The Yiddish Grandmother's Word (Tuchus)

Lyrics

[Intro]

Ah, Brooklyn, 1940, Pitkin Avenue steaming in the August heat.
Aunt Rivka in her Brownsville tenement, apron tied tight.

[Verse 1]
She'd stir the chicken soup, that big metal pot on the cast-iron stove,
bubbles rising like secrets from the old country.
Wooden spoon in hand, scarred from years of borscht and brisket,
she'd eye me, little scamp, sneaking rugelach from the tin plate.

Tuchus, she'd say, soft as a whisper but sharp as vinegar tang,
tap-tap on my backside, not hard, just enough to make me jump.
From Hebrew tachat, meaning under, beneath, the foundation of it all.
But in her mouth, it was love wrapped in a scold.

[Chorus]
Tuchus, oh tuchus, the word that held the family close,
in that cramped kitchen, 80 degrees, windows cracked to the street noise.
Pitkin carts clattering below, smell of pickles and gefilte fish mingling,
Aunt Rivka laughing, her voice a lilt from Poland, 1895 immigration papers yellowed.
Tuchus, she'd call, affectionate as a hug, morally unsparing but warm.

[Verse 2]
Brownsville afternoons, 4 PM light slanting through dusty panes,
she'd sit at the wooden table, rough under fingers, tallying the Shabbat bets.
Kids giggling, guessing how many times she'd drop it over dinner,
scrap of butcher paper hidden, marks for each tuchus tallied like stars.

That spoon, her scepter, waving as she chased us 'round the linoleum,
steam from the soup clouding the air, musty linens and savory broth.
Born in Warsaw, 1887, crossed the Atlantic on the SS Pennland, 1905.
Landed in Ellis Island, then straight to the tenements, building a life underfoot.

[Chorus]
Tuchus, oh tuchus, the word that held the family close,
in that cramped kitchen, 80 degrees, windows cracked to the street noise.
Pitkin carts clattering below, smell of pickles and gefilte fish mingling,
Aunt Rivka laughing, her voice a lilt from Poland, 1895 immigration papers yellowed.
Tuchus, she'd call, affectionate as a hug, morally unsparing but warm.

[Bridge]

No gaps in her stories, though the records skip—
no exact address on Sutter Avenue, no names of cousins lost to the war.
But tuchus filled the silence, a quiet joke in the heat,
foundation of affection, beneath it all.

[Verse 3]
Elevated train rumbling past, the El shaking the shelves,
jars of preserves clinking like laughter.
She'd pinch my cheek after the tap, offer a rugelach, still warm,
sweet pastry crumbling, forgiving the mischief.

Tuchus, from the Joys of Yiddish, Leo Rosten noting it in '68,
but Aunt Rivka knew it in her bones, 1930s suppers alive with it.

[Outro]

Ah, tuchus, the word she used, affectionate, forever in that kitchen.
Brooklyn, 1940, Aunt Rivka's legacy.