You’re Saying Good. Say Better: The Top Ten Elite Yeshivish Words And Expressions (Part 3)

By: By Ben Levi

For those joining us for the first time, this series began with a conversation overheard in a yeshiva carpool and evolved into an attempt to rank the Top Ten elite-knowledge yeshivishe words and expressions. Not the familiar vocabulary that has entered mainstream Jewish conversation, but those magnificent expressions that are second nature to the initiated, but largely indecipherable to everyone else. Six selections have already been presented, leaving us with the final four.

Before resuming the countdown, a question arose that strikes at the heart of this undertaking: Can a yeshivishe expression be too elite even for yeshivish people?

The question comes courtesy of an avid 5TJT reader who has been following this series with considerable interest. To protect his identity, I will refer to him only by his initials, D.H., as I assume he has no desire to become the public face of a movement he had no idea he joined.

D.H. respectfully submitted “back-tzeiner” for consideration, which is a Yinglish expression for back teeth or molars. The expression is used to convey speaking with force when delivering a rebuke. It has even been attributed to Rav Avigdor Miller’s teachings. Clearly, D.H. had done his homework.

But “back-tzeiner” may be a little too elite. There’s a sweet spot here. Gevaldik and avada have long since moved into general Jewish vocabulary. At the other extreme are words so obscure that even fluent yeshivishe speakers require three references, a letter from their Rosh Yeshiva, and proof of six consecutive winters in Lakewood before they will attempt to use them. The objective of this exercise is not to identify the top ten words known to the fewest people, but to identify the instantly recognizable words that you can’t improve upon in English, but baffle everyone else.

While I thank D.H. for his contribution, we had to exclude it on the basis that the average person would never use it. Fortunately, the inclusion committee has no appeals process.

And with that, we resume the countdown.

4. The Ois Spectrum

The prefix “ois” leads a remarkably varied life. At one end is oisgehalten, which describes an argument or sevara that is logically sound, internally consistent, and capable of surviving serious scrutiny. An idea may be creative, exciting, and brilliantly presented with impressive hand movements. But is it actually “oisgehalten”? Not always.

Travel farther down the spectrum and you encounter “oisgevept,” which is a Yiddish adjective meaning “having lost its freshness,” flat, exhausted, or fizzled out. A typical example is the bottle of soda by shalosh seudos that became oisgevept because someone forgot to screw on the cap.

Then there’s “oisgeloshn,” which is Yiddish for extinguished, turned off, burnt out, or wiped out. This is not someone who’s merely running low on energy; all the light has gone out of him and if you speak to him further, it’s more like talking to his voicemail.

And then there’s “oysvorf,” which means an outcast or a scoundrel, someone who has found himself outside the boundaries of respectable society. He’s not merely mischievous, difficult, or having an off day. He has reached a status that is called “oysvorf.”

3. Derhoibener

A derhoibener Yid is one who is elevated, exalted, and sublime. On the merits of the word alone, derhoibener should have been placed at number one. It is obscure, expressive, nearly impossible to replace with a single English word, and unmistakably yeshivish. In other words, it possesses virtually every requisite established by the ranking system whose standards I’ve been developing largely while writing this article.

There was only one problem. I had never heard of it.

The word entered the competition when a respected member of our kehillah with serious connections to a prominent Brooklyn yeshivishe mossad sent me what can only be described as an urgent alert. He had a compelling nomination: derhoibener. So, I immediately began investigating.

My source supplied the detail that made the nomination irresistible. While derhoibener means elevated, refined, or lofty, when applied in a yeshivish setting, it is particularly associated with one noun: bachur. “He’s a derhoibener bachur.” Now we’re talking.

A derhoibener bachur is not merely a good bachur or even a serious one. He’s striving, working on himself, looking to grow, headed somewhere spiritually, although not so quickly that people become concerned.

There is something particularly wonderful about the compliment. Nobody is saying the bachur has arrived. Arriving would almost miss the point. Derhoibener describes the direction of travel. He wants more from himself. He is moving upward. Possibly while staring into the middle distance.

So why is it placed at number three? Because I cannot award the top spot to a word whose meaning I had to obtain from a correspondent. I do have standards. Admittedly, they are becoming increasingly difficult to explain.

2. “You’re Saying Good. Say Better.”

This expression has taken English vocabulary, syntax, encouragement, criticism, and educational philosophy and compressed it into five words. This sentence only makes sense after you’ve spent sufficient time in a yeshiva. Putting this expression in the English Department would be like entering the rebbe in the class spelling bee. Technically eligible, but clearly competing at the wrong level.

This may be the purest expression of a yeshivah’s motivational system. The rebbe has just informed you that your answer is good. You experience a brief surge of pride, but before it can become spiritually dangerous, your rebbe adds: “Say better.” All deflated, you watch as the rebbe places his palm facing upward with a small forward motion of the hand as though the superior answer is hovering six inches in front of you and your only failure is your inability to grasp it. Only in the yeshivah world can praise and rejection occupy the same space and leave the student grateful for the encouragement.

1. Arain Getun.

Finally, number one: arain getun, which means to be deeply immersed, engrossed, occupied, and absorbed in something. As in, “He was so arain getun in his learning that he forgot his mother’s birthday.” But even that definition does not quite get to the real meaning. If you’re deeply involved in a sugya, you are learning it. If you are focused on a sugya, you are concentrating on it. If you are arain getun in the sugya, the sugya has become your place of residence.

But what earns arain getun the top spot is its range. A person can be arain getun in a sugya, a communal cause, a business problem, a shidduch, a chesed project, or the precise placement of tables at the annual dinner. The subject can be lofty or mundane. Somewhere along the way, ordinary involvement has crossed over into total investment.

And here’s where the word becomes truly magnificent: nobody has to tell you whether being arain getunis good. “He’s completely arain getun in the new chesed project.” Wow. “He has become completely arain getun in the seating arrangements.” Wow, but we may need to get him some help. Same word. Same intensity. Entirely different prognosis.

While English words force us to choose sides (dedicated versus unhealthily obsessed), arain getunrefuses to make that decision for us. It simply reports the state a person is in and we jump to our own conclusions.

And that, to me, is why it wins. The best yeshivishe words capture a whole condition that English keeps circling without quite landing on. Arain getun tells you how seriously someone is taking something and, depending on the tone of voice of the person reporting the news, you decide how quickly you should look at him with admiration or change the subject.

After three installments in which I debated, defined, ranked, and researched these words, I’ve arrived at an uncomfortable conclusion: I was completely arain getun on this list. Which may be the strongest evidence that the right word finished number one.

Of course, I should bavorn the inevitable objections. Some readers will insist that my rankings are not entirely oisgehalten. Others will dismiss the whole undertaking as a questionable einfall. Punkt farkert, I would argue. There is a substantial nafka mina between a list everyone agrees on and one that gives people heartburn at shalosh seudos. I can already envision a derhoibener bachur who has learned up all three installments approaching me with a carefully prepared kasha. He will explain why my rankings are farkert, accompanied by the customary hand movements, while I become increasingly tzufloigen. Eventually, I will nod thoughtfully and say, “You’re saying good. Say better.”

He will immediately chap that I have no satisfactory teretz.

By now, one fellow will be thoroughly oisgevept, his neighbor completely oisgeloshn, and an oysvorf in the back will be proposing an entirely new list. The discussion will wander into the far family of expressions, and everyone will become far too arain getun for his own good.

Still, after ten selections and countless deliberations, I am reasonably satisfied. The rankings are complete. The arguments have been made. The matter, as far as I’m concerned, is settled.

Which is precisely when I imagine a rebbe looking over my shoulder, reviewing the entire undertaking, nodding thoughtfully, and delivering the five words that have haunted me for decades: “You’re saying good. Say better.”