A Century of Chinese Whispers
Abraham Blass, who was the Communist's father and my grandfather, was born in Hungary towards the end of the century before last.
He didn't stay there long: his family brought him to England when he was six months old. As an adult he was never called Abraham, though. Rickets as a child had made him bow-legged and his walk was similar to Charlie Chaplin's, so he was always called Charlie.
The Communist knew the name of the little town in Hungary where his father came from, but had never seen it written down. Feyer Jarmot, it was called. Unfortunately, that wasn't how it was written, so the Communist could never find it on a map.
Then they invented t'interclacker and last night, thinking about my grandparents, I decided to have a search for Feyer Jarmot, and it took me about ten minutes to find it (and some, I believe, would have found it quicker still).
Fehergyarmat. Soon I was above it on Google Earth, looking at the little houses and their gardens. Amazing.
When the Communist was a child, his grandfather decided to teach him some Hungarian. With that heavy-handed kind of humour which I've hated all my life, his grandfather taught the Communist something to say to his grandmother, and the Communist remembers it to this day.
Nem setsiktet gyamama was the version he remembers - and indeed said to me this very afternoon.
It means I do not like you, grandma.
What exactly happened when he said to his grandmother it is lost in history, but he remembers the embarrassment of it. Which is interesting, since he used to do exactly the same kind of thing to me when I was a child.
But since they've obligingly invented t'interclacker, I thought I'd have a look for "I do not like you, grandma" in Hungarian and came up with this:
Ez nem tetszik nekem on nagymama.
Okay, it's lost a bit in essence over the seventy-odd years since the Communist learned it and the thirty years or so before that since the Communist's father learned it: but it's really not that far off.
As with Fehergyarmat, the Chinese Whispers have been remarkably accurate down the years.
He didn't stay there long: his family brought him to England when he was six months old. As an adult he was never called Abraham, though. Rickets as a child had made him bow-legged and his walk was similar to Charlie Chaplin's, so he was always called Charlie.
The Communist knew the name of the little town in Hungary where his father came from, but had never seen it written down. Feyer Jarmot, it was called. Unfortunately, that wasn't how it was written, so the Communist could never find it on a map.
Then they invented t'interclacker and last night, thinking about my grandparents, I decided to have a search for Feyer Jarmot, and it took me about ten minutes to find it (and some, I believe, would have found it quicker still).
Fehergyarmat. Soon I was above it on Google Earth, looking at the little houses and their gardens. Amazing.
When the Communist was a child, his grandfather decided to teach him some Hungarian. With that heavy-handed kind of humour which I've hated all my life, his grandfather taught the Communist something to say to his grandmother, and the Communist remembers it to this day.
Nem setsiktet gyamama was the version he remembers - and indeed said to me this very afternoon.
It means I do not like you, grandma.
What exactly happened when he said to his grandmother it is lost in history, but he remembers the embarrassment of it. Which is interesting, since he used to do exactly the same kind of thing to me when I was a child.
But since they've obligingly invented t'interclacker, I thought I'd have a look for "I do not like you, grandma" in Hungarian and came up with this:
Ez nem tetszik nekem on nagymama.
Okay, it's lost a bit in essence over the seventy-odd years since the Communist learned it and the thirty years or so before that since the Communist's father learned it: but it's really not that far off.
As with Fehergyarmat, the Chinese Whispers have been remarkably accurate down the years.
posted by Daphne at 5:51 pm
4 Comments:
I suspect we always end up annoying our children in exactly the same way we were annoyed by our parents. I have an arrangement now with my two where they must tell me straight away if they've heard a story/joke/anecdote before, rather than seeth in silence and embarrassment at the silly old fool.
Reminds me of when my dad was in Morocco in the war. They taught the itinerant egg sellers to call out 'eggs, bad ones!'
I think we try to avoid annoying our children in the way that our parents annoyed us - - but we find whole new creatively annoying ways to do it instead. I'm good on Tuneless Whistling, Emily loves that.
As opposed to tuneless singing as performed by - - - - .
Fill in the blanks yourselves.
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