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Aline Kominsky-Crumb, who transformed comics first as a muse and then as a feminist artist, dies at 74
(JTA) — Robert Crumb put the “x” in comix by setting to paper his basest sexual longings, including strong-legged Jewish women who were cowgirls and who went by the name Honeybunch Kaminski.
So when an actual strong-legged Jewish cowgirl named Aline Kominsky walked into his life, it was love at first sight, and never wavered.
Aline Kominsky-Crumb, who died Wednesday at 74 in France of pancreatic cancer, was late to the revolution her husband launched in comics a few years before they met, with his Zap Comix. The “x” was a signifier of what was then known as “underground” comics and referred to the unfiltered treatment of humanity that censorious publishers, politicians and public figures had all but washed out of the art.
She soon fully embraced the art form and then helped transform it.
Working with her husband and then on her own, Kominsky-Crumb brought to comics raw self-lacerating accountability and subverted crude stereotypes about Jewish women — including those peddled by her husband — by taking possession of them.
She started out as a self-acknowledged sex object reviled by second-wave feminists and became a hero of younger feminists for modeling unfettered sexual expression. She was the brassy Jewish stereotype who became the muse who guided her husband to a deeper consideration of Judaism.
Kominsky-Crumb, born Aline Ricky Goldsmith in 1948 in the Five Towns, a Jewish enclave on Long Island, had a Jewish upbringing that was in many ways conventional, horrifying and both at the same time. She wrote about the warmth of her grandparents’ home and how she sought in it succor and about the pressures her materialistic parents placed on her. She said she was named for a Five Towns clothing store, Aline Ricky, that sold French fashion knockoffs. She resisted her mother’s pressure to get a nose job.
In one autobiographical comic, she recalls seeing one Jewish girl after another coming into school after plastic surgery. “Me ‘n’ my friends developed a ‘big nose pride,’” she writes, and one of the characters says, “I could not stand to look like a carbon copy!”
She told fellow Jewish cartoonist Sarah Lightman about the ordeal. “Like, I kept my nose, but it was really a close call, because my mother had me in Doctor Diamond’s office and he measured my nose. I remember that. They took an instrument and measured your nose. And then he took a piece of paper and he said,’ look, we can make it look like this.’ And I said, ‘Oh my God.’ My mother said, ‘Oh, it’s gorgeous, gorgeous.’”
In her teens, Kominsky-Crumb fled the suburbs for Manhattan. She studied at Cooper Union, an art school, and lived on the Lower East Side, earning plaudits from her instructors for her painting, but getting bored. She had a baby and gave it up for adoption to a Jewish agency, an experience that scarred her, and later led her to become outspoken in advocating for abortion rights.
After she married Carl Kominsky, they moved to Tucson, Arizona, which she called “hippie heaven.” There, she left her husband for a cowboy who lived with two brothers and his father in what she said was “the middle of nowhere” where she helped out on horseback, albeit under the influence of hallucinogens. (She said her beau was killed in a shootout with a romantic rival after she left.)
In Tucson, she met two pioneers of underground comics, Kim Deitch and Spain Rodriguez. They encouraged her to move to San Francisco, which was the scene of the burgeoning movement.
She did and met Crumb at a party in 1971, within three years of his having created “Honeybunch Kaminski, the drug-crazed runaway” (1968) and “Dale Steinberger, the Jewish Cowgirl.” Kominsky-Crumb, who had kept her first husband’s last name because it sounded more “ethnic” than Goldsmith, was so taken with the her husband’s lustful Jewish imaginings, and how closely she physically resembled them, that when she started creating her own, she named her avatar “Bunch,” a shortened version of the character whose name most closely matched her own.
It was kismet, except it wasn’t at first. Crumb and Kominsky-Crumb got together, but maintained open relationships. Crumb endured Kominsky-Crumb’s dalliances with other men for decades, but Kominsky-Crumb was not as able (or willing) to reciprocate. When one of Crumb’s exes arrived at their commune in Mendocino, she told The Comics Journal in 1990, she was furious. “I had a total s— fit,” she said, “I was wearing these giant platform shoes. I ran out the door and I fell and broke my foot in six places.”
Crumb sent the ex on her way and entertained the recovering Kominsky with a pastime he and his brother worked out as children: They would co-create a comic.
That process drew the couple closer, and also became a decades-long unflinching chronicle of a relationship. A culmination, “Drawn Together,” was critically acclaimed when it came out in 2012.
In one passage in the 2012 book, she gently chides her husband for resorting to antisemitic tropes — although it was tropes about loud, slightly unhinged, sexually voracious Jewish women that drew them together.
One page depicts the couple in bed. Crumb is stung by an accusation of antisemitism from Art Spiegelman. (Spiegelman joined with Crumb to launch the underground comics scene in the 1960s, but they grew apart as Spiegelman, who would author the Holocaust chronicle “Maus,” sought to attach an overarching philosophy to the genre, while Crumb continued to crave crude authenticity.)
Crumb says that Spiegelman “seems to be taking my ruminations about the Jews as antisemitism … I certainly didn’t mean it as such.” Kominsky-Crumb draws herself into the panel, listening to her husband, as a little girl wearing tefillin, a T-shirt with “kosher” in Hebrew and a Star of David pendant. In the next panel, once again appearing as a grown woman in a negligee, she makes clear to Crumb why she feels vulnerable as a Jew in the marriage.
“Dahling, you do call the Jewish religion ‘Brand X’,” she says.. “Now I might even think that’s true in some ways … and I’m one o’ them … I’m allowed to say that!”
Crumb draws himself as wounded but also awakened. “Oh, I see … ulp.” Crumb dedicated his masterwork, “The Book of Genesis,” a searing illustrated narrative of the Bible’s first book, to Aline.
The Crumbs’ collaborative work was celebrated among aficionados, but it wasn’t until 1994’s “Crumb,” a documentary directed by Crumb’s close Jewish friend, Terry Zwigoff, that she emerged into the broader culture. A vibrant, peripatetic Kominsky-Crumb cares for their daughter, Sophie, and revels in their life in a small French village, where they had moved a few years earlier, while Crumb continues to hold back, playing the wounded, misunderstood artist.
It was an arrival of sorts for Kominsky-Crumb. She had for a time been marginalized even on the underground scene, her deceptively simple art derided as sloppy. She helped found the Wimmen’s Comix collective in 1972, and wrote about her Jewish upbringing in the first issue, a piece entitled “Goldie: A Neurotic Woman.” But she was soon frozen out because some of her colleagues thought her musings about longing to be dominated (and her tendency to dress that way to please Crumb) were denigrating to women. “The Yoko Ono of Comics,” is how the New York Times described her early years.
She left the collective and joined another Jewish woman artist, Diane Noomin, in launching “Twisted Sisters” in 1976. Its cover depicts hers seated on a toilet wondering “How many calories in a cheese enchilada.” The message to her erstwhile colleagues, who depicted women heroically, was clear: Kominsky-Crumb would indulge her full unvarnished self.
It would take decades, but a later generation of feminists would come to understand her autobiographical “Bunch” not as a self-loathing caricature but as a means of understanding ones whole self. In 2020, Lightman launched an interview with Kominsky-Crumb by reviewing a 1975 cartoon, “Bunch plays with herself” that shocked even the underground scene at the time with its graphic depictions of a woman exploring every corner of her body.
“I didn’t do it to be disgusting but it’s, like, about every horrible and fun thing you can do with your body,” Kominsky-Crumb told Lightman. “I think it’s an amazing piece of feminist art,” Lightman said in the interview, “because women are drawn to be gazed at, and [here we see] their bodily juices, and everything. … The last panel is the best. ‘My body is an endless source of entertainment’.”
In 2007, she and Crumb created a cover for the Jewish counterculture magazine Heeb, where she is cradling him in her arms. “”I feel so safe in the arms of this powerful Jewish woman!” Crumb says.
By 2018, she was scrolling through her phone to show a New York Times reporter pictures of Crumb cavorting with the grandkids. (Daughter Sophie in adulthood also is a comics artist.) The photos then transition to photos of women’s behinds, taken in Miami.
“I’m enabling his big butt fixation,” she said. “Well I don’t have a big butt anymore so I have to offer him something.”
“It was her energy that transformed the American Crumb family into a Southern French one, with her daughter Sophie living, marrying and having three French children there,” the official Crumb website said in announcing her death. “She will be dearly missed within that family, by the international cartooning community, but especially by Robert, who shared the last 50 years of his life with her.”
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The post Aline Kominsky-Crumb, who transformed comics first as a muse and then as a feminist artist, dies at 74 appeared first on Jewish Telegraphic Agency.
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A decaying historic farmhouse finds a savior in Chabad
A Dutch Colonial home, just one of a handful of pre-Revolutionary War houses left in New York City, has been vacant and decaying for years. The windows are boarded up, signs warning against trespassing cover the property, and chunks of the ceiling are missing inside.
This historic landmark has an unlikely savior: Chabad, the global Lubavitch movement, which is planting one of its thousands of outposts there.
“Dilapidated is an understatement,” Rabbi Zalman Liberow of Chabad of Flatbush said as he gave the Forward a tour.
Chabad of Flatbush, led by Liberow and his wife, Chana, bought the historic Brooklyn property in December 2024 and will soon begin renovations to make the place livable. In the meantime, the couple has already transformed the barnhouse next door into a sanctuary, where a photo of the Lubavitch rebbe hangs on the wall near a compartment once used to store hay.
As other Jewish organizations have shifted toward digital community, Chabad has continued investing heavily in brick-and-mortar real estate, ranging from modest suburban homes to multimillion-dollar towers and converted landmarks. It’s a strategy that anchors Chabad in the communities it serves, but can also be costly: For the most part, Chabad couples — each unit headed by a rabbi and rebbitzin — finance their own operations, raising their own money to buy homes and establish centers of Jewish life.
The Liberows said a generous donation of Bitcoin from a donor, Eliot Stavrach, ultimately allowed them to purchase the 22,000 square foot lot for roughly $3 million, along with securing a high-interest loan to pay the mortgage while the couple awaited the sale of their old headquarters down the street. Last week, that transaction went through and reaped nearly $1.1 million.
The seller had also cut the asking price by nearly half, offloading what had become a white elephant, Liberow said.
“For him, it was a pain. For us, it was good,” Liberow said. “And I thought, even better, this is such an important piece of United States history.”
The prior landlord had reportedly struggled to find a buyer for the landmarked home, which by law cannot be demolished, and any alterations to the facade must be pre-approved by the city Landmarks Preservation Commission. In buying the home, the Liberows are also preventing its further deterioration — to the relief of neighbors who said the abandoned site had become a hotspot for drug use and a symbol of neglect.
“I’m just happy that the house will not be torn down and will actually have a future — a good one, it seems,” said Lori Citron Knipel, a former leader in the Brooklyn Democratic Party who used to frequent the house. “So that absolutely warms my heart, because it’s been breaking every time I pass it.”
The house’s history
The Wyckoff-Bennett Homestead is likely among the ten oldest properties in Brooklyn and the 50 oldest houses in all of New York City, according to Simeon Bankoff, former executive director of the Historic Districts Council.
A 1968 report from the Landmarks Preservation Commission noted that “two hundred years of wear have done little to diminish the simple beauty of its clear-cut profile,” and described it as “the most beautiful example of Dutch Colonial architecture in Brooklyn.”
The house is also notable for its role in the Revolutionary War: During the conflict, it quartered German soldiers fighting for the British, known as Hessians. Two of the soldiers etched their names and units into a windowpane.
A historical marker at the house notes that those troops may have taken part in the Battle of Brooklyn, the first major battle after the signing of the Declaration of Independence.
According to Liberow, local legend holds that George Washington once stopped at the Wyckoff-Bennett house for tea — though, “we never did find the teacup,” he joked.
Bankoff attributed the properties’ staying power partly to the fact that prior to a venture called 22nd Street Investors LLC purchasing the lots in 2021, the property had only ever been owned by three families over more than 250 years.
Hendrick H. Wyckoff, son of a Dutch settler who emigrated to New Amsterdam in 1637, is believed to have built the house before 1766. In 1835, Cornelius W. Bennett purchased it, and it remained in the Bennett family for four generations before a Jewish couple, Annette and Stuart Mont, bought the property in 1983.
‘A piece of Brooklyn’s history’
The Monts had a deep appreciation for the home’s history, Citron Knipel said, and often opened it to the community. They hosted political fundraisers, birthday parties, and even a wedding at the house, she said, and they welcomed school groups into their home for local history field trips.
Only the facade of the house is landmarked, making its preservation legally required. But the Monts also preserved its interior details, including furniture from the Wyckoffs and Bennetts, an ornate fireplace framed by decorative tiles depicting biblical scenes, and an antique Richardson & Boynton Co. stove.
“There’s a sense of being part of and having a responsibility to the rest of the community to preserve it and move it forward,” Stu said in the 2013 documentary Living in a Landmark.
“And share it,” Annette added. “Because we have bought a piece of Brooklyn’s history.”
But an effort to secure the home’s legacy fell apart in 2010. The Monts had been in talks with the city to purchase the property, only to withdraw after the city reduced the sale price, deducting the rent the Monts theoretically would have paid to continue living there.
Annette died in 2013 at age 72, and Stuart died three years later at age 76. Their children, Ira and Randi Mont, sold the property to 22nd Street Investors LLC, registered to real estate investor Avraham Dishi, in 2021.
In an interview with the Forward, Ira Mont said he believed at the time of sale that 22nd Street Investors LLC would keep the house in good condition — and was disappointed that they ultimately did not.
Dishi drew two complaints for failing to maintain the Wyckoff Bennett house: one for the poor condition of the fence, still active, and another for the condition of the facade and roof, later withdrawn.
Officials at a Landmarks Preservation Commission hearing in March to discuss the Liberows’ minor proposed changes to the home noted there had been “all kinds of vandalism, fires, squatters, [and] drug users” there in recent years.
The Forward reached Dishi’s office by phone and left a message, but did not hear back.
Liberow said he has big plans for the house pending approval from the Landmarks Preservation Commission, including displaying a video in the front yard highlighting Jewish history in the United States. The Commission has already approved plans to install porch railings, a curb cut and a driveway at the site. And like the Motts, the couple plans to open the space up to the public. They’ve already begun hosting Hebrew school and holiday gatherings in the barnhouse next door, which they renovated for about $200,000 with rustic touches including wood paneling, barrels, lanterns and candle chandeliers.
For neighbors, the most meaningful change may simply be that the property is occupied at all.
“We got a very big welcome over here, because everyone’s so happy,” Liberow said. “Someone is going to save the property.”
The post A decaying historic farmhouse finds a savior in Chabad appeared first on The Forward.
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A staggering act of antisemitic hate proves the danger of Israel’s death penalty
A recent pro-Palestinian rally in Montreal featured something shocking: hanging effigies of Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, United States President Donald Trump, and Israeli National Security Minister Itamar Ben-Gvir. They were the latest nauseating reminder that calling for executions only feeds the cycle of violence — a reminder that Israel itself needs, after the Knesset enacted two laws calling for the death penalty for terrorists.
There is no excuse for the antisemitic horror of this recent display in Canada, where I live. But there is also no doubt that Israel’s new death penalty laws will only ripen the environment in which this insidious kind of hate takes root and festers. The fact that the executed effigies of Ben-Gvir and Netanyahu both wore the same noose lapel pin that Ben-Gvir wore as he championed these death penalty laws through the Knesset underscores this point.
The lesson is simple: calls for death only fuel the urge for more killing.
This was made apparent by Hamas’ reciprocal call for violence against IDF soldiers in response to the death penalty acts. It is for this reason — the simple truth that killing tends to beget more killing — that Elie Wiesel prophetically warned of capital punishment: “Death should never be the answer in a civilized society.”
An affront to humanity
The Canadian effigies — captured in videos posted on social media — are now the subject of a hate crimes investigation, and drew widespread condemnation from local and provincial politicians across Canada, as well as Jewish groups. Montreal4Palestine, the group that hosted the mobilization where the effigies were filmed, wrote on Instagram in response that it “strongly condemns the defamatory accusations and deliberate distortion of events” and said that it has “stood firmly against all forms of hate, including antisemitism.”
The effigies, the group added, “were directed specifically at political figures” and were not “intended to represent Judaism, Jewish people, or any religious, ethnic, or identifiable community.”
What Montreal4Palestine missed, while advocating in its statement for “values of human dignity,” is the reality that any call for execution runs counter to those values.
Intention and effect
This holds true across countries and ideologies: once killing is legitimized, it becomes hard to control.
Montreal4Palestine should have understood that pretending to execute politicians who have called for executions can only raise the temperature, not lower it. Using this same principle, Israel could, perhaps, have anticipated that Hamas leadership would call for the kidnapping of IDF soldiers in response to the death penalty laws. That development only confirms a fear that opponents of Israel’s renewed execution push have articulated time and again: that these laws will jeopardize the safety and security of Jews across the globe.
In the document that was published by Israeli Public Broadcaster KAN News, Hamas leadership stated clearly that it is planning to intensify efforts to kidnap Israeli soldiers, describing such action as the only effective means of securing the release of Palestinian prisoners who might otherwise face the death penalty in Israel.
Hamas described one of the death penalty laws as a “fascist law.” The group also warned that if Israel were to execute any Palestinian prisoners, the result could be more clashes between Hamas and Israeli soldiers in Gaza. “Any harm to the life of a prisoner is an explosive that will lead to the eruption of a volcano,” the letter read.
A chance to turn back
There is still a chance to avoid this escalation. The Israeli Supreme Court will soon debate the legality of the first of the death penalty laws. If the Supreme Court fails to repeal the act, the ensuing executions will stain the moral fabric of Israeli society, and antisemitic extremists will assuredly blame all Jews for the escalation in Israeli state violence.
It will be yet another piece of data to fit into an already-warped view of Israel, and perhaps, as well, of Judaism. For some, that may be all it takes to replace hanging effigies with attacking human beings.
If repeal at the Supreme Court level succeeds, however, it could also set a precedent for the eventual repeal of the second death penalty law, which specifically targets convicted terrorists who carried out the reprehensible Oct. 7, 2023 massacres across Israel.
Repealing both laws would help to lower the global temperature. It would make Jews safer in Israel, in Montreal, and everywhere.
For this reason, amid many others, the Israeli Supreme Court must act. It must forcefully encourage Israel to return to the civilized, abolitionist path for which Wiesel called. Only then can we begin to halt the seemingly endless cycle of violence and killing.
The post A staggering act of antisemitic hate proves the danger of Israel’s death penalty appeared first on The Forward.
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A guide to the Corpus interviews with European native Yiddish speakers
דאָס איז איינער פֿון אַ סעריע קורצע אַרטיקלען אָנגעשריבן אױף אַ רעלאַטיװ גרינגן ייִדיש און געצילעװעט אױף סטודענטן. די מחברטע איז אַלײן אַ ייִדיש־סטודענטקע. דאָ קען מען לײענען די פֿריִערדיקע אַרטיקלען אין דער סעריע.
אַ דאַנק דעם נײַעם „קאָרפּוס פֿון דער ייִדישער שמועסשפּראַך אין אײראָפּע“ (קיש״אָ) קענען ייִדיש־סטודענטן אינטעראַקטיװ פֿאָרשן װידעאָ־אינטערװיוען מיט כּמעט 200 געבױרענע ייִדיש־רעדערס װאָס האָבן איבערגעלעבט דעם חורבן.
פֿאַרשטײט זיך, אַז אַזאַ עדות־זאָגן פֿון לעבן געבליבענע איז רײַך מיט היסטאָרישער אינפֿאָרמאַציע װעגן דעם ייִדישן לעבן פֿאַר, בעת און נאָכן חורבן. ווי עס שרײַבט דזשעפֿרי שאַנדלער אין דעם אַרטיקל, קאָנצענטרירט זיך דער קאָרפּוס אָבער, דער עיקר, אױף שפּראַך־ענינים — אױף װי אַזױ די שמועסשפּראַך װאַרפֿט אַ שײַן אױפֿן אַמאָליקן טאָגטעגלעך ייִדיש איבער מיזרח־אײראָפּע. אַזאַ טראָפּ לײגט זיך אױפֿן שׂכל, װײַל דער פּראָיעקט איז געװען די המצאה פֿון אײַזיק בלימאַן, אַ פּראָפֿעסאָר פֿון לינגװיסטיק אין בערקלי אוניװערסיטעט.
די װידעאָ־אינטערװיוען אינעם קאָרפּוס שטאַמען פֿונעם אַרכיװ פֿון דער װיזועלער געשיכטע, װאָס איז אַ טײל פֿון דער שואה־פֿונדאַציע בײַם דרום־קאַליפֿאָרניער אוניװערסיטעט. ס׳רובֿ פֿון די ווידעאָס האָט מען רעקאָרדירט אין די 1990ער יאָרן, װען אַ גרױסע צאָל פֿון דער שארית־הפּליטה האָט נאָך געלעבט. דער פֿונדאַציע־אַרכיװ באַשטײט פֿון טױזנטער אינטערװיוען אױף פֿאַרשײדענע שפּראַכן; דערווײַל באַטרעפֿט דער קאָרפּוס 172 פֿון די ייִדיש־שפּראַכיקע אינטערװיוען. אַרום די דאָזיקע ווידעאָס האָט בלימאַן געשאַפֿן דיגיטאַלישע מכשירים, װאָס ייִדיש־סטודענטן קענען ספּעציעל געניסן דערפֿון.
דאָ האָט מען צוטריט צו די אינטערװיוען פֿונעם קאָרפּוס. זײ זענען אַלפֿאַבעטיש אױסגעסדרט לױטן משפּחה־נאָמען פֿונעם רעדער. אין דער רשימה נעמען זעט מען אַ בילד פֿון יעדן מענטש צוזאַמען מיט זײַן געבױרן־אָרט אױף ייִדיש און ענגליש, זײַן מין און זײַן עלטער בעת דעם אינטערװיו. אַ „קאָד“ װײַזט אָן װאָסער ייִדיש־דיאַלעקט זײ רעדן׃ צפֿון־מיזרח־ייִדיש (NEY), צענטראַל־ייִדיש (CY), אָדער דרום־מיזרח־ייִדיש (SEY). מען קען אױך אַ זוך טאָן לױטן רעדערס נאָמען, געבױרן־אָרט, מין אָדער דיאַלעקט.
װען מען גיט אַ קוועטש אױפֿן קנעפּל פֿון אַן אינטערװיו באַקומט מען װײַטערדיקע אינפֿאָרמאַציע װעגן דעם רעדער, אַרײַננעמנדיק מאַפּעס מיט זײער געבױרן־אָרט און אינטערװיו־אָרט. יעדער אינטערװיו ווערט באַגלייט מיט ייִדישע אונטערקעפּלעך. די דאָזיקע אונטערקעפּלעך זענען ניט געשאַפֿן געװאָרן פֿון אײ־אײַ, אָבער פֿון אַ קלײנער גרופּע מומחים. פֿאַרשטײט זיך אַז אַזאַ פֿאַרלאָזלעכער אָנשפּאַר איז גאָר נוצלעך פֿאַר סטודענטן. איך אַליין האָב זיך צוגעהערט צו אַ פּאָר אינטערװיוען אָן די ייִדישע אונטערקעפּלעך (כ׳האָב פֿאַרמאַכט די אױגן, אָבער מע קען אױך „באַהאַלטן“ די אונטערקעפּלעך דורכן קוועטשן אַ קנעפּל) און אַ צווייט מאָל — מיט זײ. אָן אַ ספֿק האָב איך פֿאַרשטאַנען אַ סך מער מיט זײ. די אונטערקעפּלעך זענען אַגבֿ ניט איבערגעזעצט אױף ענגליש — מען קען זײ לײענען בלויז אױף ייִדיש.
אונטער יעדן װידעאָ געפֿינט זיך אַ טאַבעלע מיט די טראַנסקריפּציעס, אױף אַ בלױען הינטערגרונט. יעדע פֿראַזע איז אַ פֿאַרבינדונג אױף די דאָזיקע װערטער אינעם װידעאָ. דערווײַל זענען די טראַנסקריפּציעס אין דער טאַבעלע מערסטנס אױף לאַטײַנישע אותיות, כאָטש אין עטלעכע פֿאַלן קען מען אױך אױסקלײַבן ייִדישע אותיות. מיט דער צײַט װעט מען אָפֿטער האָבן אַ ברירה.
װײַטער אונטן קען מען אַראָפּלאָדן אַן אױדיאָ־טעקע פֿונעם אינטערװיו, און אַ דאָקומענט מיטן גאַנצן טראַנסקריבירטן טעקסט. פֿאַרשטײט זיך אַז אױף דערװײַל זענען די טראַנסקריפּציעס, װי די אונטערקעפּלעך, מערסטנס אױף לאַטײַנישע אותיות.
נאָך אַ קאָרפּוס־מכשיר, װאָס הײסט די „װערטער מאַפּעס“, װעט ספּעציעל צוציִען סטודענטן װאָס פֿאַראינטערעסירן זיך אין דיאַלעקטן. איך אַליין װײס גאָרניט װעגן דעם, בין איך טאַקע פֿאַרכאַפּט געװאָרן דערפֿון. מען קען דאָרטן זוכן אַ ייִדיש װאָרט כּדי צו זען אין װעלכע אינטערװיוען דאָס װאָרט באַװײַזט זיך. דאָס געבױרן־אָרט פֿון די רעדערס װאָס ניצן דאָס װאָרט װײַזן זיך אַרױס אױף אַ מאַפּע. אַזױ באַקומט מען אַ רושם פֿון די געאָגראַפֿישע ראַיאָנען װוּ דאָס װאָרט איז געװען פֿאַרשפּרײט.
מען קען אױך פֿאַרגלײַכן צװײ װערטער אָדער נוסחאָות פֿון אַ װאָרט. איך האָב למשל פֿאַרגלײַכט „געבראַכט“ און „געברענגט“, װאָס זענען בײדע פֿאַרגאַנגענע פּאַרטיציפּן פֿון „ברענגען“. אױף דער מאַפּע האָב איך געזען אַז „געבראַכט“ באַװײַזט זיך זײער אָפֿט אין צפֿון־מיזרח־ייִדיש, און „געברענגט“ ניצט מען דער עיקר אױף צענטראַל־ייִדיש. דאָס זוכן װערטער פּאָרנװײַז איז טאַקע אַ ביסל אַדיקטיװ! ס’איז אָבער װיכטיק איבערצולײענען די אינסטרוקציעס כּדי צו פֿאַרשטײן די רעזולטאַטן.
דער קאָרפּוס שטעלט אױך צו אַן אינטעראַקטיװע היסטאָרישע מאַפּע. אױף דער מאַפּע געפֿינען זיך די געבױרן־ערטער פֿון די רעדערס: װען מען גיט אַ קוועטש אױף אַן אָרט זעט מען אַ פּינטל פֿאַר יעדן רעדער װאָס איז דאָרטן געבױרן געװאָרן — די פּינטלעך זענען דיגיטאַלישע פֿאַרבינדונגען צו די דאָזיקע אינטערװיוען. מען קען אױך זוכן דעם נאָמען פֿון אַ רעדער אָדער פֿון אַן אָרט אין אַ זוך־קעסטל.
דערצו געפֿינט זיך אונטער דער מאַפּע אַ קנעפּל װאָס מען קען רוקן כּדי צו זען װי אַזױ די פּאָליטישע גרענעצן האָבן זיך געענדערט מיט דער צײַט. מען קען אױסזומירן (zoom out, בלע״ז) כּדי צו זען גאַנץ אײראָפּע אָדער אײַנזומירן אױף אַ ספּעציפֿישן ראַיאָן. מען קען אױך אױסקלײַבן עטלעכע „שיכטן“ װאָס באַװײַזן זיך אױף דער מאַפּע, למשל די גרענעצן צװישן ייִדיש־דיאַלעקטן. נאָך אַ מאָל איז עס װיכטיק איבערצולײענען די „נאָטיצן“, װאָס דערקלערן די פֿאַרשײדענע ברירות.
אינעם אָפּטײל װאָס הײסט „גלאָסעס“ קען מען לײענען אַרטיקלען פֿון בלימאַן און די קאָרפּוס־טראַנסקריבירערס װעגן דער ייִדיש־פּעדאַגאָגיק, און װעגן דער שפּראַך אין די אינטערװיוען. כאָטש די אַרטיקלען זענען מסתּמא געצילעװעט אױף פֿאָרשערס און לערערס קענען זײ אױך פֿאַראינטערעסירן סטודענטן.
מיט דער צײַט װעט זיך דער קאָרפּוס פֿאַרגרעסערן און צושטעלן נאָך װײַטערדיקע אינטערװיוען און מכשירים. פֿאַרשטײט זיך אַז ער איז שױן אַ װיכטיקער רעסורס פֿאַר ייִדיש־סטודענטן. פֿאָרשט דאָס װעבזײַטל אַלײן — איר װעט זיך אַ סך דערוויסן.
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