Sholem aleykhem! (Hello!) My name is Sam, and I’m raising my son bilingually in Yiddish and English. People often ask my why I would do such a thing: because Yiddish is not my native language; because Yiddish is an unusual language; because Yiddish is a “dead” language; because people think I should speak Hebrew instead of Yiddish; because I’m not Chassidic; and also, more broadly, because raising kids bilingually is just an odd thing for Americans to do. They usually ask out of genuine curiosity, often with admiration or excitement, and sometimes with disapproval. In fact, people ask me so often, that I decided to start a blog about it, so that the next time someone asks me, I can just send them here!
But the truth is that I also ask these questions myself. Why am I raising my son in a language that is neither my own native tongue nor the language of the country I live in? And why specifically Yiddish, which is so uncommon, and which almost none of my family or friends speak? And what does it mean for me to be raising my son in an ostensibly “dead” language — a language that has been so mythologized, so romanticized, so persecuted — so often put on a pedestal, both to praise it as a core part of Jewish identity and to memorialize it as a crumbling relic of the pre-Holocaust Old World? The truth is, I don’t entirely know. These are challenging questions, and when people ask me, I don’t always know what to say or how to say it. I often feel like Yiddish chose me, rather than me choosing Yiddish, but how do I even begin to understand such an irrational notion, let alone explain it to others? So this blog is also a way for me to think through these difficult questions, for myself, albeit in a public space that others can secretly peep on. My hope is that it will be enlightening not only for my readers, but also for myself.
So, in short, there are two main reasons for writing this blog. One is to explain to my friends why in the world I would raise my son in Yiddish, and the other is to explain that to myself.
But there's a third reason, too. Since Yiddish is such an unusual language, especially for children, I also hope to give you a small glimpse into what this journey is actually like. What are Yiddish children's books, songs, and TV shows like? How do I go about finding them? Where does my son find Yiddish-speaking friends? What are the challenges faced not only by me, but by my whole family, and even my friends? Again, I am writing this both for you and for me. This whole experience is new for me, as well. Since I wasn't raised speaking Yiddish, I can't rely on my own childhood experiences when looking for books and multimedia; I've had to discover it all for myself. There's a lot of vocabulary and expressions that I simply never learned. Since almost nobody in my family speaks Yiddish, I can't turn to them for extra language exposure or hand-me-downs. None of my Yiddish-speaking friends live nearby, so playdates are tricky to arrange. Hopefully this blog can be as much a way for me to process this whole new world of Yiddish childhood/parenting as it is a window for you all to peek in.
I’ll end this introduction by explaining the title of my blog: “Tate-Loshn” (Father Tongue) This is also part of the queerness of my journey. Colloquially, Yiddish is often called “mame-loshn”, which means “mother tongue.” Fellow Yiddish-speakers sometimes ask me: “How did you learn mame-loshn?” “What drew you to mame-loshn?” “I’m so glad to meet someone else who speaks mame-loshn!” Mother tongue. That’s what a lot of languages are called, and it’s a nice, if strongly gendered, metaphor for the way most kids learn their native language. It’s also especially appropriate for Yiddish, since, historically, most Yiddish speakers have been raised bilingually, with Yiddish being primarily associated with women and the home. But here’s the thing: I’m a man. Even if Yiddish is my son’s native tongue, it is not his “mother tongue” — in fact, his mother doesn’t even know much Yiddish at all (though she’s learning!) No, Yiddish is my son’s “father tongue” — his “tate-loshn” – the language he learns from his father. That is very strange, both culturally and historically, and it also feels quite odd for me to raise my son in a "mother tongue" that even his own mother doesn’t speak. In a separate blog post, I may write more deeply about the gender issues I struggle with while raising my son in Yiddish — they’re really quite interesting, and also extremely frustrating. But for now I’ll just leave it with this.
Thanks for reading.
But the truth is that I also ask these questions myself. Why am I raising my son in a language that is neither my own native tongue nor the language of the country I live in? And why specifically Yiddish, which is so uncommon, and which almost none of my family or friends speak? And what does it mean for me to be raising my son in an ostensibly “dead” language — a language that has been so mythologized, so romanticized, so persecuted — so often put on a pedestal, both to praise it as a core part of Jewish identity and to memorialize it as a crumbling relic of the pre-Holocaust Old World? The truth is, I don’t entirely know. These are challenging questions, and when people ask me, I don’t always know what to say or how to say it. I often feel like Yiddish chose me, rather than me choosing Yiddish, but how do I even begin to understand such an irrational notion, let alone explain it to others? So this blog is also a way for me to think through these difficult questions, for myself, albeit in a public space that others can secretly peep on. My hope is that it will be enlightening not only for my readers, but also for myself.
So, in short, there are two main reasons for writing this blog. One is to explain to my friends why in the world I would raise my son in Yiddish, and the other is to explain that to myself.
But there's a third reason, too. Since Yiddish is such an unusual language, especially for children, I also hope to give you a small glimpse into what this journey is actually like. What are Yiddish children's books, songs, and TV shows like? How do I go about finding them? Where does my son find Yiddish-speaking friends? What are the challenges faced not only by me, but by my whole family, and even my friends? Again, I am writing this both for you and for me. This whole experience is new for me, as well. Since I wasn't raised speaking Yiddish, I can't rely on my own childhood experiences when looking for books and multimedia; I've had to discover it all for myself. There's a lot of vocabulary and expressions that I simply never learned. Since almost nobody in my family speaks Yiddish, I can't turn to them for extra language exposure or hand-me-downs. None of my Yiddish-speaking friends live nearby, so playdates are tricky to arrange. Hopefully this blog can be as much a way for me to process this whole new world of Yiddish childhood/parenting as it is a window for you all to peek in.
I’ll end this introduction by explaining the title of my blog: “Tate-Loshn” (Father Tongue) This is also part of the queerness of my journey. Colloquially, Yiddish is often called “mame-loshn”, which means “mother tongue.” Fellow Yiddish-speakers sometimes ask me: “How did you learn mame-loshn?” “What drew you to mame-loshn?” “I’m so glad to meet someone else who speaks mame-loshn!” Mother tongue. That’s what a lot of languages are called, and it’s a nice, if strongly gendered, metaphor for the way most kids learn their native language. It’s also especially appropriate for Yiddish, since, historically, most Yiddish speakers have been raised bilingually, with Yiddish being primarily associated with women and the home. But here’s the thing: I’m a man. Even if Yiddish is my son’s native tongue, it is not his “mother tongue” — in fact, his mother doesn’t even know much Yiddish at all (though she’s learning!) No, Yiddish is my son’s “father tongue” — his “tate-loshn” – the language he learns from his father. That is very strange, both culturally and historically, and it also feels quite odd for me to raise my son in a "mother tongue" that even his own mother doesn’t speak. In a separate blog post, I may write more deeply about the gender issues I struggle with while raising my son in Yiddish — they’re really quite interesting, and also extremely frustrating. But for now I’ll just leave it with this.
Thanks for reading.