בײַם דו יר חתונה האָבן, דיין קינדער וואָלט פֿאַרקאַקט
“Beim du ir khasene hobn, dayn kinder volt farkate”
I come from a mixed clan that includes mostly Russian and Polish Jews that immigrated to the United States in the early 20th Century. My family does not have a famous lineage or a heart-wrenching story about escaping the Nazi’s. At best, we may have one ancestor that went through Ellis Island, but there are no records that we have found. As poor immigrants, my family has the scant early 20th Century photograph that provides history. There is no sterling silver pocket watch or mantel clock – the true history of my family resides in the stories that we tell.
Families with more famous lineage can talk to ancestors of some social importance or refer to the history books, but for the rest of us, we must talk. The stories of my family are of no less importance than those that are famous. I will not claim that our family has some formal history of Friday-night story telling around the fireplace (and not just because no one had a fireplace.) What we did have, however, was a practice of making fun of our past by telling stories about the strange and unusual things that happened. Some that have survived the generations include the tales of:
* My great-grandfather who changed his last name and subsequently the entire family’s last name on the eve of his Bar Mitzvah as a result of his estrangement from his father;
* My great Aunt who did not know her real birthday until she was in her 70’s (She knew she was born on the first Monday after Pesach in 1909, but never bothered to figure out the real date until then);
* My grandfather who took on a fake name and grew a beard in order get work during the Great Depression (and the nude picture of who we think was his girlfriend at the time, hidden behind other pictures in my grandmother’s photo album - found shortly after my grandmother passed away);
* My grandfather who made a batch of gefilte fish that no Rabbi could make Kosher (don’t expect to see catfish gefilte fish for Passover anytime soon.);
* My cousin who was . . . well, is . . . uh . . . a bookie.
And then there could be an entire night about funeral stories alone. Crisscrossing funeral processions on Long Island that left some family members attending the graveside service of a stranger. The family member buried in the wrong plot – reburied in the correct plot the next day. And then there is the reason that we leave before the caskets are lowered – one relative jumping on the casket of the deceased as it was being cranked down.
With all the family stories, though, many of the cultural ties have been lost. Some in my family are still very religious while others have strayed far from their roots. Maybe it is the product of mixed marriages and the modern times. The critical factor, though, is that the stories have always been told. Even though one of my cousins objects every time we start to tell her kids about the wild high school party that resulted in the authorities being called, telling stories is the way my family keeps history alive.
At one point roughly three decades ago, my mother decided that it would be a good idea to formally record some oral family history. The family authority, my Great Aunt Gertrude, was getting up in years – she was the go-to person. Well, Gertrude resisted being recorded. Now it was not out of a fear of technology – but rather a fear that the electronic medium would become a crutch to avoid story telling. When confronted with the reality that, over time, the stories would not be completely accurate, Gertrude wryly responded that modified truth was perfectly acceptable – the stories of your life need not be exact, they just need to be told. In fact, arguments have come up in the family over this post, there may be some inaccuracies in the here too. I suppose, though, we may not have done enough to live up to Gertrude’s wishes - only one Yiddish phrase has made the history books in our family story telling.
Now, at this point, those who don’t speak Yiddish are awaiting the translation of the yiddish from the top of the page. Is it a proverb, a remembrance of the Holocaust, a meaningful line from the Torah, a quote from Aristotle translated into Yiddish? Readers that do speak Yiddish have spent the last 15 minutes confused, questioning their own knowledge of Yiddish idioms. The one Yiddish phrase known by my family is “beim du ir khasene hobn, dayn kinder volt farkate,” which roughly translates into “You would have had retarded children.”
Ah yes, there is another story behind this. My great-grandparents, were a rather colorful pair. To protect their grandchildren, they fought in Yiddish. None of the children knew Yiddish, but they all remembered the way the fights would end – Grandma would say something, and Grandpa would respond: “beim du ir khasene hobn, dayn kinder volt farkate” and that was the end of the fight. The phrase was first discussed at my cousin’s Bat Mitzvah by my parent’s generation reminiscing about the arguments. My great Uncle Henry (the baby of his generation) was 80 at the time. He was called in for a translation and provided it, with no further comment and walked away. Henry did not like to talk negatively about anything in the family – he had to be coaxed to provide an explanation for the phrase. As was not uncommon, Henry was not permitted to remain silent. The story was told . . .
My great grandmother was born in a small town outside of Chickeva, Poland. At a relatively young age, her parents had arranged for her to be married to a boy in the same town. She had other ideas and ran off to marry my great grandfather. Despite having eloped, the couple settled nearby – relatively near where my “almost” great grandfather lived. He eventually got married and as fate would have it, had a child born with a disability. This fact was not lost of my great grandfather, at least when pushed into a corner.
The arguments between my great grandparents would normally devolve to where my great grandmother would say something to the effect of: “I should have listened to Mama and Papa and married who they told me to.” My great grandfather’s response: “And you would have had retarded children.” At least that is the story as we know it today.
If you feel disappointed, imagine my own disappointment at learning that the one cultural phrase held near and dear by my family is something so seemingly useless. That said, the trite nature of the phrase is exactly what makes it important. Sure if the phrase were a noble quote, it might be under my high school graduation picture or engraved on a plaque – but it is a homage to Getrude’s love of the oral history that Beim du ir khasene hobn, dayn kinder volt farkate is the only Yiddish I know.
In a world of DVRs, Facebook, email and twitter, we all should be reminded that spending time talking with family is really the history that is worth recording. Electronic media has made it very easy for us to copy history – but it has also made it so that we don’t sit around and talk about history anymore. Take a moment and tell your kids some of the stories from your family’s past – I can only wish for you to give them some phrases as important as the one I know.
Jordan Resnick