1800s to its “heyday” in the 1920s and 1930s and decline after the

Holocaust, I honor my immigrant family’s voices and situate their narratives in a contemporary context.

My project examines the paradox of Yiddish: while it is no longer a primary means of communication for the descendants of Eastern European Jews, it remains central to Jewish

American identities. Jeffrey Shandler, an Assistant Professor of Jewish Studies at Rutgers

University, refers to contemporary Yiddish as a “postvernacular language:” its secondary, symbolic purposes are more important than its primary goal of communication (Shandler 2004:

19). I formed my research around this concept – how is Yiddish used today, if not for communication? Through the postvernacular lens, I attend to speakers’ identities, the distinction between Yiddish and Hebrew, and Yiddish’s association with social movements and politics. As Levy 3

I began my research on contemporary Yiddish, I realized I could not fully present the cultural heritage without investigating its “roots” in America. Thus, my research changed direction – rather than focusing solely on Yiddish today, I analyze how it has developed in America since the beginning of the 20th-century.

I discovered valuable scholarly works to shape my project. A foundational source for my research is Yiddish & English: The Story of Yiddish in America by Sol Steinmetz. Besides being a lexicographer and linguistics expert, Steinmetz was an ordained rabbi and authority on Yiddish

(“Sol Steinmetz, RIP.”). His book traces Yiddish’s development in 9th-century Europe to its present-day “survival” in the United States (Steinmetz 2001: 23). Yiddish & English provided me with a solid background on Yiddish history before exploring Netta Rose Avineri’s and Jeffrey

Shandler’s contemporary ethnographic studies. Avineri’s work had a domino effect on my research. Her dissertation, “Heritage Language Socialization Practices in Secular Yiddish

Educational Contexts: The Creation of a Metalinguistic Community,” led me to Jeffrey

Shandler’s work and various Yiddish online forums. Her dissertation analyzes contemporary secular engagement with the Yiddish language and culture in the United States.

A central tenant to Avineri’s research on contemporary secular Yiddish speakers is

“nostalgia socialization,” the appreciation of the past to understand one’s place in the present.

Although no longer the lingua franca of Eastern European Jews in America, Yiddish remains an essential aspect of contemporary Jewish American identity. Individuals remain attached to

Yiddish’s history and sentimentality and pursue the language and culture to strengthen their identities. Avineri cites Jeffrey Shandler’s work, Adventures in Yiddishland: Postvernacular

Language and Culture throughout her dissertation. Shandler outlines two critical elements of contemporary Yiddish: its “postvernacular” nature and “metalinguistic community.” Levy 4

The postvernacular mode relates to Yiddish as a metalinguistic community: a group that strongly connects to a language and its speakers but lacks familiarity with the language (Aveneri

2012: 2). Avineri and Shandler observe that individuals seek Yiddish to connect with its cultural elements rather than to communicate. Notably, Yiddish’s intersections with social movements, leftist politics, or the LGBTQ community are not “new” developments of the 21st-century.

Eastern European Jewish immigrants have historical, long-standing connections to these campaigns, beginning when they arrived in the United States at the turn of the 20th-century.

While these political and social connections are long-standing, Yiddish speakers’ motives and demographics have shifted and transformed throughout the years. By investigating Yiddish in the

20th-century and working to the present day, I can comprehend how Yiddish speakers respond, or remain neutral, to significant events in America, from the civil rights movement to Black

Lives Matter, the Jewish labor movement to leftist political candidates.

I develop these concepts through five separate but interdependent sections. My first section, “The Bond Between Yiddish and Politics,” charts the Jewish labor movement in New

York, from the beginning of the 20th-century to the 1950s. Yiddish played a crucial role in forming the unions, acting as a “glue” for disenfranchised laborers and providing them with an exclusive way to communicate. The unions were established on a socialist outlook – while Jews’ involvement in the labor movement dwindled alongside their rising economic statuses, socialist leanings remain present among Yiddishists. I relied on a combination of historical essays and recent news articles to recognize the consistencies between the 20th-century labor movement and contemporary Yiddish political leanings.

I first acquainted myself with the history of the labor movement through Will Herberg’s essay, “The Jewish Labor Movement in the United States,” which provides a detailed account of Levy 5

Jews’ efforts to unionize. Then, to grasp the contemporary political inclinations of Yiddish enthusiasts, I referred to recent news articles and Op-Eds on Yiddish websites such as The

Forward and In Geveb, in addition to stories by The Washington Post and CNN. My research and personal interviews reveal that Yiddish offers individuals a space to speak their political opinions freely and safely. At the same time, it appears as if Yiddish speakers can be exclusive, too. For example, Donald Trump’s attempts to use the language received criticism and anger from Yiddishist communities.

The long-standing association of Yiddish with politics confirms that the language operates in ways other than communication. I grasp the various ways speakers use Yiddish through conducting personal interviews and undertaking participant observation of recorded interviews available on the Yiddish Book Center’s (YBC) website. More than 1,000 interviews with Yiddishists are available to view on the website, spanning from 2011 to today. A

“Yiddishist” is someone who “looks to Yiddish culture as the source of a rich Jewish identity and proposes to salvage...its language, literature...and music (Svigals 1998: 44). The decade of content from the YBC enables me to grasp the Yiddishists’ attitudes and perspectives over time.

I divide the recorded interviews into two categories: the earlier videos, 2011-2014, and the more contemporary, 2015-2020.

The YBC videos led me to focus on Yiddish’s intersection with identity and faith through a social constructivist approach – how do individuals renovate and reconstruct Yiddish’s cultural symbols and activities over time? From 2011-2014, Yiddish – and Judaism – appear to become more critical to enthusiasts later in life. In contrast, 2015-2020 interviews showcase a new generation that feels as if Yiddish does not add to their religiosity but can express their faith in a unique way. The alterity of Yiddish distinguishes it from Hebrew, which I detail in Section II, Levy 6

“The Battle of Jewish Languages,” by investigating the history and current status of the two

Jewish languages.

Historically, Yiddish was employed by Eastern European Jews as an everyday spoken language, while Hebrew was the “holy tongue.” The Zionist movement’s beginnings (between the 1880s and 1939) brought the two languages into conflict. Hebrew was selected as the national Jewish language at the expense of Yiddish. My Yiddishist informants reflect on the two tongues and demonstrate mixed feelings about the advancement of Hebrew. However, there is a consensus that both languages are valuable – neither should be disparaged nor discarded. In addition to the diverging opinions of Hebrew versus Yiddish, I examine the gendered uses of languages, as Hebrew is masculinized and Yiddish is feminized.

The contrasting uses of Yiddish and Hebrew – the former as a preservation of a traditional way of life and the latter as a vehicle to explore the Jewish faith – begins to poke at why pursuing Yiddish culture and language is anthropological. Yiddish is not simply a language; as Joshua Friedman, a cultural anthropologist and Jewish studies scholar, explains, members of a linguistic community (Yiddishists) are not united by language practices but by language ideologies (Friedman 2009: 3). This claim connects with Avineri’s notion of metalinguistic community – the cultural aspects of an endangered language become more important than learning the language itself. Secular communities have chosen to focus on cultural competence rather than linguistic competence. While Yiddish was once used as a way for Eastern Europeans to communicate informally, it has shifted to function as a “language-as-symbol” – it is no longer about the Yiddish language but the language’s political, psychological, and social implications.

I explore Yiddish’s psychological and social implications in Sections III and IV, which center on the parallels between Yiddish speakers and oppressed or marginalized communities Levy 7 such as black Americans and LGBTQ individuals. Section III, “Yiddish and Race: Shifting

Identities,” offers a historical analysis of Jewish and black American relations in the last century.

I look at the similar “beginnings” of blacks and immigrant Jews (poor, uneducated, minorities) and also follow their diverging history due to the light skin of Eastern Europeans. Cheryl L.

Greenberg’s work, Troubling the Waters: Black-Jewish Relations in the American Century, is foundational for grasping the two populations’ tumultuous history. The 20th-century ebbed and flowed with partnership and animosity between blacks and Jews, and Yiddish was key for Jews to communicate and protect their racial positions, usually in solidarity with blacks. The 21st- century seems to offer hope and unification for the two minority groups, demonstrated through

Orthodox Jews’ participation in Black Lives Matter marches and adopting language into Yiddish to represent the movement correctly.

Yiddish speakers’ marginalization prompts them to connect with other marginalized communities and foster solidarity. I examine how Yiddish offers an opportunity for “outsiders” to express themselves in Section IV, “Yiddish As a Safe Space: Its Appeal to Marginalized

Identities.” Section IV chronicles Yiddish’s connection with queerness, Klezmer music, and non-

Jewish involvement with the language. I became aware of the concepts outlined in Section IV through my first semi-structured interview with a self-proclaimed “Yiddishist.” Interestingly, the majority of the “Yiddishists” I encounter online and speak with feel as if they are missing a piece of their Jewish identity and seek Yiddish to connect to their ancestors (“Why Yiddish” video).

My first informant, however, is unique – she is not Jewish. She reflected: “I’m a non-Jew. I’m not doing this [Yiddish research] to understand myself or my family. I’ve taken on this project to tell stories that need to be told, [these are] incredible people who are worthy of attention” Levy 8

(Anonymous Informant #1). She continued, joking: all of her Jewish friends tell her she is “more of a Jew” than them.

While a religious studies graduate student at UCLA, the informant began working at the university’s library, archiving boxes relating to Jewish history in the American West. One element prevented her from fully understanding what she was archiving: she could not read

Yiddish. The informant sought Yiddish to translate the “things no one has touched yet”

(Anonymous Informant #1). She endeavored to research California’s Jewish and Yiddish history.

In 2014, she joined UCLA’s Alan Leve Center for Jewish Studies’ “Mapping Jewish L.A.” project. The project is a collaborative digital document and preserves L.A.’s Jewish history

(Mapping Jewish L.A.). Mapping Jewish L.A. seeks to bridge the gap between “university specialists, students and citizen experts, and between generations” (Mapping Jewish L.A.). The informant explains that her professional goals mirror the project’s objectives: bringing the public and academia into dialogue. Informant #1 argues that academics need the public for resources otherwise inaccessible, such as memories and personal materials.

In addition to noting non-Jewish interest and explaining her efforts to appeal to the masses, my first informant directed my attention to how Yiddish, an often-overlooked language, attracts similarly oppressed populations, such as the LGBTQ community. The attraction between

Yiddish and queerness can be traced to the beginning of the 20th-century in Yiddish cinema and further develops through the significant participation of LGBTQ individuals in Klezmer music in the 1980s. The intersection of Yiddish and queerness remains prevalent today, just as Yiddish remains a desirable alternative for individuals seeking community, identity development, or artistic expression. As my first informant highlights, these individuals are not always Jews – Levy 9 while Yiddish offers marginalized individuals a safe space, it is impractical to assert that

Jewishness can be severed from Yiddish.

Yiddish speakers focus on their identities through Yiddish acts and stances. Notably, as my research reveals, these “acts and stances” are constantly changing. Investigating Yiddish through an anthropological lens leads me to realize that the language is much more than “Oy

Vey” – it is a cultural heritage, a means of identity formation, a fostering of social movements, a political stance, a contrast to the “holy tongue.” My research and fieldwork solidify Yiddish’s liveliness: it survives and persists with the times, available for Americans to grab and repurpose to fit their 21st-century concerns.

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I. The Bond Between Yiddish and Politics

Yiddish has a long-standing connection to leftist politics and ideologies. The political dimension of Yiddish manifests by tracing the immigration of Eastern European Jews and their involvement in the United States labor movement. The narrative begins when Eastern European

Jews arrived in America in 1870. These newcomers were drawn to jobs in the apparel industry, bringing with them garment skills from Europe; in just two decades, more than 90% of New

York’s garment industry was owned by German Jews (Sachar). However, working conditions for garment laborers were demanding; they faced long hours in extremely tight spaces and low pay.

The unfavorable working conditions laid the foundation for the Jewish trade union movement.

Furthermore, the “outsider status” of immigrant Jews in America shaped them to be “more receptive to radical ideas,” like unionization (Herberg 1952: 12).

Jewish intellectuals and radicals who arrived in America endeavored to organize the Jewish working class. The new arrivals realized that they needed Yiddish to reach a broad scope of

Jewish immigrants (Muraskin). Thus, the early labor movement leaders used Yiddish and religious imagery to inspire and connect with workers. For example, Abraham Cahan, a Jewish

American socialist, newspaper editor, novelist, and politician from Lithuania, translated The

Communist Manifesto into Yiddish to reach workers. Cahan later became a founder and editor of the Yiddish newspaper, The Forward (“Forvertz” in Yiddish).

Founded in 1897, The Forward became an influential source for American Jews and their political outlooks. The Forward “served up high doses of gossip, advice, sports and entertainment news” while also functioning as “a bulletin board for union meetings, strike news, calls for boycotts, and other calls to mobilize Jewish workers” (Katz 2018). This news source was inherently socialist, understanding leftist ideology as a unifying force to bring workers together. The Forward beckoned laborers to become “responsible trade unionists,” and incite a Levy 11 moral revolution (Herberg 1952: 14). The Forward fostered Yiddish speakers’ attraction to political activism.

Similarly, the Workmen’s Circle (now the Workers Circle) was established in 1900 to provide socialist aid to its members, Yiddish-speaking Jews. The organization’s founding tenets were to grant its members “mutual assistance” in times of “need and trouble,” to stimulate their education, and to promote the “organization of cooperative business enterprise” (Herberg 1952:

14-15). By 1918, the Workmen’s Circle had over 60,000 members and was “entirely socialist in character” (Herberg 1952: 26). Alongside its growing membership came divides between old and new philosophies. The older outlooks were resistant towards changing the mission of the

Workmen’s Circle. Simultaneously, the more contemporary approach desired the organization to widen its scope and incorporate educational and cultural programming for Yiddishists (Herberg

1952: 26). After eight years of debating, the Workmen reached an agreement: the proponents of the older outlook maintained leadership but adopted the newer philosophy’s platform focusing on education and culture.

The Forward and Workmen’s Circle joined forces in November 1909 to provide funding and support for the Uprising of the 20,000, the largest strike by female workers up to that date.

Clara Lemlich, an immigrant teenager, incited the strike through a speech in Yiddish addressed to a crowd of Jewish garment workers: “… I have no further patience for talk. I am one who feels and suffers from the things pictured. I move we go on strike” (Schofield 1984). Following this speech, fellow female Yiddish-speaking laborers joined together to lead a strike that lasted eleven weeks in New York’s shirtwaist industry (Michels). The women demanded shorter hours, better pay, and improved working conditions. They also protested against an “open union shop” model, which was the “common practice of locking the doors of the work floors from the outside Levy 12 as a security measure and as a way to control the workforce” (Michels). The young women asserted their voices and grievances but were pushed back by manufacturers, police, and the courts. Corruption and crookedness towards the strike persisted, as manufacturers hired thugs and prostitutes to abuse the strikers, and the police turned a blind eye.

The unforgiving clash between workers and manufacturers meant that most of the eleven- week strike was locked in a stalemate. However, the strike was finally called off on February 15,

1910, delivering the laborers with concrete gains, including “a fifty-two-hour week, at least four holidays with pay per year, no discrimination against union loyalists...negotiation of wages with employees” (Michels). As demonstrated through the young, brave women of the Uprising of the

20,000, the new generation of immigrants in the first decade of the 20th-century was “more radical, more modern, more involved in the progressive causes and movements” (Herberg

1952:15). Herberg claims this younger generation was more “culturally Yiddishist,” understanding the language as the preferred medium for communication but also as a way to promote group solidarity. The new generation of immigrants transformed the Jewish labor movement to be “Yiddishist in a very conscious way” (Herberg 1952: 16). The Jewish labor movement is malleable, changing with new generations of Yiddish speakers.

Until the 1950s, the Jewish labor movement grew to encapsulate a “thriving group of unions” in New York and used Yiddish as their primary means of communication (Herberg

1952: 53). The unions maintained a socialist outlook and were closely linked with the

Workmen’s Circle. In the 1950s, however, Yiddish as a primary tongue started to dwindle, along with Jewish unions (Herberg 1952: 54). Two aspects of the initial labor movement remain: The

Forward newspaper and the Workmen’s Circle. The consistency of these organizations Levy 13 exemplifies the inseparability between Jewish social and cultural institutions and the labor movement (Herberg 1952: 64).

The Forward, although entirely online now, remains a successful news source committed to reporting on “cultural, social and political issues inspires readers of all ages and animates conversation across generations and different segments of our community” (The Forward).

Similarly, the Workmen’s Circle persists today, continuing the tradition established in the early

20th-century combining social activism with Yiddish education and cultural programming. In

2019, the Circle celebrated its 120th anniversary and adapted its name to promote gender equality: “The Workers Circle” (Connelly 2019). While The Forward and Workers Circle persisted throughout the last century, other aspects that enabled the Jewish labor movement to grow – such as the widespread use of Yiddish and strong immigrant-based urban communities – lost their prevalence.

The role of Jews in the labor movement further dwindled alongside the post-World War

II economic boom. Jews began to climb into the middle class, and there was a decrease in antisemitism, especially in the higher education sector; as a result, Jews were being accepted as students and as faculty members at universities (Chadwick 2009: 17). By 1957, one-in-five

Jewish men were employed in professional occupations such as medicine and law, as opposed to one-in-ten non-Jewish white men (Chadwick 2009: 15). The trend of Jews climbing into higher socioeconomic statuses continued for the remainder of the 20th-century and into the present.

According to data released by the Pew Research Center in 2016, four in ten Jews (44%) live in households with incomes of at least $100,000 (Masci 2016). American Jews have made significant economic gains since their European ancestors’ arrival at the turn of the 19th-century.

With these gains come decreased participation and leadership in labor unions. Levy 14

Although Jews are no longer a dominant force in the American labor movement, their socialist and leftist leanings remain. A ubiquitous example of Jewish socialism in contemporary politics is demonstrated through Vermont senator and former presidential candidate Bernie

Sanders. Jewish and non-Jewish presses connect Sanders to the socialism of Yiddish laborers, as he was born and raised among working class Jews of Brooklyn at the end of the Great

Depression (Katz 2016). However, on the opposite side of the contemporary political spectrum is conservative Donald Trump, whose presidency received negative responses from Yiddishists and

Jews. Ben Lorber, a campus coordinator for Jewish Voice for Peace, a left-wing activist organization focusing on the Israeli–Palestinian conflict, reflected on Trump’s win in November

2016:

We see clouds of fascism disturbingly analogous to those of a century ago darkening our

own political landscape, driven by a toxic and too-familiar collusion of xenophobia and

scapegoating, authoritarianism and far-right nationalism, liberal capitulation and corporate

mega-profit (Lorber 2016).

Lorber feared for the state of America at the time of Trump’s election, musing that the country has made little progress in the last 100 years. Trump’s election made Lorber feel as if history was repeating itself – how much has America progressed?

As Lorber emphasizes, there are clear continuities between the struggles of disenfranchised Jews in the 20th-century and the onset of prejudice and racism spurred by

Trump’s election. In both cases, oppression and inequality seem inescapable, and Yiddish provides a space for community and support. For the 20th-century Yiddishists, the support came Levy 15 in the form of unions, reading The Forward, or gathering through the Workers Circle. Now,

Yiddishists enjoy expressing political opinions through Yiddish, employing “juicy expletives to describe Trump” (Raphael 2017). Yiddish enthusiasts get creative with the language, transforming “Donald Trump” into “Donald Trumbenik” – “trumbenik” meaning “blowhard, a braggart, a blower of his own horn” (Raphael 2017). Yiddish enables contemporary speakers to feel comfortable voicing their opinions that may be unfavorable.

Yiddish offers a space to speak freely and safely; however, it appears as if Yiddishists can be restrictive to some speakers, too. For example, Donald Trump’s attempts to use the language have not been well-received by the New York City Yiddish community. During the

2016 presidential campaign, Trump employed a “vulgar Yiddish term” at Democratic candidate

Hillary Clinton at a rally in Grand Rapids, Michigan. He used Yiddish when speaking of

Clinton’s 2008 loss to Barack Obama: “She was favored to win, and she got schlonged. She lost.” (Lee 2015). The word “schlong” is derived from the German word “schlange” and means snake or serpent; in Yiddish, however, “schlong” is widely interpreted as slang for penis (Lee

2015).

Trump’s (mis)use of “schlong” was met with ridicule and condemnation at the Yiddish

New York (YNY) festival, an event aimed at promoting Yiddish music, language, film, and dance. One event organizer commented on Trump’s Yiddish: “[schlong is] a vulgarism that’s never used in public by people who are Jewish and speak the language. It’s a disgusting move on his part” (Lee 2015). Trump’s Yiddish offended New York Jews and Yiddishists. In this instance, the Yiddish community looks different; rather than presenting themselves as open- minded individuals, Yiddishists seem transformed by their political rage, harshly judging Trump and his misuse of the language. A YNY attendee and Yiddish professor responded to Trump’s Levy 16 quote, “So often Yiddish is the butt of jokes or silly words...I have little patience for that anymore” (Lee 2015). Trump opened up space for Yiddishists to voice pent-up anger towards the informal employment of Yiddish words by mainstream Americans. Similarly, other attendees stated that they “hope to bring greater awareness to the rich traditions attached to the language”

(Lee 2015). Trump’s misuse of Yiddish in a political context was just a cherry on top for

American Jews who disapprove of his leadership, as a linguist at the festival explains:

“Everything he says is disgusting and he intends it to be disgusting” (Lee 2015). Some

Yiddishists dislike everything Trump says, and their anger increases when he speaks in their language.

Just as Trump started his presidential campaign with inappropriate Yiddish use, he concluded his presidential term with the language, as well. On January 3, 2021, The Washington

Post reported that Trump referred to himself as a “schmuck” (“a foolish or reprehensible person”) for endorsing Georgia Governor Brian Kemp, a Republican who did not support

Trump’s claims of voter fraud (Grisar 2021). While Trump in 2016 used “schlong,” he shifted to

“schmuck” in 2021 – it seems as if he is attracted to the language’s “basest vocabulary” (Grisar

2021). The Forward reflects on Trump’s “full-circle” use of Yiddish, both at the beginning and end of his presidency:

He hasn’t matured much beyond that kid on the playground who, learning a classmate is

from another country, exclusively asks him how to say the words for genitals in another

language. Yiddish, like English, has no shortage of those, but it’s doubtful Trump took the

time with them or, let’s be honest, is even aware that schmuck or schlong refer to the male

anatomy at all (Grisar 2021). Levy 17

The main critique by Yiddishists of Trump’s use of “schlong” and “shmuck” is its misrepresentation of the language. Yiddish is not just funny words or crude expressions – it is a culture, a fully operating tongue. To combat the stereotype of Yiddish as “just a bunch of curses,” Rukhl Schaechter, the editor of the Yiddish section of The Forward, began a “Yiddish

Word of the Day” series at the beginning of the COVID-19 pandemic (Rukhl Schaechter). The videos showcase Yiddish proverbs, greetings, ways to express anger. Besides offering a diverse vocabulary for speakers to express themselves, Yiddish is also more than a language, as demonstrated through its role in shaping Jews’ political identities since the early 20th-century.

The diverse motivations and attitudes of Yiddishists begin to illuminate when investigating the political dimension of Yiddish. These perspectives are further revealed through observing the expansive selection of recorded interviews on the Yiddish Book Center’s website.

The website has recorded more than 1,000 interviews from 2011 to today; since these videos span the last decade, I can trace clear continuities and shifts among the attitudes and perspectives of the Yiddishist interviewees over time. I have separated the videos into two categories: the earlier videos, 2011-2014, and the more contemporary, 2015-2020. When considering the earlier set of videos, there are key themes that link the interviewees: they are older (middle-aged to elderly), became involved in Yiddish in adulthood, and muse on the future of Yiddish.

One of the first published interviews is with Jacob Schlitt, who recounts his role as an organizer in the 1963 March on Washington, illustrating the Jews who assisted black Americans in the civil rights movement (Schlitt 2011). Schlitt is around 80 years old and directs the conversation towards the past, exploring his prior intersecting experiences of social activism,

Judaism, and Yiddish. The YBC’s interview with Penina Glazer shares similarities with Schlitt’s interview; Glazer is within the same age group as Schlitt and spends the interview reflecting on Levy 18 her past, sharing how Yiddish enabled her to communicate with her grandmother through letters

(Glazer 2011). Both Glazer and Schlitt exemplify nostalgia socialization – through Yiddish, these two can appreciate their past and better understand their place in the present (Avineri 2012:

2).

While not every interview from the early set features an elderly Yiddishist, almost every interview does mention the value of adulthood or maturity within the context of Judaism. For example, one interviewee reflects that she did not appreciate “the richness of Yiddish culture” nearly as much in childhood as she does now, as a middle-aged woman (Schumacher 2011).

Another participant echoes these sentiments, regretting his early Jewish experiences: “As I matured, and as I began to take Jewish studies very seriously, academically, I became resentful of my early Jewish education” (Orenstein 2012). Yiddish – and Judaism – appear to become more critical to these enthusiasts later in life, when they seek a more profound cultural connection or realize issues with their faith in youth.

My observations of adult involvement with Yiddish echoes the trend of older individuals seeking spirituality and religion to cope with stressful life circumstances, promote meaning- making, and gain social support (Faigin 2010: 167). Yiddish similarly offers its speakers an outlet, a sense of self, a community. Dana Szeflan-Bell, a holocaust survivor, reflects on the respite Yiddish provides her in adulthood: “Jews have lived through so much pain…[we] have to have a sense of humor, laugh...Yiddish keeps us together” (Szeflan-Bell 2013). For Szeflan-Bell,

Yiddish connects her with other Holocaust survivors and also a new generation of Yiddish learners. It is harder to feel alone when among Yiddish speakers. In addition, for adults like

Orenstein who now question their early Jewish education and roots, Yiddish “is a vehicle [to] open the door for who they are and where they come from” (Gonshor 2013). Yiddish functions Levy 19 and appeals to its speakers as an alternate mode of Judaism and community. In the first range of interviews, the conversation focuses on an older population involved with Yiddish due to family members who spoke the language, to gain a new understanding of their Judaism, or connect with individuals with shared experiences.

This older generation featured in the first three years of YBC interviews also muses on the future of Yiddish. Their view of what the future holds is vague but optimistic. For example, one interviewee believes: “this culture belongs to them [the future generation], they have a right to take it, to explore it, to create something of their own in it” (Cooper 2011). Yiddish seems pliable, capable of being made into something new with a new set of speakers. The interviewee continues, asserting that it is new generations’ “right and responsibility” to “take [Yiddish] on”

(Cooper 2011). Yiddish changing as it is “taken on” by different speakers relates to the theory that “language is an aspect of our self-ascription” (Dow 1991: 204). As the “self” develops, so does the language.

Other interviewees also refer to the evolving nature of Yiddish. A linguistics professor at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, Mark Louden, poses the question: “Is it a revival? Well kind of...Is it a new chapter? More like that” (Louden 2013). With a new chapter comes new characters, new plots, new motives. Yiddish as an ever-changing language relates to its lack of

“home-base.” One interviewee explains: “Yiddishland is a virtual world, here for a week, there for a week, and somewhere else for a week” (Dawid 2012). The Yiddish world, sometimes referred to as “Yiddishland,” is not a particular territory or neighborhood but refers to “a small transnational Yiddish subculture” (Friedman 2015: 13). There is no designated Yiddish space but instead institutionally mediated or self-consciously produced spaces. Institutional spaces include university classrooms, non-profit cultural institutions (like the Yiddish Book Center), immersive Levy 20 language programs, cultural festivals; self-consciously produced spaces include online and print media, blogs, Facebook pages (Friedman 2015: 13). The boundlessness of Yiddish facilitates its survival: it can be reshaped and reapplied to new settings and situations.

The reshaping of Yiddish becomes apparent in YBC interviews in 2013. While these videos are still in the “older” category, more contemporary social movements and notions begin to seep through. Two years before the legalization of same-sex marriage, the 2013 YBC videos start to look at Yiddish through the perspective of queer studies. David Shneer, professor of

History and Jewish Studies at the University of Colorado, Boulder, reflects on the attraction of queer individuals to Yiddish: “The attraction has something to do with marginalized, linguistic assimilation, some attraction from marginal groups” (Shneer 2013). Interestingly, Shneer notes, marginalized people are drawn to Yiddish due to its marginalized history. In 2014, another video discussed the involvement of queers in Yiddish through an interview with Lorin Sklamberg, a founding member of the Klezmatics, an award-winning Klezmer band. Sklamberg shares his experience as a queer Jew, including joining a gay and lesbian synagogue in Los Angeles. This synagogue was where his career began, as he met other musicians interested in performing

“political folk” (Sklamberg 2014). In 2013 and 2014, the YBC interviews begin to change content and interviewee demographics; like Yiddish, the videos shift with time.

The more contemporary set of interviews (2015-2020) interact with younger generations and focus less on the past. These youth associate Yiddish with identity and expression; for example, a student of the YBC’s Steiner Summer Yiddish Program considers “language and identity as a whole...people as a language, a place, a culture,” concluding that “language is so important, it’s how you think, makes you who you are” (Fichman 2015). According to this student, Alana Fichman, Yiddish is not something of the past but crucial to one’s current Levy 21 identity. Some interviewees develop Fichman’s thoughts concerning Judaism, arguing Yiddish does not add to religiosity but is an option for those seeking an alternative religious identity. For example, Markovna Shepherd, a Yiddish performer, composer, and choir leader, states:

“[Yiddish] is a place of finding your roots but not being part of mainstream Jewish community”

(Shepherd 2017). Similarly, Jonathan (Itsik) Sunshine, head of the greater Washington, D.C.

Yiddish club, found Yiddish as a “way to be a Jew without being a religious person” (2018).

These more recent interviews highlight the persistence of, and desire for, Yiddish, alongside a growing disenchantment with mainstream Judaism.

The attraction of secular Jews to Yiddish is ironic, as the largest Yiddish-speaking communities are Orthodox Jews. Yiddish “is synonymous” with Orthodox Judaism – it is spoken almost exclusively in Hasidic communities which adhere closely to Orthodox practices (Basu

2014). Thus, these young, religiously disenfranchised students are breaking the mold of Yiddish, again reshaping it to fit their modern desires. Yiddish now appears “cool,” even “hipster” – it is an homage to the past, yet also resonates with the present. Clearly, secular Jews and Hasidic

Jews diverge in their understandings of contemporary Yiddish’s status. For secular Jews, Yiddish is bountiful, an exciting alternative space to access Eastern European Jewish culture and history

(Lerman 2010). In contrast, Hasidic Jews have a much more dismal outlook on Yiddish’s current status. A Hasidic Rabbi in Brooklyn laments:

The secular [Yiddish] community is dead, dead, dead. There’s no Yiddish press, no Yiddish

theater. Dead, dead, dead. There were hundreds of Sholem Aleichem schools, Peretz

schools. Where are they? How many Yiddish books are being published? The secular Levy 22

people dominated everything and now they’ve lost. Hasidim are pushing everyone to be

more religious, more Jewish (Basu 2014).

When looking at the entire Yiddish-speaking world, Hasidic and secular Jews diverge in their understanding of contemporary Yiddish.

Hasidic Jews use Yiddish as their primary form of communication; in contrast, secular

Jews seek Yiddish for its cultural offerings. The privileging of Yiddish’s secondary, symbolic purposes by secular Jews shapes contemporary Yiddish to operate as a “postvernacular” phenomenon (Shandler 2008: 22). Yiddish decreases as a vernacular but increases in its other forms of engagement. Many feel “a profound, genuine attachment to Yiddish” while not “really” knowing the language; furthermore, they do not see their lack of fluency as interfering with their devotion (Shandler 2008: 4). The YBC interviews are essential to understanding postvernacular

Yiddish, as the videos navigate the desires and motivations of those who choose to pursue it. The interviewees exemplify Hebert Gans’ theory of ethnic options, the notion that descendants of immigrants have “some choice” in the ethnicity with which they identify (Shandler 2008: 123).

As Yiddish functions as a postvernacular, its speakers can decide the extent they wish to use the language: as a form of communication, as art, as a way to build community.

The shift from Yiddish as a vernacular to a postvernacular language reflects the adaptability of cultural practices and institutions. Joanne Nagel, a political and cultural sociologist, examines the ways groups reconstruct historical culture. She argues that cultural reconstruction is an ongoing group task “in which new and renovated cultural symbols, activities, and materials are continually being added to and removed from existing cultural Levy 23 repertoire” (Nagel 1994: 163). Through this perspective of cultural reconstruction, Yiddish is renovated and reshaped to fit the needs of a new group.

Yiddish has become something “significantly different from what it once was” because its speakers, as demonstrated through its intersection with politics or the YBC videos, utilize it not just for communication but for community, expression, or religiosity. With its vast applications, Yiddish is more than simply a way to communicate, shaping it to differ from other

Jewish languages, such as Hebrew.

II. The Battle of Jewish Languages

Yiddish and Hebrew – two Jewish languages – have parallel and often conflicting histories. Yiddish arose in the 9th and 10th-centuries among Jews settling in the Rhineland and present-day Germany. These Eastern European Jews employed Yiddish as their everyday spoken language, refraining from using the “holy tongue,” Hebrew, in common speech (Shurpin).

Hebrew remained a sacred tongue while Yiddish was spoken and promoted the formation of

Jewish national identity (Shapir 2011: 151). Despite diverging from their original purposes, both

Yiddish and Hebrew are understood as Jewish national languages.

Yiddish and Hebrew’s concurrence is a form of diglossia, which occurs when one community uses two languages. Diglossic languages may take the form of a standard speech and its vernacular, a written language and a spoken language, or two languages in their written functions (Fernandez 1993: xix). It seems as if Yiddish and Hebrew extend to each of these diglossic categories (writing, speech, and vernacular), as Chayim Nachman Bialik, a pioneer of modern Hebrew poetry, states: “These two languages are a match made in heaven that cannot be separated. The two breathed together, lived together, one alongside the other, the two were Levy 24 nourished from a single source” (Shapira 2011: 77). Bialik presents the two languages as codependent partners – they cannot be separated. They thrive on each other.

Not everyone sees Yiddish and Hebrew as equal partners like Bialik – the two languages came into conflict alongside the Zionist movement’s beginnings between the 1880s and 1939.

Notably, “Zionism,” the campaign to form a Jewish homeland in Israel, stems from the Hebrew term “Zion,” which refers to Jerusalem (History.com 2017). Yiddish and Hebrew offered two different conceptions for the Jewish future. Zionists and Haredi (Orthodox Jews) envisioned

Hebrew as the national language, condemning Yiddish as a bastard language of “mixed and dubious parentage” (Gitelman 2017: 420). Divorce loomed over the prior peaceful marriage between Yiddish and Hebrew. Modern Hebrew was employed to “dispel the image of the

Yiddish-speaking diaspora Jew” and transform the diaspora into “Hebrews” (Mitchell 1998:

192). In contrast to the Zionist vision of Hebrew as Israel’s national language, other movements, such as the Jewish socialist labor Bund, hoped Jewish communities would maintain their national distinctiveness by upholding their mother tongue, Yiddish (Shapira 2011: 85). Hebrew, however, rose – and Yiddish fell.

A few of my Yiddishist informants spoke about the rise of Hebrew at the cost of Yiddish due to the Zionist movement. Lorin Sklamberg, lead singer of the Klezmer band The Klezmatics, shared that it is “sad that in Israel they decided they had to be so didactic about Hebrew as the main language” – it ultimately “eradicat[ed] the other languages people spoke” (Lorin

Sklamberg). He continued to explain that Israel’s preference towards Hebrew “made it difficult for people to continue speaking Yiddish.” As an artist, however, Sklamberg finds value in performing both in Hebrew and Yiddish. He explains that singing Hebrew “has a certain preciousness...a sweet aspect to it that you won’t find in the Yiddish equivalent” (Lorin Levy 25

Sklamberg). Rokhl Kafrissen, a journalist and playwright, also recognizes the equal importance of Yiddish and Hebrew; she states that while “Yiddish is not the answer for all American Jews,” it can help increase their Jewish language literacy (Rokhl Kafrissen).

Kafrissen echoed Bialik’s conceptualization of the two languages as intertwined. She claims that “If you learn Yiddish, you have to learn Jewishness, [such as] Hebrew and Aramaic words, [or] references to morning prayers...You cannot separate these things out” (Rokhl

Kafrissen). Yiddish, clearly, cannot be erased or pushed aside; it is woven into the Jewish faith, including the language of the Torah (Hebrew). Kafrissen and Bialik see the Zionist attempts to separate the two languages as futile. To further combat the decision to privilege Hebrew as the

“holy tongue,” Kafrissen associates her knowledge of Yiddish with a deeper understanding of

Judaism. She recounts: “When I’m with American Jews who spend more time [than me] in synagogues, I find I know much more, [with a] richer vocabulary because of Yiddish... I’m not bragging, [but] studying Yiddish has taught me a lot about traditional Judaism and the Talmudic

[Jewish-text] centered way of life” (Rokhl Kafrissen). Hebrew and Yiddish are both beneficial for Jewish Americans.

Jane Eisner was the editor-in-chief of the Jewish daily The Forward for over a decade.

Although The Forward was founded in 1897, during the explosion of Yiddish media and journalism, Eisner appears hesitant to embrace Yiddish rather than Hebrew. She emphasizes that

Yiddish was not the only language spoken by Jewish communities. There was also Ladino

(Judeo-Spanish) and Arabic – if the Zionist movement selected Yiddish as the national language, it would be “leaving out the other Jews who came from African and Middle Eastern countries”

(Eisner). As Yiddish was particular to Eastern European Jews, Hebrew was a “unifying force” that could reach a broader scope of Jews. Levy 26

Although Eisner is a proponent of Hebrew as the national Jewish language, she still attends to issues that have unfolded alongside the privileging of Hebrew. Eisner refers to the history of Hebraizing diasporic last names in Israel; the Zionist founders were “avid Hebraizers,” assimilating Middle Eastern and North African immigrants in Israel in the 1950s and 1960s

(Zeveloff 2015). For example, David Ben-Gurion, the founder and first Prime Minister of Israel, led the cause by changing his name from David Gruen; similarly, Golda Meir, the fourth Prime

Minister of Israel, was once Golda Meyerson. Ben-Gurion was a “zealous evangelizer” for the practice of assimilating diasporic last names into Hebrew; he even instituted diplomats and military personnel to take on new names (Zeveloff 2015). While the custom of changing names is rare today, a small portion (about 15%) of British and American immigrants who move to

Israel continue the tradition when they arrive at the airport named for the founder of the convention, Ben-Gurion.

In addition to deciding which language should be the “national” tongue for Jews, there is a deep gendered conflict between the “mother tongue” (Yiddish) and “father tongue” (Hebrew).

Naomi Seidman investigates the gendered implications of Hebrew and Yiddish in her work, A

Marriage Made in Heaven: The Sexual Politics of Hebrew and Yiddish. She argues that the

Hebrew revival affected Yiddish-speaking women because it commonly “saw its task as the suppression of the Yiddish language, with its feminine associations” (2007: 109-110). The gendered divisions of Yiddish and Hebrew are most apparent in Hasidic Jewish communities; in

America, the largest Hasidic communities are in New York and New Jersey (Freeman and

Posner). Within these communities, males study “loshn-koydesh (holy language) sacred texts and discuss them in Yiddish” while women “shield Torah-studying men and boys from the polluting effects of Gentile society and its linguistic medium, English” (Fader 2007: 3). The Levy 27 expectations that men handle sacred texts in Hebrew while women focus on protecting the men from English arose after the Holocaust, when New York Hasidim focused on strengthening educational programming for future generations.

Following the Holocaust, the Brooklyn Hasidic community established schools for boys, instructing them on loshn-koydesh and Yiddish, but did not build similar Hasidic schools for girls. Instead, daughters were sent to Hebrew Day schools, learning English and Hebrew (Fader

2007: 4). In the 1970s, however, rabbis realized the Hebrew Day schools were causing the young girls to lose Yiddish knowledge and expose them to more “modern” ideas. As a result, Hasidic schools were built for girls. In the morning, the girls learned in Yiddish; in the afternoon, classes focused on English. This model of bilingual Yiddish/English schooling continues today (Fader

2007: 4). Women read along in Hebrew prayer books but do not have access to formal training to understand what they read.

While Hebrew was a source of pride and masculinity for men, Yiddish did not function as a unifying or strengthening source for women. Yiddish and femininity almost always appeared as inferior to Hebrew and masculinity (Fader 2007: 9). In her article, “Redeeming Sacred Sparks:

Syncretism and Gendered Language Shift among Hasidic Jews in New York,” Fader outlines

Jewish authors who have explicitly linked Yiddish with women and reserved Hebrew for men.

For example, Shmuel Charney published an essay in 1912, “Yiddish Literature and the Female

Reader,” investigating how Yiddish writers and their literature appear feminine. Charney’s essay traces the “distinctively feminine Jewish spirituality” that flourishes alongside the masculine world of Talmudic study (The YIVO Encyclopedia of Jews in Eastern Europe).

Charney focuses on the Tsene-rene, the “women’s Bible,” a Yiddish adaptation of Jewish biblical books common in traditional Jewish homes in Eastern Europe. The Tsene-rene, like Levy 28

Yiddish, is associated with the feminine, domestic sphere. The Yiddish book enabled those who had not mastered the Hebrew language – women – to expand their spiritual world (The YIVO

Encyclopedia of Jews in Eastern Europe). Similarly, tkhines, or Yiddish prayers recited by women, offer women a special relationship with God and frame “women’s domestic lives and roles as sacred” (Jewish Virtual Library). Although the biblical realm of Hebrew excludes women, Yiddish offers them a way to explore their spirituality.

The often-conflicting pairings of men and women, Yiddish and Hebrew, the Jewish diaspora and the Zionist movement, join every summer in Israel through the Naomi Prawer

Kadar International Yiddish Summer Program at Tel Aviv University. The program is the largest

Yiddish summer program, attracting a mix of international and Israeli participants (Cammy

2017). For four weeks, students participate in workshops on Yiddish songs and theater repertoire, practice Yiddish, attend events such as evening performances of Yiddish music in a local theater or club, and complete walking tours of Yiddish Tel Aviv. Justin Cammy, Associate Professor of

Jewish Studies at Smith College and faculty member of the Naomi Prawer program, argues that

Israel should be “a leading destination for students interested in Yiddish studies, its postwar journeys, and its contemporary vernacular expression” (2017). He praises Israel for its numerous

Yiddish Centers, professional Yiddish theater, collection of Yiddish books at the Israel National

Library in Jerusalem, and a significant Yiddish-speaking population. While many have viewed

Yiddish as discordant with Hebrew and Israel, Cammy and the Naomi Prawer program return to

Bialik’s original conception of the two languages as coexistent and forever linked.

Israel as an influential place for Yiddish vernacularity manifests in pop culture in the television show Shtisel. The Israeli television show revolves around a Haredi family living in an ultra-Orthodox Jewish neighborhood in Jerusalem, resulting in “a highbrow soap opera” with Levy 29 comedic interludes (Armstrong 2019). It features a combination of Hebrew and Yiddish; in the family’s home, the mother and brother speak to one another in Yiddish, while the younger characters speak primarily in Hebrew. However, the Haredi (Orthodox) Hebrew even includes

Yiddish expressions (Beinart 2019). Again, Hebrew is inseparable from Yiddish and vice-versa.

Shtisel provides audiences with instances of the two languages interacting in an entertaining and informative manner.

The overlaps between Yiddish and Hebrew have often been conflicting and divisive.

Now, however, the two languages almost coexist, occupying distinct purposes for Jews. Yiddish and Hebrew arose from similar circumstances yet diverged in reputation and application. A similar contingent relationship manifests between Eastern European Jews and blacks in America.

III. Yiddish and Race: Shifting Identities

More than two million Jews immigrated to the United States from Eastern Europe after

1880 (Greenberg 2010: 27). Since most of these Jewish immigrants were poor and lacked education, many scholars and historians understand their experiences in conjunction with the experiences of black Americans. However, unlike black Americans, Jewish immigrants developed two conflicting dimensions: their whiteness facilitated an easier transition into

American society, yet their Jewish practices led them to remain outsiders. Yiddish speakers navigated their dual existence as a white minority through the Yiddish press and literature. As

Yiddish was incomprehensible to a non-Jewish audience, it offered Jews a safe space to express their thoughts and emotions regarding race relations and social conflicts.

While Eastern European Jews felt pulled in two directions as a religious minority and a white majority, "their commitment to a white identity grew over time" (Greenberg 2010: 28). Levy 30

Jews embraced their light-skinned privilege, remaining on the "safe side" of the racial divide in

America. The black and Jewish experience in America is not a simple comparison; on the contrary, "black-Jewish relations remain a chaos of contradictory perspectives" in which individual personalities, political dynamics, and population shifts foster various interactions and understandings (Greenberg 2010: 8). The relationship between American Jews and blacks is constantly in flux, changing throughout history.

Eastern European Jews who arrived in America in the 19th-century were able to rise in their social and professional worlds more quickly than black Americans due to their whiteness.

While Greenberg asserts Jews were informed by their whiteness "more than they recognize," she also acknowledges scholars who argue that "Jews have never been seen...as fully white" (2010:

6). No matter the view one holds (Jews as white or as not white), black Americans directed racial resentment towards Jews, understanding them as "stand-ins" for whiteness. American Jews' unstable notion of whiteness led them to be more sensitive towards other minorities; they were less resistant to having black neighbors and clients than other working-class whites.

Many Jews worked in black neighborhoods as landlords and shopkeepers (Greenberg 2010: 6).

The presence of Jews in black communities led to further resentment from blacks. As antisemitism towards Jewish workers rose, so did Jews' disappointment that their black neighbors were not treating them sympathetically (Greenberg 2010: 47). The feelings between blacks and Jews were interdependent; when one exhibited antisemitism, the other crafted a racist mark. When one expressed solidarity, the other demonstrated support. It became a slippery, contingent relationship.

In the 1940s, the beginning of World War II and the rise of Nazism impacted the political relationship between blacks and Jews. According to Greenberg, "an emerging sense of common Levy 31 cause, tempered by continued economic tensions and political hesitations" defined this period

(2010: 74). A reciprocal relationship began to form: to win black support for Jewish issues, Jews began to "participate directly in black civil rights struggles," and African Americans joined in rallies against rising fascism led by Jewish organizations (Greenberg 2010: 91). However, in the

1960s, Jews' white privilege again complicated their political alliance with black Americans.

Jews' white skin facilitated their professional and social rise, yet they believed they were rising on their own merits. As a result, Jews "felt confident black people were capable" of similarly climbing the social ladder. Black Americans saw this expectation as condescending and as a betrayal (Greenberg 2010: 206).

The challenges and tensions between Jews and blacks can be examined closely in New

York City's Crown Heights neighborhood. The neighborhood is "one of the few truly integrated sections of New York City, where black and Jewish homeowners co-exist as next-door neighbors" (Shapiro 2002: 99). However, it was not always a simple coexistence; what one group gained in Crown Heights, the other lost. For example, in the 1970s, a service road in the neighborhood would close on the Sabbath and Jewish holidays – but this hurt the black doctors along that road who had patients needing weekend appointments (Eisner 2011). These imbalances and growing bitterness culminated in the 1991 Crown Heights race riots.

The riots were incited by a car accident in which an Orthodox Jewish driver swerved and hit two black cousins playing in the street. One of the cousins was severely injured, and the other was killed by the car. Later that day, a group of black youths responded to the crash by stabbing another Orthodox Jew, who "had nothing to do" with the death and injury of their friends

(Greenlaw 2017). The stabbing killed the Orthodox man, and violence persisted for the next three days: "Groups of rioters destroyed numerous homes, businesses, and vehicles throughout Levy 32 the neighborhood" (Katz 2011: 2). There were polarizing responses to the riots. On the one hand,

Jewish families in Crown Heights referred to the riots as a "pogrom," violence aimed at an ethnic or religious group, typically Jews. These Jewish families were struck by parallels between the

Holocaust and the black rioters in the streets chanting "Heil Hitler" (Shapiro 2002: 101). On the other hand, liberal Jews "who were emotionally committed to a black-Jewish political entente" were against the use of "pogrom" to describe the riots. Instead, the defenders of this perspective urged the public, and fellow Jews, to consider the riots within a broader historical context – it is not a black-Jewish problem, but a black-white problem (Shapiro 2002: 107).

The dual perspectives of the Crown Heights riots, one presenting blacks as antisemitic, the other situating the conflict in a more extensive history of race relations, connects to a history of contrasting journalism and media representations of blacks and Jews. During the 1920s and

1930s, there was an internal and one-sided communication among the Jewish people taking shape through the Yiddish press and literature. Eric Goldstein, professor of Jewish studies at

Emory University and author of The Price of Whiteness, muses that the writers of the Yiddish press were "cognizant of the social issues of the 'outside' world," but simultaneously "were sheltered from significant pressure to conform to prevailing American attitudes" (2006: 153).

Like American Jews' dual existence as a religious minority and identifying with mainstream whiteness, writers for the Yiddish press expressed minority opinions but had backgrounds of secular, established educations, ultimately existing in a middle-ground.

The Yiddish press was not the only news source American Jews read; they also relied on

English-language media, further highlighting the spectrum of options to construct their identities, from the marginalized Yiddish press to more mainstream, mass-produced sources. The Yiddish press embraced its marginalization, producing narratives that opposed mainstream sentiments of Levy 33 the early 20th-century: "Yiddish sources often expressed an uncharacteristic empathy for African

Americans...to mitigate what was perceived as the cultural loss associated with Jews' identification with the white mainstream" (Goldstein 2006: 154). Social pressures and norms do not inhibit Yiddish speakers – on the contrary, Yiddish promotes authenticity and a commitment to one's beliefs. For example, the Yiddish press advocated for black rights during a highly racialized era, claiming a "spiritual kinship between blacks and Jews" (Goldstein 2006: 153). The support for African Americans demonstrated through the Yiddish press was not always straightforward or without complications; today, historians and Yiddishists realize problematic portrayals of blackness during the 20th-century from Yiddish authors and figures.

The problematic intersection of the Yiddish language and blackness unfolds through

Shmuel Charney, the Yiddish author and academic who examined the gendered implications of

the word translates to "Niger," but ;ניגער Yiddish and Hebrew. Charney went by the pseudonym also has historically functioned as the American Yiddish transliteration of the n-word (Bromberg

2019). There are two contemporary interpretations of Charney's pseudonym. On the one hand, historians argue the name is neutral, meaning "black." This response is unsettling,

"whitewashing" the prior Yiddish use of the word as a racial slur and its tense history. On the other hand, people see Charney's pseudonym as an anti-racist statement, a projection of solidarity with black people (Bromberg 2019). Eli Bromberg, whose research focuses on Jewish American popular culture, argues that both interpretations facilitate "exceptionalist, ahistorical thinking by scholars of Yiddish Studies that exempts white Jews from historic culpability in American anti- black racism" (2019). By restraining from calling Charney's pseudonym "racist" or a type of slur, scholars overlook the complicated history between American Jews and blacks. Levy 34

The justification of Charney's name by Yiddish scholars and speakers raises critical questions about intent and meaning. For example, the Yiddishists who argue that Charney's

Niger), is neutral when employed by Yiddish speakers (but racist when) ניגער ,pseudonym spoken by non-Yiddish speakers), "carries some risk" – it values a writer or speaker's intent over a word's impact (Bromberg 2019). Yiddish is comprised of repetitive words dependent on context; thus, its words hold even more weight and impact (Bromberg 2019). It is essential to consider a speaker’s context and intent (Holt 2018: 423). Another example of context versus intent is demonstrated through the Yiddish slang term "shvartzer," an "often derisive" name for a black person (Katz 1989). Just as Yiddish speakers argue Charney's pseudonym is neutral,

"shvartzer" is understood to varying degrees by Yiddish speakers.

"Shvarzter" has been used in "the respectable discussion of Black people," but also has a

"parallel history of pejorative use as a racial slur in American Yiddish" (Boyarin et al. 2020).

There can be "two sides" to a word – the respectable and the offensive. Dovid Katz, however, argues that there is no "neutral side" of words; languages are complex communication systems

"in which psychological and sociological loadedness makes words mean what they mean, not what a dictionary says" (1989). We cannot overlook a word's context and history and rely on its uncomplicated "dictionary definition." Thus, there is nothing neutral or harmless about Charney's pseudonym – it incites us to interrogate the relationship between Yiddish and blackness, language and race. It is dangerous to merely assume Charney's name choice was neutral or an act

"ניגער" of solidarity with black Americans. Instead, it is crucial to consider the messier side of

(Niger) and how it has historically functioned as a slur for Yiddish speakers. To inspire further

Niger), Bromberg suggests Yiddish scholars and) " ניגער" dialogue regarding Charney's use of academics refer to Charney not as Shmuel Niger, but as his given name, Shmuel Charney. Levy 35

Similar to Bromberg's decision to redress Shmuel Charney, Jonah S. Boyarin, a writer, anti-racist educator, and Yiddish translator, is adopting the vocabulary of the Black Lives Matter movement to Yiddish. Boyarin's project began after the police's murder of George Floyd in May

2020. Boyarin shared the project with Yiddishist friends in an email titled, "#BLM oyf Yiddish.”

The email contained a link to a Google Doc with new Yiddish terms relating to the movement, such as "the name of the movement itself; the systemic forces and practices it opposes (white supremacy, prejudicial treatment, racial profiling); and its aims (racial and economic justice, intersectional movement building)" (Russell 2020). Boyarin and his friends decided on a direct transliteration of English into Yiddish for the movement's title: "blek lives metter." Despite the group's aim to bridge the divide between Yiddish and racial politics, criticism is already arising regarding the decision to “Yiddishize” the words' "black" and "matter." These critics prefer the movement use the direct translation of "black" – "shvartzer" (Russell 2020). The challenges of selecting "correct" language persist.

Boyarin’s intentions to directly translate Black Lives Matter into Yiddish can be understood as genuine but also problematic. The project’s efforts to translate reiterates the issues

Niger). Similar to Charney, the) "ניגער" ,associated with Shmuel Charney’s name choice translation project is one-sided, executed by a majority of white Yiddish speakers. Although these speakers attempt to make the movement more accessible for other Yiddishists, it also begs us to question: why must we translate “Black Lives Matter” rather than accept and refer to the movement in its original language? How would leaders within the Black Lives Matter movement feel about this possible appropriation? Boyarin claims that the history of Jews' aspirational whiteness has "stunted [Jews'] diasporic encounter in America” – but his commitment to translation only perpetuates this aspirational whiteness (Boyarin et al 2020). Instead of Levy 36 supporting Black Lives Matter at face value, this project spends time making the movement

“easier” to grasp. Here, Yiddish is bounded and insular, as its speakers are unaware of the issues they are reproducing. The new vocabulary may be helpful for Yiddish speakers to communicate, but does not benefit the source, the Black Lives Matter movement.

Members of the Jewish community in Crown Heights similarly attempt to remedy their complicated past with black Americans but may also fall short. On June 7, 2020, hundreds of

Orthodox Jews walked along the streets of Crown Heights expressing solidarity with black

Americans: "Young Hasidic women in long skirts and wigs and men with wide-brimmed black hats and free-flowing beards" marched and chanted 'Jews for justice' or 'Black lives matter'

(Wax-Thibodeaux 2020). On one hand, the march demonstrates the progress the two communities have made, replacing prior traumatic memories of the 1991 riots with moments of commonality and alliance. Simultaneously, the Jewish protestors may exemplify a type of misappropriation, participating in the movement for religious desires rather than the movement’s original goals. For example, a protester during the rally states: "That an agent of the justice system can murder a person in cold blood [in regards to the police murder of George Floyd] doesn't just call out as a human issue, as an American issue. To me, that calls out as a halachic issue — a Jewish law issue" (Wax-Thibodeaux 2020). Just as the translation project focuses on the needs of the Yiddish community rather than the needs of black Americans, some of the protestors prioritize personal values.

In addition to the Jewish community in Crown Heights’ participation in Black Lives

Matter marches, the Workers Circle, based in New York City, also has been inspired by current political, social, and economic injustices. Founded in 1900, the Workers Circle is known as one of the most prominent Yiddish language programs globally. The Workers Circle commits itself Levy 37 to social and economic justice initiatives, stemming from their work during the American labor movements in the 20th-century (Workers Circle). Today, the Workers Circle examines social and economic justice through the intersections of antisemitism, anti-blackness, and anti-immigration

(Anonymous Informant #6).

The Director of Social Justice at the Workers Circle shared how the organization is responding to the racism-fueled police brutality that occurred in 2020, such as the murders of

George Floyd and Breonna Taylor. She explained that the organization's responses to racism remain "live conversations" and that I am "catching them [the Workers Circle] at a moment right now" (Anonymous Informant #6). She revealed questions the Workers Circle board members are currently posing, such as: "How do we begin to grasp the terrible racism infecting every part of our society?" One method has been producing a three-part online series led by Anthony Russell, a black Yiddishist who received the Google Doc with Black Lives Matter vocabulary.

The Workers Circle online series is free to the public, titled "In the Midst: Exploring

Systemic Racism through the lens of Yiddish Culture." I attended the second episode in the series, which focused on Yoysef Kerler's Yiddish poem, Ven Kh'volt in Alabama Zayn. The poem was written in 1965 in response to the American civil rights movement and reflects the

Jews who projected themselves into the black struggle. The panel for this "In the Midst" episode was moderated by Russell. It included Maia Evrona and Amelia Glaser, two women who guided the audience through the poem and its historical context. They posed questions that connect the poem to today: How does a person understand someone else's pain? Is Jewish pain translatable or unique? The seminar offered the opportunity for Jews and Yiddishists to engage with history and form connections to current campaigns. Levy 38

During the Juneteenth weekend in 2020, the Workers Circle also encouraged their members to participate in demonstrations at their comfort levels. The social justice director expressed a desire to "harness the power of all the members" to "speak out against immorality"

(Anonymous Informant #6). The Workers Circle is adapting its programming alongside current events, mixing cultural learning and activism. Yiddish speakers and attempt to address, discuss, and remedy the tense past between Eastern European Jews and black communities, but may get distracted by personal objectives and desires. Yiddish speakers and blacks share a history of marginalization and can offer each other support. The marginalization demonstrated through

Yiddish-speaking immigrants and blacks in America extends to different marginalized identities, such as the LGBTQ community.

IV. Yiddish As a Safe Space: Appeal to Marginalized Identities

For Jews seeking an alternative to traditional religious observation, Yiddish represents

"radicalism, matriarchy, or queerness" and can offer the "tantalizing prospect of inhabiting a culture that is not only 'other' but 'lost'" (Shandler 2004: 38). The unconventional, unstable qualities of Yiddish offer comfort and stability to Jews with non-normative interests. Jeffrey

Shandler explores alterity and Yiddish in his article, "Queer Yiddishkeit: Practice and Theory."

Within his article, Shandler constructs the notion of "Queer Yiddishkeit," a term used to describe the "discrete cultural phenomena of recent years" in which gay, lesbian, or bisexual American

Jews seek to juxtapose queerness and Yiddish in some way (Shandler 2006: 92). The practitioners of Queer Yiddishkeit are typically artists, performers, and writers. Queer

Yiddishkeit exemplifies Yiddish in the postvernacular – it is a reshaping of the Yiddish language and its relationship to culture and peoplehood (Shandler 2006: 90). Queer Yiddishkeit is a post- Levy 39

World War II phenomenon, yet the intersection between queerness and Yiddish can be traced to earlier in the 20th-century through Yiddish theater and cinema.

Queerness is embedded in quintessential Jewish popular culture forms, such as the movies produced during the "golden age" (1920 to 1940) of Yiddish film. Historian and musician Eve

Sicular discusses the lesbian and gay subtexts in Yiddish-language movies in her chapter "From the Celluloid Closet to the Isle of Klezbos" in Queer Jews. She frames her argument around the

1937 film Yidl Mint Fidl (Yiddle with his Fiddle), in which a young female musician must dress in boy's clothes while touring with a Klezmer band. The queer subtext unfolds as the "male" character faces criticism and backlash from other characters who say "he" acts too effeminately

(Sicular 2002: 202). Yidl Mint Fidl expresses queer undertones through cross-dressing and plays on queer stereotypes.

Sicular argues that these queer references in popular culture – no matter how "distorted, disparaging, or oblique" – appeal to contemporary queer individuals. She explains: "Perhaps we will see a place we can feel at home onscreen or in literature, a long-obscured piece of ourselves projected from the past to affirm an existence we have been denied" (Sicular 2002: 202). For queer Jews, representation (to any degree) in Yiddish film or literature is meaningful. Sicular refers to her experiences as a queer Jew to further illuminate the connection between queerness and Yiddish. She develops Shandler's notion that Yiddish is a "challenger" to the status quo by reflecting that "Yiddish historically has been used by people in insider/outsider positions"

(Sicular 2002: 208). Similarly, American Jews live in "a distinctive (sometimes separate) culture of their own" (Sicular 2002: 208). Sicular's description of the ambiguous social status of

American Jews inspires parallels to queer individuals: just as Yiddish and Judaism are not in the Levy 40

"dominant culture," neither is queerness. The minority status of Yiddish speakers, and Jews in general, mirrors the minority status of queer individuals.

The association between queerness, Jewishness, and Yiddish remains prevalent among contemporary Yiddishists. As a result, Yiddishists are adapting and crafting vocabulary to represent non-normative sexual relationships and family structures. Vardit Lightstone was motivated to create new vocabulary from her experiences teaching Elementary Yiddish in

Toronto. When a student asked, "How do you say 'Parent' in Yiddish," she responded with the

Yiddish pairing of "mother and father" – however, she discovered that the student has two mothers. After making this mistake, Lightstone realized she teaches her Yiddish class with material and vocabulary that assumes students and their families identify with normative genders and lifestyles (Lightstone 2016). Not only did her materials not reflect her students' lives, but heteronormativity is at odds with where Lightstone lives and teaches. There is a visible LGBTQ presence in Toronto, and it has been the site of gay and queer festivals since the 1970s

(Lightstone 2016). Lightstone desired her students to "be able to see themselves" and their community in Yiddish and to continue using the language once they left the classroom.

Lightstone produced a new vocabulary sheet for her class to represent Yiddish students' diversity and Toronto. With the new vocabulary, she hoped her students would understand that

"Yiddish is a living language with vocabulary that evolves to meet contemporary needs"

(Lightstone 2016). Yiddish is alive and evolves alongside the growing acceptance and awareness of LGBTQ topics, similar to its adoption of Black Lives Matter terminology. Some of

Lightstone's new terms call for the use of quotation marks, like the adjective "gey," which could be confused with the Yiddish verb for "go." Notably, none of Lightstone's students had negative reactions to the new list. She expected a student to exclaim: "'This isn't real Yiddish. My Levy 41 grandparents wouldn't have used these words!'" (Lightstone 2016). However, the new Yiddish learners are receptive to modifications and variations of the language.

The connection between queerness and Yiddish further manifests through the musical genre of Klezmer. Eve Sicular demonstrates the connections between queerness, Yiddish, and

Klezmer, as she discovered Yiddish through Klezmer, the traditional instrumental music of

Eastern European Jews (Parshall 2009: iii). Klezmer, like Yiddish and queerness, retains

"outsider" elements, as it originated among the "lowest rungs" of Yiddish-speaking Jews' social hierarchy (Parshall 2009: 4). Similar to the use of Yiddish as a primary tongue, Klezmer music declined in American Jewish life within the first half of the 20th-century. Notably, the decline of both Klezmer music and Yiddish's prevalence occurred alongside Jews' growing identification with Israel – inspiration for performative Jewishness began to come from Hebrew rather than

Yiddish. Hebrew songs and Israeli folk dance became the "standard at Jewish summer camps and community events throughout America" while Yiddish music (Klezmer) and dance suffered

(Parshall 2009: 39-40).

In the 1950s and 1960s, however, folk music in America underwent a revival, introducing "a new generation of listeners to regional and ethnic musical styles" and attracting young Jewish musicians (Parshall 2009: 41). Even more, the 1970s fostered a renewed sense of individuality in America, leading to a renewed interest in cultural heritages such as Yiddish and

Klezmer music (Parshall 2009: 52). Klezmer offered Jews a new way to access their history and identity in the latter half of the 20th-century. The revitalization of Klezmer music led to the creation of KlezKamp in 1985, a program designed to foster a community that focused on "every aspect of Yiddish culture, from music to movies and from folklore to fork-lore" (Sapoznik 2002:

184). Many of the attendees at KlezKamp saw Yiddish as "explicitly countercultural," and the Levy 42 event quickly became a "hub for the production of queer Jewish culture" (Friedman 2015: 110).

Thus, queer Jews played an integral role in the revival of Klezmer in America. Klezmer musicians today continue to promote the music's alterity and enjoy it as a substitute for Israeli culture. The music contrasts normative heterosexuality and mainstream Judaism.

KlezKamp empowered individuals to create Jewish spaces not defined by heteronormativity or traditional Judaism. Henry Spanozik, the founder of KlezKamp, reflects on the program's beginnings: "It wasn't just a youth group. It wasn't just a kids' camp. It reflected true generational diversity...we got some people who are secular, we have some real Orthodox people, we have gay people, we have straight people. We've got Jews, we got non-Jews"

(Sapoznik 2012: 90:00). Although Spanozik speaks of KlezKamp's diversity, its support from the

Jewish gay and lesbian community is undeniable; by 1989, a "definable portion" of Kamp registrants and staff were queer (Sapoznik 2002: 181). KlezKamp gained a reputation as a safe space for marginalized individuals – its reputation reached Eve Sicular and prompted her

Yiddish and Klezmer involvement. She narrates how a fellow Jewish musician alerted her that

"lots of queers could be found in the Yiddish music and culture scene at the annual KlezKamp folk arts retreat" (Sicular 2002: 205). Sicular was more intrigued by the queer involvement at

KlezKamp than the music: "I had heard of KlezKamp before, but learning that there was a place where being an out lesbian and a Jewish folk musician together was even more of a revelation"

(2002: 206). Sicular exemplifies the pull between Yiddish, queerness, and Klezmer.

Although KlezKamp ended its programming in 2015, various other Klezmer programs have formed and continue today in its place. For example, KlezKanada, established in 1996, shares similar goals with KlezKamp: to "teach, nurture and present to a broad public the best of

Jewish traditional arts and Yiddish culture" (KlezKanada 2018). I spoke with an executive board Levy 43 member of KlezKanada, who explained that Yiddish and Klezmer are no longer "niche subcultures." Instead, Yiddish is "much more mainstream now," and individuals participate at

KlezKanada because they see Klezmer as an acceptable means of artistic expression

(Anonymous Informant #3). The KlezKanada students take advantage of Yiddish as a postvernacular by enjoying its artistic components and not just using it as a language. My informant noted the growing popularity of Klezmer in the age of the Coronavirus pandemic.

Interestingly, the number of KlezKanada participants nearly doubled as programming transitioned online during the pandemic.

While the number of participants at KlezKanada is rising, the number of young participants is decreasing. The informant credits this trend to "Zoom overload" – youth already spend significant time on Zoom for classes or extracurricular engagements – the informant believes young students do not want to then "relax" over Zoom with Klezmer music. He anticipates the decline in youth participation will continue alongside the pandemic. He laments:

"There's no way to bring them [the youth] in if they're not logging on" (Anonymous Informant

#3). Despite the decrease in youth participation, the informant is proud of the turnout from this year's week-long summer retreat: almost 1,6000 participants registered.

The informant explained the retreat's success through an anecdote. In the retreat's previous years, there would be a one-night-only cabaret. This year, however, they offered a nightly open-mic event on Zoom, scheduled for an hour. On the final night of the retreat, the open-mic event lasted from 10:00 p.m. to 6:00 a.m. The long open-mic night exemplifies that participants felt connected and established a strong sense of community despite being remote and online. The informant continued to explain: "We're all isolated [due to the pandemic] and want to feel connected. We [connect] through Yiddish and Klezmer, making a community" (Informant Levy 44

#3). While the transition to an online community shifted Klezkanada's demographics, it has not inhibited the community's strength.

Though youth involvement is undergoing a shift at KlezKanada, a trend from the beginning of the Klezmer revival and KlezKamp remains: the involvement of queer Jews. Irena

Klepfisz, a Jewish lesbian author and poet, mentions KlezKanada during an interview regarding queerness in contemporary Yiddish culture. She states: "I mean, the fact that so many gays are in the music – for example, if you go up to KlezKanada – I mean, the Klezmer phenomenon is – a lot of it is very gay and queer...I think there is something about a kind of rebelliousness about the whole Yiddish...that I think gays tapped into" (Klepfisz 2020). Klepfisz develops the similarities between Yiddish and queerness through her notion of "rebelliousness" – rebels tend to live on the "outside," not part of the mainstream. Again, Yiddish as a postvernacular language offers alternative options for Jews seeking community, identity development, or artistic expression.

However, those who seek Yiddish for artistic expression are not always Jewish – there is a growing number of non-Jewish Klezmer musicians. For example, internationally renowned clarinetist, Christian Dawid, is reputed for his work in Yiddish, yet he was born in Bremen,

Germany, and grew up as a Christian. He did not encounter Jewish culture as a young adult – his only knowledge of Judaism came from his father, a Protestant pastor (Dawid 2012). In the 1990s, after almost 30 years living in Bremen studying orchestral music, Dawid decided to pursue a different genre of music. At that time, Klezmer was beginning to enter the German cultural consciousness. He attended a Klezmer workshop and began to learn some Yiddish "along the way" (Dawid 2012). Throughout the last decades, Dawid has taught at Klezmer camps and festivals around the world. Although Dawid holds some Yiddish knowledge, he feels detached from Jewish religion and culture. He reflects: Levy 45

You learn a language. You just learn the grammar, and I certainly can communicate that.

Yeah, and put it together...But it's sometimes tricky because it's not about the personal

experience. I don't want to communicate – well, communicate, yeah, onstage on a different

level. I'm going to get my personal experience, but I don't want to mess with people's lives.

And so, like, well, that's how you feel more Jewish, if you play the tune this way. I would

certainly not do that. I go to this level and say, 'Well, this makes more musical sense if you

play it like this' (Dawid 2012).

As a non-Jew involved in Klezmer, Dawid feels like he must isolate himself from the

"personal" side of the music. He chooses to focus on the musicality of Klezmer rather than its religiosity. There seems to be a spectrum of how one can perform Klezmer, and Dawid "plays it safe" by refraining from "feeling Jewish" or emphasizing the Yiddish language's religious undertones. On the other hand, Henry Sapoznik, KlezKamp founder and musician, sees Yiddish language and religiosity as integral to performing Klezmer:

I think the language is vital...you can't play Yiddish music without understanding the

language to understand where the phrases are created. The music reflects the spoken

language 'cause they're songs and they have to fit into a rhythmic pattern. And if you don't

understand the language, the music will not be understood (Sapoznik 2012).

By stating that the "music reflects the spoken language," Sapoznik counters Dawid's claim that

Klezmer can exist on its own, apart from Yiddish language and Judaism. Sapoznik further Levy 46 explains the characteristics of a successful Klezmer musician: an artist should be an "empty canvas and come to this [Yiddish and its music] totally open and experience it if you are lucky enough to feel this culture in its diverse, myriad forms" (Sapoznik 2012). While Sapoznik believes an individual should approach Yiddish culture with no expectations and an open mind,

Dawid credits his musical success to his decision to avoid a quick, open embrace of Jewish culture.

In addition to describing how a Jewish cultural performer should behave, Sapoznik addresses the involvement of non-Jews in Klezmer. He muses: "You know, some people, hey, quite a few people who are not Jewish became so involved with the culture that they converted"

(Sapoznik 2012). Klezmer can act as an entry point for non-Jews to become involved in Judaism and redefine their faith. Sapoznik investigates this conversion:

Do I think that that's necessary? No. But I'm not gonna say that someone's passion to be

part of the community shouldn't be manifest. As Jews, we have toiled in others' vineyards

for so long. Jews are a part of every other world culture: classical music and jazz and rock-

and-roll and everything else. It's about time that there's some sort of karmic return

(Sapoznik 2012).

Sapoznik appears to appreciate the conversion of non-Jews after they become involved in Jewish culture. He justifies the conversion – "it's about time" that individuals who enjoy Jewish culture return the favor by joining the religion. He sees Klezmer through a purist lens – it belongs to the

Jews (unlike classical music, jazz, rock-and-roll) and should be approached Jewishly. Levy 47

Sapoznik inspires us to question "Who does Klezmer belong to," and, more broadly,

"Who can be a Yiddishist?" A recent Klezmer revival in Krakow, Poland probes at the former question. In 1988, Krakow's Jewish district, Kazimierz, was restored and has developed into one of the "most prestigious and internationally known cultural enterprises in Krakow" (Rudnicki

2011: 8). The rise of Jewish culture in Poland is paradoxical, as Jews have historically been oppressed and pushed out of the country. Polish antisemitic sentiments become apparent during the country's nationalist movement toward the end of the 19th-century and the onset of the 20th- century. For example, Jews received blame for the 1912 electoral defeat of Roman Dmowski, the leader of the Polish nationalist movement. Furthermore, the Association for the Development of

Commerce, Industry, and Trade focused on the economic boycott of the Jews, picketing Jewish shops, and violently attacking Jews (Rudnicki 2011: 8). The fabric of Polish nationality was knit with Jews as a target. The tensions between Poles and Jews intensified and culminated in 1967 when the Polish Communist Party's anti-Zionist campaign led to "the March emigration," the mass exodus of 13,000-20,000 Jews from Poland.

After considering Poland's prior antisemitic stances, the country's renewed interest in the

Jewish district of Kazimierz and Jewish culture seems out-of-place. Additionally, the Poles who promote the Jewish cultural revival are not Jewish – it is "mostly a non-Jewish venture"

(Waligórska 2005: 368). Magdalena Waligórska investigates the Polish Klezmer scene in her article, "A Goy Fiddler on the Roof," by posing the question: "If ethnic music is inherently bound with ethnic identity, what kind of identity processes take place in the case of the Polish involvement in Klezmer?" (2005: 368) While Waligórska explores various identity theories, she cannot deny that the cultivation of Klezmer music by non-Jewish Poles is problematic. Levy 48

Waligórska looks at Polish involvement in Klezmer through essentialist and constructivist theoretical perspectives. Essentialists understand music as an expression of a group's identity – music reflects the people who make it. Waligórska argues that the essentialist view falls short when examining the Polish musicians; it does not address what occurs when identity expression conflicts with musical expression. On the other hand, the constructivist theory argues that ethnic music is key to generating ethnic identity. Similar to the shortcomings of the essentialist perspective, the constructivist approach does not investigate a contrast between ethnic identity and ethnic music (Waligórska 2005: 368). Thus, Krakow's Klezmer revival is an "experiment ground" for the negotiation of Polish identity. Ultimately, Poland's discord between music and musician is redefining religious and national belonging (Waligórska 2005: 373). The article concludes with the notion that by playing the music of the "other," Polish non-Jewish musicians learn more about their own identities and challenge the nation's previous prejudices against Jews.

The Polish revival of Klezmer music by non-Jews invites new conversations and reflections on

Polish-Jewish relations.

Polish non-Jews in Klezmer parallels non-Jewish participation in Yiddish language and culture in America. Just as non-Jewish involvement in Klezmer music inspires questions regarding identity, ethnicity, and ownership, similar questions arise when looking at non-Jews involved in Yiddish communities and organizations. If "non-Jews" participate in Yiddish, what does this mean for Judaism or ethnic identity? Leonard Greenspoon explores the notions of family heritage and Jewish identity in "Who Is a Jew?: Reflections on History, Religion, and

Culture." He explains that there are no DNA sequences common to all Jews, prohibiting

Jewishness to be illuminated by a simple ancestry DNA kit (Greenspoon 2014: 5). So, how can one genuinely claim Jewishness? How much religiosity does one need to claim "Jewishness?" Levy 49

Lorin Sklamberg, founding member of the Klezmer band the Klezmatics, mused on the questions of "What makes someone 'Jewish?'" and "What role does Yiddish have in shaping a sense of Jewish religiosity?" In response to what makes someone "Jewish," Sklamberg considered the spectrum of Jewish denominations, such as Orthodox, Conservative, or Reform.

When considering the variety of Jewish practices, Sklamberg notes the importance of acceptance and tolerance. He explains that he must be accepted "in the way that I am" (a secular Jew), and will reciprocate by "giv[ing] someone permission who is a Hasid to be Jewish the way they are"

(Lorin Sklamberg). To Sklamberg, this mutual respect is essential to Judaism: "Part of the reason that Jews are still here is that we allow each other to be Jewish in our own way" (Lorin

Sklamberg). There may not be a definition for "Jewishness" or a way to present the "proper" practices for being a Jew; thus, it is necessary to be courteous towards one's claim to the religion.

While there is no correct way to be Jewish, Sklamberg notes the connection between

Yiddish and Jewish religiosity. Similar to Harry Saponzik's claim that Jewishness is essential to

Klezmer, Sklamberg sees a similar parallel between Judaism and Yiddish: "Even if you're looking at Yiddish from a secular Jew or as a non-Jew, the language is so intertwined with

Jewish history and Jewish life that you cannot [approach] the language without learning about traditional Jewish values or religious things" (Lorin Sklamberg). It is impractical to believe that

Yiddish can be distinct from Jewishness; Yiddish was born from Jews, and Jews born into the

Yiddish language. The inseparability of Jewishness and Yiddish does not mean that only Jews can partake in Yiddish and its cultural elements, but it suggests that non-Jews cannot avoid

Yiddish's religious qualities. Levy 50

The phenomenon of non-Jews involved in Yiddish unfolds through Jenna Ingalls, the

"first gentile instructor of Yiddish at UC Berkeley" (Ingalls 2011). In her article, "Reflections from a Non-Jewish Instructor of Yiddish," Ingalls illuminates her feelings of displacement as a teacher of a language and culture that she does not "traditionally" represent. Her undergraduate students seek the tongue due to their family members who speak or spoke Yiddish or because they want to connect to their Jewish identities – they look to Ingalls as "a conduit to that culture and heritage" (Ingalls 2011). As a result, Ingalls' "coming out" as a non-Jew is challenging: "I feel like some sort of impostor. I know they assume I am Jewish, but when they are opening their souls to me, sharing their (re-)connection to their Jewish heritage, it seems churlish to say, 'By the way, I'm not Jewish'" (Ingalls 2011). Ingalls fears that she will lose her students' relatability as soon as she reveals she is not Jewish.

In addition to worrying about how her students will respond to her non-Jewish identity,

Ingalls struggles with educating her students on Jewish culture. She feels uncomfortable instructing her Jewish students on "their past and history" as an outsider. Ingalls recognizes that her students are outsiders, too – but they diverge by their motivations and desire "to deepen or reclaim a connection to their own heritage" (Ingalls 2011). While Ingalls sees herself as an outsider due to her different faith, she recognizes her students as individuals searching for answers to their culture, family, religion. Her reference to herself and her students as "outsiders" reiterates the connection between Yiddish and marginalized communities. Ingalls and her students share a feeling of foreignness and an interest in Yiddish – their mutual passions for the

Yiddish language, history, or music may lessen their differences in religion. Ingalls concludes her essay: "Perhaps through my missing membership card, I can signal that Yiddish is open, Levy 51 open to all, Jewish or not" (2011). Yiddish is an equalizer, accessible to any person no matter their background, sexuality, religion.

Conclusion

My relationship with Yiddish is personal. I relate to the students I interviewed and observed who share memories of their grandparents shouting Yiddish phrases or who seek an untraditional entry-point into the Jewish faith. When I began my project, I held similar interests with these youth. I directed my research towards Yiddish organizations, sending inquiries to their executive board members based on my experiences with the cultural heritage: “How has Yiddish persisted?” “Who speaks the language today?” “In what ways is the language used?” From these questions, I quickly realized these interests and my connection with the language represents only a small fraction of how Yiddish operates today.

Yiddish is undeniably unique, with diverse uses and intersections. Yiddish survives, despite a decline in speakers, because individuals use it as more than a language; it is now used as a vehicle for political campaigns, to grasp race relations, and form a sense of belonging. There are elements of Yiddish in significant political and social events throughout the 20th-century to the present day. The association of Yiddish and politics in America stems from Eastern European

Jewish immigrants who became employed in New York City’s garment industry and worked in unfavorable conditions. The immigrant workers represented a socialist outlook and shared the

Yiddish language, ultimately using Yiddish to unite and express their grievances.

While the participation of Jews in American labor unions has dwindled alongside growing economic successes, their leftist and socialist leanings remain. Yiddish is no longer used to privately communicate as demonstrated through labor unions; in the postvernacular, Yiddish Levy 52 offers individuals an ability to find common political views and share possibly unfavorable opinions, such as a dislike of President Trump. These Yiddishists may not use Yiddish as their primary tongue but find value in its ability to express alternative or contrary perspectives.

Yiddish similarly enables Jewish women to comfortably explore their faith when denied access to Hebrew, the masculine, sacred tongue. Yiddish prevents individuals from feeling isolated – instead, they find themselves invited into a community.

Yiddish offers a safe space for individuals to express and interact with concepts that some may be hesitant to explore. This alternative space manifests in the Yiddish press’ support of black Americans during the civil rights movement and persists today by translating Black Lives

Matter terms into Yiddish. In the March on Washington in 1963 or the protests during the 2020

Juneteenth weekend, the participation of Yiddish speakers demonstrates how Yiddish functions as a vehicle for showing solidarity, promoting our similarities rather than differences. The feelings of community fostered by Yiddish are further illuminated by the attraction of marginalized individuals to the cultural heritage.

As Hebrew became the dominant Jewish tongue and standard for religious and community events, Yiddish language and culture became marginalized and dismissed. The

“othering” of Yiddish appeals to other oppressed groups, such as the LGBTQ community. The association of Yiddish and queerness manifests through art, including the Yiddish films of the early 20th-century or the revival of Klezmer music. Klezmer originated in Eastern Europe among neglected, lower class musicians. Similarly, the Klezmer revival in America was incited by another overlooked population: queer Jews. As the Klezmer movement grew into an acceptable means of artistic expression, non-Jews became involved with the music. Levy 53

Non-Jewish involvement with Yiddish incites tensions relating to cultural ownership and appropriation. Some embrace non-Jewish interest in Yiddish; others, like Harry Saponzik, are more hesitant to let “outsiders” in. Although Yiddish appeals to marginalized identities, there may also be some underlying criteria to “fit in” with these Yiddish enthusiasts, such as political liberalism, queerness, a commitment to Jewish culture and faith. The concepts that make Yiddish appealing and seemingly approachable may also shape it to be exclusive and bounded. The boundedness of Yiddish in America manifests through organized labor unions to contemporary politics, from the civil rights movement to Black Lives Matter, from film and Klezmer music to the discussion of non-normative relationships and family structures. Since the early 20th-century,

Yiddish is shaped to fit the needs of new generations.

Levy 54

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