Folk Humor Of North Dakota's Germans From Russia

"Prairie Spaas"
The Folk Humor Of North Dakota's Germans From Russia
By Ronald J. Vossler, 1999 Larry Remele Fellow and North Dakota Humanities Scholar

This is an exploration of the oral folk humor of Germans from Russia, one of North Dakota’s most numerous ethnic groups. The history of this distinctive group stretches over two hundred years. It begins in various eighteenth century Germanic provinces; includes a century-long sojourn on the Russian steppes; and, for those who immigrated to America, continued on the North Dakota prairie in twenty-three counties called the “German Russian triangle.”

There are more than a few books about German Russian culture and traditions, but the group’s folk humor remains relatively unexamined. In fact, the stereotype exists that this ethnic group known for their work ethic are generally humorless.

When I told colleagues at the University of North Dakota that I was studying German Russian humor, several of them, trying to be funny, could only reply “That shouldn’t take you long,” or “That will be a slim volume.”

Over a period of six months I gathered examples of German Russian humor. From written sources, both new and old. From tape recordings. From friends, recent acquaintances, and family members. Not until, as the old saying goes, “I’d educated myself right up to the horns” did I realize some of the extent and variety of German Russian humor.

I knew that much had already been lost, not passed to the next generation, that it was locked away in an obscure dialect few any longer spoke, or, as I learned, in people’s memories. As I transcribed and translated the material into English, my own knowledge of German dialect grew; and, at the same time, many humorous jokes, quips, and sayings that I’d heard in my childhood surfaced. 

This study, then, seeks to categorize what remains of the rich variety of this ethnic group’s humor; and, after noting various theories of ethnic humor and comparing German Russian humor to Jewish humor, to discuss the place of humor in a modem multicultural democratic society.

A Fancy Definition Of Why My Granny Spoke So Colorfully

Much of the material I’ve gathered for this project occurs in the German dialect. Therefore, it might be appropriate at the onset to point out how the form of the dialect spoken by German Russians – something called Umgangsprache – is intimately connected with humor. 

The word Umgangsprache sounds like it could be one of those exotic sounding foods so dear to the German Russian palate, akin to koladetz, (pickled pig’s feet), or schwatamaga (headcheese). But it is really just a term linguists use to describe language in which neutral terms could be replaced with emotionally charged expressions. (Keller, pp. 517-523)

So Umgangsprache is just a fancy way of saying that after I’d tracked mud onto my grandmother’s clean linoleum floor, instead of politely asking me to go outside and wipe my boots, she’d announce, in a combination of cranky humor and correction, “Yah, du glana Hossaschissa, ich sot dich aus dem Haus ins Schneebank schmissa” – “You little pants pooper, I should throw you out into the snowbank.”

Proverbs And One-Liners

German Russian culture, both on the Russian steppes and the American prairie, had a wide variety of folk proverbs. Scholars, notably Shirley Arends in Central Dakota Germans (pp. 174-193, and Joseph Height in Homesteaders on the Steppe (pp. 275-278), have included extensive lists of these folk proverbs in their books.

These folk proverbs, which illustrate German Russian cultural beliefs and attitudes, date back to eighteenth century Germanic provinces and are, I think, the earliest evidence of German Russian humor. Their sheer number and variety gives an indication of the depth of German Russian folk culture. Below are a few of the more vivid proverbs.

·         With violence one can pick fleas from a porcupine.

·         Better a louse in the cabbage than no meat at all.

·         You can’t pull hair from a frog.

·         You always give the meanest dog two pieces of meat.

These proverbs are not found only in books. On the prairie, German Russian settlers and their children used them in daily life, to pass to future generations distilled peasant wisdom, and, also, to have a little fun.

I’ve heard my mother and grandmother recite these proverbs on many an occasion. Once, commenting on two rather eccentric people who were getting married, my grandmother said, “Yah, even a crooked pot has a cover.”

These proverbs are only one part of German Russian humor. Joseph Height in Paradise on the Steppe notes the rich mother wit of the German Russian colonists in Russia, and their quickness with repartee, along with the wide variety of jokes, insults, zingers, wisecracks, put-downs, and puns which were part of their daily lives. Height also quotes a German Russian saying which demonstrates this ethnic group’s attitude toward joking and fun: “Wer nit kann Spass Verstehen, soil nit under die Leute gehen” – “Whoever can’t take a joke, shouldn’t go among people.” (p.143)

This past summer (1998), at my hometown centennial celebration, I overheard a conversation about someone who’d married for the third time. “Well you know what they say,” one person said with a hearty laugh. “The first wife is from God. The second wife is from man. The third wife – that one is from the Devil. 

If that wasn’t a folk proverb, it should have been, for its hard-edged brevity seemed typical of much German Russian short humor. Some German Russians, it was once said, had a hard nature, but also a great belief in God. Sometimes both of those elements were reflected in their humor, which could be used to remind later generations, in memorable terms, how to behave. In the following one-liner, which out of propriety I’ll leave untranslated, young women who wore their skirts too short were not so subtly reminded of their transgressions: “Yah, sieht mir nuff an der scheiss hoga.”

Or, if a son returned home from the army or college with “newfangled” ideas, the father might bellow. “Yah, Hans, du hosch Ideen da dee Hunda dobel frecka.” – “Hans, your dumb ideas make the dogs croak.” (Marzolf, pp. 16-17)

Nicknames

Joseph Height in Paradise on the Steppe has also noted that the German Russian colonist was much given to taunting and teasing and that he was not afraid to apply his “riotous vocabulary of nicknames, epithets, and jibes…to lampoon human foibles and frailties.” (p. 143)

Current political correctness might cast a negative view on name-calling and teasing, or even on the often hard-edged humor of the German Russians in general. But these practices were, for a variety of historical reasons, a part of this ethnic group’s culture.

It should be explained that praise and compliments – because they were thought to tempt fate and lead to the sin of pride – were generally not used to correct, comment on, or influence behavior. But teasing, jibes, and jokes were once used. One pastor to a German Russian congregation once remarked that the German Russians understanding of “words, stories, sermons, and jokes is markedly at variance with the point of view of American or the native Western European.” (Joachim, p. 20)

Here are a few terms that, depending on tone and circumstance, were used as terms of endearment, for teasing, or applied to someone caught in some mischief: stink katz – “skunk”; ver grupta Apf – crippled monkey; arschkarps – “pumpkin butt.”

In some German Russian communities permanent nicknames often were in use. Volga Germans called these Beinamen, based on physical traits or behavior, and used discreetly when swapping news or gossip.

In Russia, in both Volga and Black Sea colonies, there was much intermarriage and little variation in naming children; therefore, a nickname often provided a sense of individual identity. Volga Germans still living in Russia, when asked why they used so many nicknames, replied, “To keep each other straight.” (Kloberdanz, p.121)

Besides providing identity, nicknames also enlivened everyday German Russian life with a dash of humor. Some nicknames were comic; but the recipient of them – branded forever from some momentary indiscretion, or because of a notable physical characteristic or defect – might not have thought them so funny.

Tim and Rosalinda Kloberdanz in their book Thunder on the Steppe give lists of nicknames among Volga German villagers, including one short fat person known as Sackvolisand, literally “sack full of sand”; and another elderly Volga German known as Nudel Deppler, or “Noodle Stepper.”

Some said that “Noodle Stepper” was given this this name as an old man because he took slow, tiny steps, no bigger than finely cut noodles. Another version of how he got his nickname, which indicates the long memory inherent in German Russian village life, was that many years earlier, as a barefoot toddler, he’d stepped on some egg noodles his mother placed on a wooden bench to dry. (pp. 136-136)

Similarly, in my hometown of Wishek, North Dakota, populated primarily by descendants of German Russians, there were in mid-century a variety of nicknames. Here are a couple of the more innocuous nicknames that I remember: Schlang, or “Snake,” was a high school basketball player with deceptive moves on the court; Winegar was a fellow with an accent who’d jammed his thumb in football practice, and, on the day of the big homecoming game, showed up brandishing his ailing member, saying that he was in fine shape because, as the old remedy indicated, he’d given it a good overnight soak in a cup of “winegar” – thus his nickname; and there was also a distant relative of mine we called Entchl because he’d made the mistake of bragging about how he could back his father’s tractor, or, as we called it then in dialect, an Entchi, a hundred yards in a straight line to a hand held hitch.

Playing With Language: Nonsense Sayings, Rhymes and Greetings

When I was a child and hurt my finger, my grandmother would rub the afflicted area and repeat rhymed jingles in a sing song voice. These jingles, with their often incongruous humor, helped us forget the hurt. Here are two that I remember:

·     Heila heila Katz dreck

(Heal, heal cat poop.)

Morgen fruh isch alles wek

(In the morning everything will be gone.)

·     ABC (ABC)

Katz liegt im schnee (Cat lays in the snow)

D’r Schnee geht wek (Snow goes away)

D’katz liegt im Dreck (Cat lays in the dirt

Dreck geht wek (Dirt goes away)

Katz isch verreckt (Cat is dead)

These chants and rhymes bear some similarities to or might have their origins in the German Russian Brauche, a centuries-old folk healing tradition, which was still practiced past mid-century in south central North Dakota. (Arends, p. 193)

Chants of that nature could also be adapted for other purposes, like the one heard in 1965 at the McIntosh County basketball championship. There was a long-standing, heated athletic rivalry between my hometown of Wishek and neighboring Ashley, both of which German Russian immigrants settled.

During a close game, as a Wishek player stood at the free-throw line, the Ashley cheering section bellowed out in unison a resounding German dialect cheer, which everyone on both sides thought was quite amusing. Besides attempting to disturb the player’s concentration, the chant also betrayed, I think, how the younger generation felt about the ethnic foods with which we were all familiar. Here is the chant, along with a translation:

·    Blutwurst, liverwurst, schwatamaga, speck, 

     (Bloodsausage, liver sausage, headcheese fat,)

     Wishek Hochschule, wek, wek, wek

     (Wishek Highschool, go away, go away, go away.)

     In traditional German Russian life there were a variety of children’s rhymes, tongue-twisters, or nonsense phrases which were both a source of verbal fun. They could also be used by adults as a way to fend off curious children’s inquiries. Both Arnds in Central Dakota Germans (p. 193) and Height in Homesteaders on the Steppe (p. 274)include short lists of these, such as the following:

·     Was isch? – Mehr Wasser als Fisch.

(What is it? – More water than fish.)

·     Hasch Hunger? – Schlupf in e Gagumer.

(Hungry? – Crawl in a cucumber.)

·     Wo gehnst du nah? – Ins loch, Bohne lese.

(Where are you going? – Into a hole, to pick beans.)

In German Russian life, there were also a variety of phrases which were exchanged when meeting someone; and these short expressions – seasoned with humor, moral insight, teasing, risqué references, or just hard truth – were the perfect vehicle of expression for a hardworking people who did not want to waste time chatting, but who also wanted to have a little spass, or fun. Below is a parting one-liner to visitors, who, on their long way home might ponder this conundrum:

·     Fahr nit so schnell, aber macht das Hamm kommsch.

(Don’t drive too fast, but make home come quickly.)

Other playful exchanges – in which the reply to the initial query Wie gehts? – may have several meanings to a German dialect speaker, including a risqué one:

·   Question: Wie gehts? (How are things going? Reply: Yah, was nit hangst, muss stehen. (Whatever doesn’t hang must stand.)

    These exchanges seem to fit intoa category termed “ritual insults” by Apte, who maintains that this kind of repartee serves to “reduce tension” and maintain social order. (p 172) One can only conjecture about the value of these exchanges in a small, closed village of German colonists in Russia, where social order was important:

·    Two people meet after a long time. One of them says, “I haven’t seen you for a long time.” The other replies, “Yah, what did I put in your way?” (“Yah, was han ich dir in der weg gelegt?”)

Some “ritual insults” involve replies to “thank you”; these replies might use either playful nonsense rhyming, or a proverb – like retort, as below:

·     Dangashay; Du hash so langa Zahn.

(Thank you; you have such long teeth.)

·     Dangashay; Bezahl die Schulde dann brauchts nit danke.

(Thank you; Pay your debts then you wouldn’t have to thank anyone.)

In German Russian life there is also a rich tradition of what Mahadev Apte calls “linguistic humor.” This kind of humor includes overall misuse of language, on purpose and otherwise, along with puns, plays on words, and “reinterpretation of familiar words and phrases.” (p.179)

German Russia jokes often “misinterpret” similar sounding German dialect words to create double entendres: words with two meanings, one of which is often risqué. These double meanings can also arise from the use of the diminutive, an extra la tacked onto the end of some words. Examples of this kind are too graphic to examine here. Sometimes alternate meanings are embedded in the dialect phrase itself, as in the following:

·     A person might ask you in German dialect if you know someone, to which you might reply: Yah, Ich wass wer du meinsch, aber Ich Weiss yah nit wo ich ihn her nema sot. (I know who you mean, but I don’t know where I should take that person). The wo ich ihn her nema sot can be understood both literally, as in “where should I take that person”; but by the German dialect speaker, that phrase has another, sexual meaning.

BHow To Have Fun In Two Languages At The Same Time

     Some of the short humor of the German Russians can be quite complex. For example, sometimes members of this ethnic group combined nonsense ditties, greetings, and bits of two languages, English and German – all in one or two phrases. Punning of this sort – using similar sounding words with different meanings from two different languages – is termed “interlingual.” (Apte, p. 181)

·         Was isch los? (What is wrong?)

          Bread isch loafs. (Bread is loafs.)

·         Wie gehts?

          The gates OK, but the fence is broke.

       

      Some “interlingual” humor is quite playful and sometimes just goofy or nonsense humor. However some statements, behind the silliness, carry another message. For example, one might infer from the veiled hint, “the fence is broke,” that things might not be going too good for the speaker. (Just as in High German usage ziemlich gut means that not everything is right in the speaker’s life.)

      Out of expediency, or just by accident, English and German phrases were sometimes blended, creating odd linguistic construction which could be a source of amusement, as below:

      Everyone knows what "below zero" means. German has a similar phrase, unter null. Once I heard both of them used together by one of my brother's friends, who said, as he came in from outside, "Yah, it must really be 'under-below' today."

     There was a similar linguistic construction - I'm told this is a true story - which grew out of an 

     encounter in a grocery store in my hometown. An elderly gentleman was relating a bit of local news to a fellow shoppe, who wanted to know about the origin of the information. Disturbed that his credibility was being questioned, the elderly fellow telling the story replied with a huff, "Yah, I saw it standing in the newspaper." - which is a literal translation from the German phrase, es steht, which is used to indicate that it was printed, as in the Bible, or in a newspaper.

Narrative Jokes

     Besides the shorter humor outlined above, this ethnic group also had longer jokes which used a narrative or story-line. In his Memories of the Black Sea Germans, Joseph Height has collected and printed a few of the longer variety. (pp. 216-221)

     Based on occasional references to life on the steppes, or to Russian locales, Height's jokes obviously date from the time of the German colonies in Russia. Tame in content, moralistic in tone, these examples illustrate fairly typical German Russian attitudes, such as the balance needed between "faith" in God and reliance upon one's own resources.

     In Paradise on the Steppe Height mentions the German Russian "lack of Puritan inhibitions, and their penchant for ribald anecdotes." (p. 143) Despite that, Height offers no examples; and there are few, if any, collected narrative jokes, or, for that matter, one-liners or other short humor, either from the steppes or the prairies, which show that penchant.

     Some of the longer narrative jokes I've collected from the oral tradition of the German Russians are ribald; but more importantly, they contain a gold mine of information about German Russian life, attitudes, and worldview. These jokes are like an archaeological site, for imbedded within them are markers of the long, and often difficult, historical journey of this ethnic group.

     Some of the people who told these jokes often insisted that they "actually happened" and that they were based on real people and incidents. Below I've translated a couple into English; I've included punch lines in both English and German dialect. One of these jokes which bears closer scrutiny is "Not Until the Combine is Paid.

 Once there was a very poor farm family with three boys. The oldest, who was eighteen, told his father one day, "I'd really like to have a car." "No," his father said. We just bought a combine. Until that combine is paid you won't get a car."

     Several days later the second boy, who was fourteen, told the father, "I'd really like to have a bicycle.

     "No," his father said. "Your older brother won't get a car, and you won't get a bicycle — not until the combine is paid for."

     Finally the youngest, who was five, went up to his father one day and said, "Father, I'd really like a tricycle."

     "No," his father said. "The other boys won't get anything, and neither will you — not until that combine is paid."

     Oh my, the youngest ran away, screaming and throwing a tantrum — until he looked up and saw a hen coming across the yard, with the rooster in pursuit.

     When the rooster tried to get onto the hen, the boy booted the rooster aside and said, "You Satan, you can walk too, until that

     Punch line translation: Du Sutton, laufst au bisch der combine bezahit itsch. (Schultz)

     Most longer German Russian jokes that I've collected contain many of the same elements as in "Not Until the Combine is Paid." The narrative, or story line, is in English, German, or a combination of the two languages. The punch line is invariably in German dialect; and the joke includes a number of references to rural prairie life, along with a few key English words, which are clear indicators that the joke takes place in America.

     Identifiably German Russian, these long jokes, just as Height's jokes, focus on issues that grow out of this ethnic group's experience, moral attitudes, or values. In the case of the "Not Until the Combine Is Paid" joke, the concern is with making careful purchases and prudent use of money. But the "Combine" joke is different from Height's jokes in one major respect: the humor hinges on a sexual reference in the punch line.

     Most of the longer jokes I've collected and translated include, in addition to the German dialect punch line, other shorter comedic elements, like name calling, such as the Du Sutton, or colorful exclamations like Grossa Elend. These phrases, when given verbal emphasis by the joke teller, seem to operate as cues for laughter, at least to German Russian ears.

     Some jokes gathered from the German Russian oral tradition use other groups, such as Englishmen, Russians, or, as in our next example, Norwegians, as the butt of the joke. 

     Once there was a young man who went into the hospital for an operation on his brain. After they'd removed his brain, they placed it in clear fluid of a glass jar so it could be examined. When the nurses and doctors gathered around to observe the brain more closely, the young man escaped. They hunted high and low for him, but couldn't find him. For three days the hunt went on, but to no avail. They had his brain, but not him. After three years, they finally found him. He was in a Norwegian school, teaching. (Schultz)

     German Russians didn't only aim their jokes at other ethnic groups; they also aimed their jokes at German Russians from other locales or at German Russians of different faiths from themselves. In Russia, German colonists kept to their own village and faith, whether it was Catholic, or Protestant. On the American prairie this tradition of marrying within their own faith continued until well past the middle of the twentieth century. Here is an example of a short, fairly simple joke, which turns the table on a couple of prejudiced Protestants. 

     Once there was a Catholic nun who broke her arm. She was walking down the street in town when she was approached by two bachelors who asked what happened because her arm was in a cast. 

      "Oh," the nun said. "I fell in the bathtub."

As they walked on, one of the bachelors turned to the other and said, "What's a bathtub?"

The other said, "How should I know. I'm 

not Catholic." (Die andere hat gesagt, Wie 

soil ich wisse? Ich bin nit Katholische.)

How To Laugh With Lizards

     Jewish humor, which has enriched American life, has much in common with German Russian humor. They share a root language, for Yiddish is a German dialect spelled with Hebrew letters. In addition to these similarities, both ethnic groups have jokes which contain more harshness than merriment. That kind of humor, which in Jewish tradition is called "laughing with lizards," is illustrated by the following:

·    Mrs. Bloomberg was complaining to her neighbor about the rats in her house: "I tried rat poison, but it doesn't work."

     "Have you tried giving them rat biscuits?" asked her neighbor.

     "If they don't like what we have in our kitchen," Mrs. Bloomberg said. "Let them starve."

     As we can see from the next joke, which comes from McIntosh County, North Dakota, that type of bitter humor is also familiar to German Russians:

·    In the first years on the prairie, there was an unmarried man named Jacob who went to his neighbor and said, "I've just taken up a claim of land, which has many stones on it. So now I need a wife to help me pick those rocks."

The neighbor said that he knew just the woman for Jacob and directed him to a nearby farm.

"Eva is tough and strong. She'll get those stones picked for you."

Several months passed, and the neighbor finally meets up with this Jacob again. He 

asks Jacob how it went with Eva. Jacob replies, "During my first visit to Eva's house, I thought that she could bake really good raisin bread. But when I started to eat it, I found out those weren't raisins but flies. But I married her anyway, and, great misery, I never would have believed that those rocks could get picked so fast."

"I told you Eva was just the person to help you," the neighbor said. "But I still don't know how you managed to get those rocks picked so fast."

"Well, I'll tell you," Jacob said. "She was in the box, and ran the whip. I was out in the fields picking stones. Better a heart attack than a crack from Eva's whip."

Punch line in German dialect: Sie war im box mit grossa Beltsch, und ich war daraus und hap stan gelast. Lieve ein Herz schlak wie ein Eva schlak.

(Ketterling)

That theme of adjustment to American life and the accompanying economic struggle was common in Jewish jokes of the previous era. Groucho Marx 

used to tell the following joke: 'When I first came to this county I didn't have a nickel in my pocket," Marx said. "Now I have a nickel in my pocket."

Some scholars have indicated that the kinds of oral humor which survive in a society are those relevant to, or which reflect an important issue of, the existing cultural situation. (Apte, p. 264; Kersten p. 39). In modem Jewish humor, as the fortunes of that group have improved, jokes about the struggle to gain an economic foothold have disappeared. But with the German Russians, jokes of that kind still circulate. For example, on the "Ger Rus list serv," a German Russian web site, we still can find jokes like the following:

• A woman of German Russian descent, whose husband had just died, went to the small town newspaper office to make sure that the obituary of her recently deceased husband was printed.

"50 cents a word," the obituary editor said. "Let it read: Konrad Scherer died," the widow replied. "But there is a seven word minimum for all obituaries," the editor said. "Well then," the widow replied, without missing a beat. "Let it read: Konrad Scherer died. 1984 pickup for sale."

Another theme which Jewish humor introduced was that of the "loser" or "the fool," a character which runs counter to the more heroic American folk type. This "fool" was the extreme version of the "little man," or common man, whose strength is sometimes in his weakness, like the Jew who finds himself on a battlefield, and cries out, "Stop shooting. Someone might, God forbid, lose an eye." (Wisse, p. 23)

There are a lot of "fool," or noodle jokes in German Russian humor too. Some of these most likely derive from immigrant themes, the stranger in a strange land experience. Here is a "fool" joke set in rural south-central North Dakota during the automobile era, but it reflects prairie isolation and the continuing adjustment from traditional ways to the ways of the wider world:

·         There was a hardworking farmer who lived near the small town of Streeter in south central North Dakota. Only rarely did he venture from his farm and then just to deliver his crops to the town elevator or to get supplies. But one day he decided to venture out and visit his cousin, who lived a ways to the south, in the small town of Ellendale.

With his wife beside him, he drove his car onto the first highway near his home. The sign said "Highway 32," so that was how fast he drove. It was a slow journey, but eventually they came to another blacktop road, and this time the sign said "Highway 46," so he drove a little faster. Finally, when they came to another road, which was marked "Highway 281," the farmer turned to his wife and said, sternly, "Hold onto yourself. Now we're going to drive fast."

Translation of punch line: Hep dich 

Welb, jetzt fahren wir wiedich schnell.

Some Stories On Ethnic Humor And The Role of Ethnic Humor In Our Democratic Society

When they first arrived in this country, some German Russians were called "dumb Rooshlans," a term even later generations resented. This lack of understanding and prejudice escalated during the WWI era, particularly in less isolated areas than North Dakota's German Russian triangle. In Texas, South Dakota, and Nebraska, where the easily identifiable immigrants were viewed as unpatriotic, many legal restrictions were leveled against the use of the German language. There were also many threats, some of which were carried out. (Luebke, pp. 31-47)

That era clearly outlined differences between German Russian immigrants and their neighbors. It was clear that there were differences in power, authority, and status. One theory maintains that ethnic humor develops as a means of a minority group to fight back against a dominant group.

According to Pratt, a minority group, such as German Russians, might use "autoethnographic texts," and such skills such as storytelling, parody, and bilingualism, to respond to those differences in power, authority, and status. (p. 183-194)

Here is a joke my mother sometimes told me, which seems to illustrate Pratt's theory:

·         In the early years on the prairie, there was an elderly German from Russia grandmother on an infrequent trip from her homestead to town to get supplies.

In a dry goods store, this alta grossmutter, browses around. The storekeeper finally asks her in English: "How may I help you?"

Nodding and pointing to an atomizer of perfume on the counter, our old granny asks, venturing into English as best she knows, if he could please "shiet a little into my hand." Of course the storekeeper, who didn't speak German, can only stare back, horrified and embarrassed at what he thinks the harmless old granny wants.

This joke is "bilingual": the text or narration completely in English, except for the one word in German dialect, "shiet," which the storekeeper misunderstands. If we examine this joke in light of Pratt's theory, we notice that the humor fights against the stereotype that the German Russians were ignorant.

The storekeeper, who does not speak German dialect, in Pratt's view at least, would represent the main street businessmen, most of whom at the time the joke is set ("in the early years on the prairie") were non-German Russian. That was generally the situation, as we can see from the last names of main street business owners, as listed in Spirit of Wishek: Wishek Golden Jubilee Book 1898--1948. (pp. 3-5).

And our harmless granny, viewed the same way, represents the German Russian farmers who'd settled in such heavy numbers around the town.

Following Pratt's theory, we can also surmise that there might have been some friction, or even prejudice, between some storekeepers and their German Russian clients; or, at least, some struggle to understand each other. No doubt a few German Russian shoppers felt ignorant, or backward, not knowing much English; and the storekeepers and businessmen might even have viewed them the same way and treated them accordingly.

But the ignorant person in this joke is not, of course, the German Russian grandmother, but the clerk who doesn't know that "shiet" is German dialect for spray or pour. (High German verb, schutten), and so Pratt would see this as evidence that the German Russians were fighting back against how the "majority" viewed them.

There are, besides Pratt's theory, a variety of other theories which examine the role and purpose of ethnic humor. Some scholars, such as Apte, state the obvious, that humor in general, including ethnic humor, "serves the purpose of pleasure and entertainment." Apte also maintains that ethnic humor, even If it uses another ethnic group as the butt of the humor — such as our earlier "brain" joke, which pokes fun at Norwegians — does not necessarily make the listeners, or the tellers of such jokes; hos-tile or aggressive. (p. 145)

Jansen, however, takes a more complicated view of ethnic humor. First, along with many other scholars, he would agree that jokes which disparage another group, like our "brain" joke, act as a unifying force in group identity. But he also says that such "exoteric" jokes have their origin in "fear, mystification about, or resentment of the group to which one does not belong." (p. 46); and that the result of such jokes are that they "mold" negative attitudes towards those — i.e. the Norwegians — towards whom the humor is directed. (p. 44)

Most interesting, however, Jansen would see much of German Russian humor — the "exoteric jokes"; the numerous folk proverbs; and even the "ritual" greetings familiar to only those of German Russian background — as evidence of this ethnic group's isolation, either geographic or cultural, or both. (p. 49)

Some scholars, like Lowe, point out that ethnic jokes actually work to "mediate conflicts between groups" by bringing differences, and stereotypes out into the open. (pp. 441--442) Similarly, Kersten maintains ethnic humor's value lies in its ability to cast a critical eye onto the dominant culture. (p. 16)

Leveen indicates that ethnic group members are more sensitive to issues of identity; and that ethnic humor is important because it marks and clarifies boundaries; reinforces a sense of collective identity; helps to "define ethnicity positively"; and though some ethnic jokes may be understood to confirm stereotypes, those same jokes also show that the teller of the joke intends to overcome those stereotypes. (pp. 29, 42, 60).

Further study of German Russian humor, and ethnic humor in general, is important because, as citizens of a multicultural democracy, we are all concerned with finding the best way to live together, to become full members of American society. Do jokes about other groups, or jokes that only some people understand, help or hinder our living together, our getting along?

In our current era, with so many different ethnic groups and nationalities becoming citizens of our country, German Russians serve as a good example of a group which has already gone through a lengthy process of assimilation into the American mainstream.

Much can be learned from the experience of this ethnic group, who despite differences with mainstream attitudes and ideas, eventually merged with and enriched the American character. My view is that humor, which is essentially democratic, creates community; and one way that the German Russians adapted was by means of their humor —which allowed them to endure difficult lives; to get along with other groups; and also to keep part of their culture and birthright, as they made the long journey from their old peasant life into the modernity of America.

So, I would like to leave you with this old German Russian saying for when people depart from each other:

Nichts fur Ungluck, aber sau       kievel fur streu hut —

"I wish you nothing but good luck, but please, as you go, wear this metal slop pail for a straw hat, just in case."

An Experience Of Traditional Lakota Storytelling

By Dakota, North Dakota Humanities Council

Fort Yates, ND - The Lakota people call the month of February Čhaŋnápĥopa Wi (The Moon of Popping Trees) or Thiyŏĥeyunka Wi (The Moon of Frost in The Lodge). These are names to articulate the coldest months of Waniyetu (Winter) when Makĥoče (Grandmother Earth) was at rest.

The needle dropped below zero and the only news the wind carried was that more cold was on the way. Over a hundred people gathered together over the course of two evenings at Sitting Bull College in Fort Yates, ND in the heart of winter, to hear a Lakota visitor, an elder from South Dakota, share the Lakota Creation Story and Lakota Star Knowledge.

The room was filled with the murmur of raucous laughter, playful teasing and the cries of hungry babies when an assuming man entered the room and quietly prepared at a table near the front of the room. His name, Rick Two Dogs.

Two Dogs, an Oglala Lakota from the Pine Ridge Sioux Indian Reservation, began the first evening with a little exposition that the stories he was going to share were told in the lodges around the campfire long ago. These were the kind of stories that were shared by the Lala and Uŋči (Grandfathers and Grandmothers) and one can feel the weight of centuries and tradition echo in Two Dogs’ tranquil voice when he began the evening with a prayer of Whŏpila, Thanksgiving.

The attention and quiet in the room which followed was like the crack of a whip, sudden and sharp, and even the youngest of children quickly stood in quiet respect when prayer was invoked.

When the prayer concluded, a traditional horseman named Jon reiterated to the mass what many already know, that elders eat first, then visitors before the rest. Young women dashed off to the front of the line to prepare bowls of bapa soup, a traditional soup made with corn and jerked meat, wŏžapi, a type of pudding traditionally made with chokecherries but for these two evenings is made with blueberries, fresh fried bread and steaming black coffee for the elders. Everyone else formed a line and the jocular murmur of laughter and teasing among friends returned.

When hunger was satiated and thirst was slaked, Jon introduced Two Dogs in Lakota and English. Two Dogs isn’t just unassuming, he’s self-deprecating, and is quick to attribute or credit others for the stories he shared, his Lala especially, who witnessed the Battle of Little Bighorn when he was ten years old.

Two Dogs recalled his Lala fondly. He took his meals seated on the floor, speared his food with his knife and refused the aid of a fork. He would look askance at anyone who offered him a napkin, and wiped his hands on his braids. During the long winter nights, his Lala put a few sprigs of cedar on the wood-burning stove, the kerosene lamps were doused, and firelight lit the home.

When Two Dogs opened the floor to field questions, one man asked, “Why are these stories told only in the winter?” Two Dogs replied that he once asked the Lakota scholar Albert White Hat the same thing and was told that if the stories were told out of season, one would get a hairy butt crack, but quickly reminded the crowd too, that the stories were shared when the world was at rest.

The following night, Two Dogs and his wife asked everyone to imagine the room as though it were one great lodge with one entrance. They divided the room between the sexes with men on the left half of the lodge and the women on the right. Between the men and women they explained was a path, a path of wisdom. The men sat in descending order from eldest to youngest going left from the path, just as the women sat in descending age from eldest to youngest, only they sat in order right from the path. It was an exercise in tradition and order.

Two Dogs’ stories are the traditional stories of the people, and should best be listened to in person, on a cold winter night, after supper, in the natural dark.

Haŋhépi čhaŋečela héčhuŋpi (This was done only at night).

Waniyetu čhaŋečela héčhuŋpi (This was done only in the winter).

Punk Archaeology, An Un-Conference Experience

A photo of the evening crowd at the NDHC Punk Archaeology un-conference in downtown Fargo, North Dakota.

By Aaron L. Barth, The Edge Of The Village

Fargo, N.D. - On the evening of February 2nd, 2013, at Sidestreet Grille and Pub in downtown Fargo, North Dakota, the first global Punk Archaeology un-conference unfolded with song, bullhorn, academic rants and discussion, and more bullhorn and song. The event was simple enough: get a group of scholars together in a tavern, get an audio-video system and a pitcher or two of beer, and have these scholars openly talk about and consider why and how “punk” might be part and parcel to the disciplines of archaeology, history, and art history.

Scholars from North Dakota State University, the University of North Dakota, Concordia College, and Franklin and Marshall College (Pennsylvania) contributed to the discussion. Considering that a winter storm pummeled central and eastern North Dakota that night — that evening, the North Dakota Department of Transportation shut down I-94 between Bismarck and Dickinson — an approximate audience of 300-to-400 visitors to the 5-hour Punk Archaeology un-conference was considered more than a success. One noticeable difference of conferences compared to un-conferences, at least noted by University of North Dakota’s Bill Caraher, was that at punk archaeology un-conferences, scholars are introduced with a bullhorn, and then they are required to give their talks through the same PA that the punk bands play through.

Dr. Kostis Kourelis, punk archaeologist and art historian with Franklin and Marshall College (Pennsylvania), gives his thoughts on punk archaeology through a PA after being introduced with a bullhorn.

In the weeks that led up to this event, a variety of Red River Valley media outlets contacted me, as they were understandably interested in what was meant by the phrase Punk Archaeology, and also what an “un-conference” entailed. Without me rehashing everything that was said, here are the hyperlinks to the media punk archaeology frenzy. Bob Harris of KFGO 790AM in Fargo-Moorhead interviewed me on the evening of January 21, 2013. The first segment of that interview is linked to here, and the second installment islinked to here. On January 23, Kris Kerzman put together a Punk Archaeology write-up for the The Arts Partnership blog here, Kayleigh Johnson ran a Punk Archaeology story in The High Plains Reader on January 31, 2013 linked to here, and The North Dakota Free Press covered it on February 1, 2013 here. The Fargo Forum covered the story in two different instances, once in a January 23, 2013 blurb here, and John Lamb’s January 29, 2013 write-up of it here.  Steve Poitras asked me to chat about this event during his February 2nd, Saturday morning Fargo-Moorhead radio show on 101.9 FM from 7:30-to-8:15AM. So I did that too. This was what the official press covered, and it went over well.

Several additional sponsors of Punk Archaeology included Laughing Sun Brewing (Bismarck), Tom Isern’s Center for Heritage Renewal (NDSU), the Cyprus Research Fund (UND), and the Working Group in Digital and New Media at the University of North Dakota. In all, it was an event that brought together North Dakota State University, the University of North Dakota, and the North Dakota Humanities Council, among others.

In closing, here his Bill Caraher’s blog-spot recap of Punk Archaeology linked to here. It happened. And it was awesome. And there is light banter about doing it again.

Aaron L. Barth is a member of the ND Humanities Council Board, an archaeologist and a North Dakota historian. Visit his work online at: The Edge Of The Village.

Racing To Save A Language

The vesper landscape on the Standing Rock Sioux Indian Reservation. Barren Butte stands alone from the Barren Hill range. Photo by Dakota for The First Scout.

Lakota Language Nest, An Immersion School
Reviving A Language On The Knife’s Edge Of Extinction

By Dakota for the North Dakota Humanities Council

It is the heart of winter on the Standing Rock Sioux Indian Reservation. Gleaming white snow blankets the landscape, the Missouri River has turned to ice and the crisp cold air somehow makes every sound sharper–the peal of a bell seems to carry an impossible distance from town–but the sounds of children playing, laughing and singing warms everything.

The children are in pre-school, ages three to four. Their high-pitched play echoes down the hall when their door opens. The pitch of little voices sounds like what one would hear in any other early child care service across the state, but listen closer and it becomes obvious that this isn’t like any other day care service. The children speak a mix of English and Lakota amongst themselves, but the teachers strictly speak only Lakota in the classroom.

This preschool is called Lakȟól’iyapi Wahóȟpi, the Lakota Language Nest. It is an immersion school still in its first year of practice and based on the language nest model which was designed by the Maori people in New Zeeland. The language nest was established to raise language loss awareness on the reservation and to raise up a new generation of first-language Lakota speakers.

The language nest is one part of the Lakota Language Education Action Program (LLEAP) designed for students to go to college and pursue language studies. Students who are in the program are given financial aid to learn Lakota and gain proficiency in the language with the caveat that LLEAP participants must teach the language. Many of the nest’s learners have parents participating in LLEAP at Sitting Bull College.

Lakota language teacher, Tipiziwin Young engages a little boy, answering him only in Lakota.

Tipiziwin Young, a second-language teacher in the Lakȟól’iyapi Wahóȟpi program, estimates that there are about 200 fluent Lakota speakers left on the Standing Rock Sioux Indian Reservation. “A few years back, I was facetious with Jan Ullrich about who I am and where I’m from when he said to me, ‘You’re language will die.’ He didn’t say it to be mean. He said it to be real. I was moved to silence. I was provoked. The loss of my language motivated me to learn it.” Young is an enrolled member of the Standing Rock Sioux Tribe, born and raised on the reservation, and a mother to three children. “I teach here, then go home and stay in Lakota for my children to learn.”

A little boy with a mop of brown hair approaches me. In a quiet unassuming voice he introduces himself to me. Thinking to obey the rule of the classroom, I go down on one knee and respond, “Hau. Dakota émaĥčiyapi lo.” I gesture to him, an open palm when I greet him, then gesture to my heart. I place my right fist above my left fist over my heart, then gesture with my right hand–index finger–to my mouth when I say my name. I’ve seen few others use the Plains Indian sign and gesture language and the signs I made were for “my” or “mine” and for “name.” I don’t know that his little one has seen the old sign and gesture but he nods his head and smiles.

Sacheen Whitetail-Cross prepares a hands-on activity involving colors and rice for the Nest. 

Sacheen Whitetail-Cross, Project Director of LLEAP and the Lakȟól’iyapi Wahóȟpi at Sitting Bull College, is preparing an activity with rice for the children. For Whitetail-Cross the greatest challenge with the language nest has been to “stay” in Lakota, “I spent a week in Washington DC, speaking nothing but English. When I came back to the classroom, during an activity, I asked a couple of the children, ‘What are you doing?’ in English. They were as shocked as I was.”

One observation that Whitetail-Cross shared about the children of the language nest is that they are showing ownership of Lakota. At a recent program, they heard a Lakota speaker, and many of them told Whitetail-Cross, “That’s my language.”

Tom Red Bird speaks only Lakota with a little boy as they work on a puzzle together.

Tom Red Bird, the first-language teacher on staff at the Lakȟól’iyapi Wahóȟpi, approaches a group of little boys near the window. One mischievous boy stands on a heater behind the short bookcase which was put next to the window. “Héčé šni! [Don’t do that!]” Red Bird says and gestures to the boy to get down. The boy casually climbs down as though he were going to get down anyway and rejoins the other boys.

Perhaps an indication of how comfortable the children are is use of Lakota is in their own little conversations. Two of the children, a boy and a girl are playing with Legos. They began to argue over a few choice bricks in their construction. The boy wants a brick that the girl is already using. As he reaches for it he says in English, “That’s mine!” She retorts in Lakota, “Šni! Šni! Héčé šni! No, don’t do that!” and keeps her brick.

 Two children sort out who gets to play with what in a discussion which involved a mix of English and Lakota. 

A father steps into the classroom. Chase Iron Eyes is his name. His daughter Azilya is among the nest participants. “I heard of this program through community members,” says Iron Eyes, “My wife and I were immediately drawn to it. We wanted her to have this opportunity.” Iron Eyes commutes each week day from Mandan, ND. “She’s not a morning baby. She fights every morning.” He believes the effort is worth the struggle.

Iron Eyes relates to me that Azilya experienced culture shock for the first two weeks then she started to like it and began to speak Lakota at home. Azilya’s older siblings have begun asking their sister and father how to say things in Lakota, and she corrects her father’s Lakota grammar.

Chase Iron Eyes, Esq., founding contributing writer of The Last Real Indians has his mind going a hundred different directions, but his actions always serve the interests of the American Indian people. Profile photo of Chase Iron Eyes from The Last Real Indians.

Iron Eyes doesn’t believe that language revitalization today equals a renaissance. “Its something that’s been building up now since the 1960s and ‘70s,” he points out, “native activists were and are proponents of language practice. It’s not a renaissance because you live it.” Iron Eyes is active with the community and engaged as a parent in the Lakȟól’iyapi Wahóȟpi program.

The children in the Lakȟól’iyapi Wahóȟpi are getting to be good speakers. “Their American accent is going away,” says Red Bird. They hold hands and pray before lunch. Little hands clasped in little hands. When the prayer of thanksgiving, the Wota Wačéki, is finished the children say together in unison, “Mitakuyé Oyasiŋ,” the traditional way the Lakota conclude prayers meaning “All My Relatives.” During lunch one of the little boys stops eating and spontaneously breaks into song, singing in the Lakota language.

Tom Red Bird takes a moment to finish a project while the children are engaged in an activity.

After the parents have picked up their children, Red Bird deeply breathes what sounds like a sigh of satisfaction. The only relief he shares is that the language is spoken again daily. “I like it,” Red Bird says in English, “I get to speak my language all day. It feels good.” Red Bird is originally from the Cheyenne River Sioux Indian Reservation, and had taught Lakota at United Tribes Technical College for several years. “Our Lakota people get lonesome to be home or go home, and language is part of that. That’s where our heart is. I go home to get reenergized.”

Red Bird has hopes for the children, the tĥakŏža, as he refers to them. “If this keeps going, maybe in ten years we’ll have a new group of Lakota speakers who speak the language correctly.” Red Bird is a great-grandfather and he speaks only Lakota to his great-grandson. His optimism for what can only be called a language revival pours out of him, “We have a culture and tradition, our spirituality, a land base, and our relationship with all of those is best expressed with words found only in our language. It is a sacred language.”

Sacheen Whitetail-Cross loves her job, but not nearly as she has come to love the children she teaches at the Nest. She hugs a learner and offers words of encouragement to him. 

Whitetail-Cross’ hopes for language revival echoes Red Bird’s, but her optimism is laced with concerns for the program, “Funding is an issue.” The Lakȟól’iyapi Wahóȟpi program received funding from an Administration of Native Americans grant for three years. The first year of programming consisted of developing preschool curriculum, training for language educators, and classroom startup. The Lakȟól’iyapi Wahóȟpi is in its second year of funding, its first year of operation.

The North Dakota Humanities Council recently awarded a $10,000 grant to the Lakȟól’iyapi Wahóȟpi program to assist the program with publication of language materials, but its not enough. Both Whitetail-Cross and Red Bird have expressed the dire need for age-appropriate language materials. There isn’t much published.

 Artist and author S.D. Nelson is also an enrolled member of the Standing Rock Sioux Tribe. Whitetail-Cross is working with Nelson and the State Historical Society of South Dakota to acquire permissions to print Nelson's works in the Lakota language. Buy your copy from the 

South Dakota State Historical Society Press.

Once a week, Red Bird will take a children’s book, translate the text, and then read the story to the children. Having extra copies of Red Bird’s translations for parents to take home and read with their children would help to reinforce that day’s language lesson. “We desperately need more language materials,” Red Bird said.

Jan Ullrich, linguistic director of the Lakota Language Consortium, shares Red Bird’s concern for speaking the Lakota language correctly. Ullrich has had a hand in the development of a standard Lakota orthography for the New Lakota Dictionary. We converse on Skype getting to know a little of one another before business. Ullrich is from the Czech Republic. As a little boy he admired the survival story of the American Indian. In 1992, he travelled to the Pine Ridge Sioux Indian Reservation and made friends with the Fire Thunder and Looking Horse families and came to learn Lakota.

Jan Ullrich may come from the Czech Republic but his heart is Lakota. Visit his work online at the Lakota Language Consortium.

Ullrich sends me the letters t, o, k and a. He then asks me to pronounce what he’s spelled. I reply TOH-kah which can mean “enemy,” then follow up with toh-KAH which can mean “first.” Ullrich then sends me the texts Tĥoka and Tĥoká. The accent marks take a moment to get used to, but the new standard orthography he employs has me pronouncing Lakota correctly when I read it.

Ullrich’s standard orthography isn’t embraced by all Lakota speakers, nor is it the first effort at standard orthgraphy he admits. Sometime back, a Lakota man named Curly from the Cheyenne River Sioux Indian Reservation developed a thirty-six character alphabet. The main drawback with this alphabet for modern Lakota speakers is that it involves learning and remembering entirely new symbols. The new standard orthography makes use of the modern keyboard and letters with sounds Lakota students learned with English, the only addition are marks for accent, aspirants, glottal sounds and glottal stops.

Jan Ullrich is the editor of the New Lakota Dictionary, but being the editor means little to Ullrich who credits several Lakota people who've contributed to this work. Support the Lakota Language Consortium and buy a copy of this dictionary or any other of their published Lakota language materials online at the Lakota Language Consortium Bookstore.

“Missionaries did a good job of starting the process of recording the language,” explains Ullrich, “But they ‘invented’ new words in the interest of literal word for word translation, rather than translation of concept for concept.” Thousands of entries in the Buechel and Riggs dictionaries should be carefully and critically examined according to Ullrich. These dictionaries should also be praised for bringing the Lakota and Dakota languages to the general public’s attention.

Ullrich recently joined the Lakȟól’iyapi Wahóȟpi via Skype to encourage the young learners and to offer courage to the language teachers. Like Red Bird, Ullrich believes that the key to language revitalizing is learning consistently and accurately.

Tipiziwin Young engages the children in an activity. The children enthusiastically respond with requests for pictures of various faces and feelings. 

Young gathers the children together in a circle on a soft blue carpet. A couple of the children take their time in getting to the circle. Young raises her voice a little, “Inaĥni!” she says, hurry. I know the word well from my own childhood and it becomes obvious that these young ones do too. “Iyotake, iyotake,” Young commands with the strong confidence that mother’s everywhere instinctively possess. Sit down, sit down, and they do so without argument.

She takes out a pen and paper and quickly draws a series of faces with a variety of expressions. The children respond somewhat in unison, “Iyokipiya!” “Wačiŋko!” Happy! Sad! The children tell her in Lakota what faces to draw next and she obliges. When they finish this exercise, they even take time to sing happy birthday to two of the boys, “Aŋpétu tuŋpi,” Young begins and the tĥakŏža sing following her cues. It is to the popular tune “Good morning to all” which was popularly appropriated to the Happy Birthday song, and it’s a close translation in Lakota, They day you were born.

Little voices singing in Lakota continue to echo in my mind when I leave the Lakȟól’iyapi Wahóȟpi, the Lakota Language Nest. It was spoken everyday in the days of warriors and legend. It was spoken everyday when the reservations were established.

The Bismarck Indian Boarding School for girls, 1933. 

Somehow along the way between then and now the language began to die through a variety of reasons. Some speakers were scarred from their experiences in learning English during the boarding school days. Some left the reservation and never returned, their children and grandchildren grew up speaking only English. Schools on the reservation teach only in English. Lakota became a language for church or special occasion.

These tĥakŏža speak the language in fun, in play, in prayer, and even in arguments. They can express themselves and articulate their feelings accurately through the knowledge of two languages. Perhaps English has too many words. There is a word for everything, a noun. It’s a language of things. Lakota is a language of description and relation, and that’s just what we need these days. 

Support the Lakȟól’iyapi Wahóȟpi, the Lakota Language Nest. Contact Sacheen Whitetail-Cross at Sitting Bull College at (701) 854-8034 or sacheenw@sbci.edu about what you can do to save the language.

Support the Lakota Language Consortium. Visit them online at www.lakhota.org. 

Or make a donation to the North Dakota Humanities Council. The NDHC will make sure that the Lakota Language Nest receives your support. Contact the NDHC at (701) 255-3360, or council@ndhumanities.org.