//essays//
Spring 2019
Spring 2019
Election Day in Boro Park
Pammy Brenner
As an outspoken Yiddish Studies major, I’m often asked to translate family documents, but the opportunity I received in August 2018 was of an entirely different nature. On Election Days, the Board of Elections (BOE) provides Chinese, Korean, and Spanish interpreters at certain poll sites, due to the Voting Rights Act of 1965 and the high percentages of limited English proficient (LEP) speakers. While this is a welcome gesture in encouraging voter participation, there are a number of LEP voters whose languages are not accounted for on Election Day. The Mayor’s Office of New York City began a pilot program to provide interpreters for 6 languages with high percentages of LEP constituents in NYC: Russian, Yiddish, Haitian Creole, Polish, Arabic, and Italian.
I speak a dialect of Yiddish called Klal Shprach, or Standard Yiddish, which is only spoken by self-proclaimed Yiddishists and academics. My Yiddish is foreign to the native speakers that roam the streets of Brooklyn, the majority of whom are Hasidic Jews. Despite our different dialects, I believed that I could still be of assistance, and so, when I heard about this initiative, I jumped at the chance to participate. The prospect of being a Yiddish language interpreter on Election Day thrilled me. I envisioned the fulfillment of many dreams: practicing Yiddish in a real-life setting, using my language skills to help people, making connections with Hasidic Jews, and performing a civic duty. Yiddish suddenly felt needed, urgently relevant, and I was prepared to show the world that “Yidish lebt,” that Yiddish is alive and well in the 21st century. After submitting an application, undergoing a proficiency test, and attending a four-hour training session, I was off to Boro Park to make all my Yiddish dreams come true.
What happened, of course, was anything but that. The first problem was bureaucratic: translators hired through the Mayor’s Office were not recognized by the Board of Elections, who viewed us as undercover electioneers. Whereas the BOE’s interpreters were seated inside the voting site, the Mayor’s interpreters were required to stay 100 feet away from the public school where the voting took place. Aside from the fact that we were there to help rather than electioneer, situating us so far from the voting booths inhibited our ability to assist voters. Instead of working at the poll site, I had to choose which street corner I thought more voters would walk by. Not only was it absurd to offer translation services to strolling pedestrians, without knowing if they were headed to vote, but anyone who realized that he needed assistance once already inside the public school would have no idea that 101 feet away sat an idle, but eager, Yiddish translator.
To make matters worse, working a 17-hour shift outside, in the freezing, cold, and stormy rain, was not exactly conducive to a productive work environment. As the Mayor’s Office refused to provide its interpreters with tents, my pathetic table was sopping wet, my flyers ruined, and I could barely keep myself from freezing to death. Once the table was flipped over by the wind, I knew that I had to find shelter. Each time I attempted to warm up and dry off in the public school, I was greeted by a police officer who told me that I had to exit the premises. As there were no stores willing to shelter me, I brought my chair to the awning of a private building and sat outside, watching the storm, hoping that I would not be kicked out of my semi-shelter once again.
Despite these challenges, my Election Day service could have still proven worthwhile—if only the City understood its Yiddish speakers. The interpreter program was organized by the Mayor’s Office of Immigrant Affairs, and this fact was prominently displayed on both the tablecloth and sign at my street corner. For the Hasidism for whom this service was created, the emblazonment of “Immigrant Affairs” on my booth made little sense to them. Almost none of them were born outside of New York, let alone outside of the United States. As native New Yorkers, why would any of them stop to consider that perhaps they were the “immigrants” that the City is referring to?
Unlike the other LEP voters in the Election Day program, the Yiddish speakers fall into a unique category. Their status as LEP constituents is an intentional and cultural-religious decision. As such, there are a number of considerations that the City failed to take into account, beyond just the blatant inaccuracy of calling New Yorkers “immigrants.” The choice of the Hasidic community to shield its community from English is tied into other cultural-religious practices, many of which are related to gender. Hasidic men are much less likely to know English than their female counterparts, as Hasidic women are provided with a more comprehensive secular education. That being the case, the City’s interpreter program would mainly be of assistance to men. These Yiddish-speaking men, who are shielded from English in order to maintain tradition and prevent contact with the irreligious world, also believe in strict gender segregation. Many of them bow their heads while walking outside so as not to even glimpse at women who are not their own wives. The confluence of their religious conviction in sex segregation, and my role as a female interpreter for them, proved to bear no fruit. Since the majority of Yiddish-speakers requiring translation services are men, and those same men will not speak to women, I was unable to catch their attention as they braved the rain to vote on Election Day. Although the Mayor’s Office maintained that every interpreter would to be paired with a partner, I was working alone. The presence of a male co-worker would have helped boost our effectiveness, and perhaps as a team we would have been able to convince voters to trust our free translation services.
Another point that the City failed to consider is the fact that Hasidim are wary of excessive government entanglement in their lives. Despite the self-promotional desire, emblazoning “NYC Mayor’s Office” on a booth designed for Hasidim made them suspicious of the City’s goals. Instead of being viewed as an altruistic civil servant, I received glares mostly from women, as though I were hired to use my Yiddish knowledge to lure Hasidic children away from their way of life. My job was not only thankless, but was repugnant to the people for whom it was created.
Considering that both the Board of Elections and my intended clients were distrustful of my motives, I realized my services were not needed. At the end of Election Day, I was wet, sick, and utterly dejected. The total number of Yiddish speakers that I assisted, over the course of 17 hours, was zero. By not considering the broader cultural norms of the Yiddish-speaking community in Boro Park, the Mayor’s Office failed to assist its LEP Hasidic constituents. Needless to say, when I received a call a few months later to offer my services again, I declined. Perhaps one day, when the City prioritizes understanding its voters over pretending to help them, I will sit at a translation booth on Election Day once again.
I speak a dialect of Yiddish called Klal Shprach, or Standard Yiddish, which is only spoken by self-proclaimed Yiddishists and academics. My Yiddish is foreign to the native speakers that roam the streets of Brooklyn, the majority of whom are Hasidic Jews. Despite our different dialects, I believed that I could still be of assistance, and so, when I heard about this initiative, I jumped at the chance to participate. The prospect of being a Yiddish language interpreter on Election Day thrilled me. I envisioned the fulfillment of many dreams: practicing Yiddish in a real-life setting, using my language skills to help people, making connections with Hasidic Jews, and performing a civic duty. Yiddish suddenly felt needed, urgently relevant, and I was prepared to show the world that “Yidish lebt,” that Yiddish is alive and well in the 21st century. After submitting an application, undergoing a proficiency test, and attending a four-hour training session, I was off to Boro Park to make all my Yiddish dreams come true.
What happened, of course, was anything but that. The first problem was bureaucratic: translators hired through the Mayor’s Office were not recognized by the Board of Elections, who viewed us as undercover electioneers. Whereas the BOE’s interpreters were seated inside the voting site, the Mayor’s interpreters were required to stay 100 feet away from the public school where the voting took place. Aside from the fact that we were there to help rather than electioneer, situating us so far from the voting booths inhibited our ability to assist voters. Instead of working at the poll site, I had to choose which street corner I thought more voters would walk by. Not only was it absurd to offer translation services to strolling pedestrians, without knowing if they were headed to vote, but anyone who realized that he needed assistance once already inside the public school would have no idea that 101 feet away sat an idle, but eager, Yiddish translator.
To make matters worse, working a 17-hour shift outside, in the freezing, cold, and stormy rain, was not exactly conducive to a productive work environment. As the Mayor’s Office refused to provide its interpreters with tents, my pathetic table was sopping wet, my flyers ruined, and I could barely keep myself from freezing to death. Once the table was flipped over by the wind, I knew that I had to find shelter. Each time I attempted to warm up and dry off in the public school, I was greeted by a police officer who told me that I had to exit the premises. As there were no stores willing to shelter me, I brought my chair to the awning of a private building and sat outside, watching the storm, hoping that I would not be kicked out of my semi-shelter once again.
Despite these challenges, my Election Day service could have still proven worthwhile—if only the City understood its Yiddish speakers. The interpreter program was organized by the Mayor’s Office of Immigrant Affairs, and this fact was prominently displayed on both the tablecloth and sign at my street corner. For the Hasidism for whom this service was created, the emblazonment of “Immigrant Affairs” on my booth made little sense to them. Almost none of them were born outside of New York, let alone outside of the United States. As native New Yorkers, why would any of them stop to consider that perhaps they were the “immigrants” that the City is referring to?
Unlike the other LEP voters in the Election Day program, the Yiddish speakers fall into a unique category. Their status as LEP constituents is an intentional and cultural-religious decision. As such, there are a number of considerations that the City failed to take into account, beyond just the blatant inaccuracy of calling New Yorkers “immigrants.” The choice of the Hasidic community to shield its community from English is tied into other cultural-religious practices, many of which are related to gender. Hasidic men are much less likely to know English than their female counterparts, as Hasidic women are provided with a more comprehensive secular education. That being the case, the City’s interpreter program would mainly be of assistance to men. These Yiddish-speaking men, who are shielded from English in order to maintain tradition and prevent contact with the irreligious world, also believe in strict gender segregation. Many of them bow their heads while walking outside so as not to even glimpse at women who are not their own wives. The confluence of their religious conviction in sex segregation, and my role as a female interpreter for them, proved to bear no fruit. Since the majority of Yiddish-speakers requiring translation services are men, and those same men will not speak to women, I was unable to catch their attention as they braved the rain to vote on Election Day. Although the Mayor’s Office maintained that every interpreter would to be paired with a partner, I was working alone. The presence of a male co-worker would have helped boost our effectiveness, and perhaps as a team we would have been able to convince voters to trust our free translation services.
Another point that the City failed to consider is the fact that Hasidim are wary of excessive government entanglement in their lives. Despite the self-promotional desire, emblazoning “NYC Mayor’s Office” on a booth designed for Hasidim made them suspicious of the City’s goals. Instead of being viewed as an altruistic civil servant, I received glares mostly from women, as though I were hired to use my Yiddish knowledge to lure Hasidic children away from their way of life. My job was not only thankless, but was repugnant to the people for whom it was created.
Considering that both the Board of Elections and my intended clients were distrustful of my motives, I realized my services were not needed. At the end of Election Day, I was wet, sick, and utterly dejected. The total number of Yiddish speakers that I assisted, over the course of 17 hours, was zero. By not considering the broader cultural norms of the Yiddish-speaking community in Boro Park, the Mayor’s Office failed to assist its LEP Hasidic constituents. Needless to say, when I received a call a few months later to offer my services again, I declined. Perhaps one day, when the City prioritizes understanding its voters over pretending to help them, I will sit at a translation booth on Election Day once again.
//PAMMY BRENNER is a junior in Barnard College. She can be reached at [email protected].
Photo courtesy of ABC7.
Photo courtesy of ABC7.