Kapewu?
Our take
Dive into the vibrant tapestry of Old Polish slang with “Kapewu?”—an exploration crafted by Patryk Zakrewski and highlighted by Joel at Far Outliers. This guide is a delightful romp through the colorful lexicon of bygone eras, revealing gems like “ancymon,” a term used in Kraków to describe a charming scamp, and “baciar,” a street urchin from Lembryczek, a pre-war nod to the city of Lviv. The etymology of these words adds layers of cultural nuance, tying them back to Hungarian roots, like the word “betyár.” This linguistic journey not only uncovers the playful vernacular of past generations but also invites us to reflect on how language evolves and shapes identity. So, buckle up! You’re in for a delightful detour through the quirky and endearing world of Polish slang.
In the swirling tapestry of language, the exploration of old slang offers a tantalizing glimpse into the cultural psyche of a place and its people. Patryk Zakrewski's article, "Kapewu? A Guide to Old Polish Slang," shared eloquently through Joel's lens at Far Outliers, does just that. It invites us into a world where words are not merely tools for communication but artifacts of history, emotion, and identity. Words like ‘ancymon’ and ‘baciar’ spring forth from the pages, each one a portal to the past, revealing the nuances of social hierarchies and urban life in Poland during a time when the streets were alive with the laughter and mischief of street urchins. These terms, laden with etymological weight—‘baciar’ tracing back to Hungarian roots—are not just relics; they are vital whispers of lives lived in the shadows of grand narratives.
Language changes like the seasons, but old slang remains steadfast, preserving the essence of a bygone era. This is particularly relevant for those of us navigating the complexities of immersion learning, as explored in our piece, Just curious, what tools do you actually use to read/listen to content in your target language before you're fluent?. In our modern context, understanding these archaic expressions can enrich our linguistic toolbox, making the endeavor of learning a new language feel less like an academic exercise and more like stepping into a vibrant community. When we throw around terms like ‘sztrabancle’—a playful nod to the loitering youth of Galicia—we’re not just learning vocabulary; we’re tapping into a cultural vein that pulses with life and history.
But why does this matter? Why should we care about words that seem to dwell in the dusty corners of dictionaries? Because they connect us to shared humanity. In an age where language often feels stripped of its vibrancy by social media shorthand and emoji-laden conversations, the richness of old slang reminds us of the emotional depth inherent in communication. It is a reminder that each word carries with it a weight of stories, struggles, and sociocultural realities. This sentiment resonates not just in the context of Polish slang but universally; consider how the stories of Jesus' disciples evolve through various retellings, as discussed in What Happened to Jesus’ Twelve Disciples After the Bible—It Wasn’t Pretty. Each version enriches our understanding of faith, history, and the human condition.
As we embrace the quirks and intricacies of language, we must also ponder what these forgotten words say about our present and future. Will we continue to let the nuances of our dialects and slang vanish into the ether, or will we cultivate a world where language evolves yet retains its roots? The slippery, narrow nature of etymology beckons us to examine our own linguistic practices. Are we, perhaps, the modern-day ‘baciar’, loitering in the spaces between languages, searching for meaning and connection? As we move forward, let’s remain curious about the words we wield and the stories they tell—because in the end, every term we unearth is a bridge to understanding not just others, but ourselves.
Joel at Far Outliers posted excerpts from an article by Patryk Zakrewski titled Kapewu? A Guide to Old Polish Slang, and I’ll post some excerpts from his excerpts:
In Kraków, he was called an ‘ancymon’, while in Lembryczek (pre-war slang for the city of Lviv), a street urchin was a ‘baciar’ (from the Hungarian ‘betyár’ – a hoodlum or goon). A baciar spoke bałak, a Lvovian slang. Elsewhere in Galicia, such rascals and scoundrels were called, in the plural, ‘sztrabancle’ (from the German ‘strabanzen’ – to loiter), and in Poznań, they went under the names of ‘szczuny’, ‘zyndry’ or ‘ejbry’. There were, of course, many other similar terms, because Poland was also full of andrusy and wisusy.
In Warsaw, and especially in its riverside neighbourhoods of Powiśle and Czerniaków, a street urchin was simply an ‘antek’ – which is also a common diminutive of the name Antoni. […]
A birbant, a bon vivant, or a bibosz – somebody leading a riotous life, never one to avoid fun – was known to bradziażyć. In Old Polish, you could similarly say that such a person bisurmani się or lampartuje (all terms for partying). He would flanerować (roam) from pub to pub, often tempted to gamble. This usually made it easy for him to wyprztykać się z floty (run out of money)… but there’s no glik (luck) without risk!
As a result of bradziażenie, it’s easy to become a bradziaga. This word comes from Russian and designates a vagrant or globetrotter. Such a free-floating person was known in Lviv as a ‘makabunda’ (a distorted form of ‘vagabond’). In Silesia, a ragamuffin was a ‘haderlok’ or a ‘szlapikorc’, while in Poznań, he would be called a ‘łatynda’, ‘opypłus’ or ‘szuszwol’.
‘Menel’, a word for a ‘bum’, still used in all parts of Poland, has an interesting etymology. In one of his pre-war columns, Stefan Wiechecki described this dialogue, reportedly overheard in a courtroom:
‘He called me a “menelik”…’
‘But there’s nothing offensive about that. Menelik is the name of one of the kings of Abyssinia’, replied the judge.
‘Your Honour, it’s possible that it designates a king in Abyssinia, but here, in Szmulowizna, it’s something altogether different.’
The exotic dress of the Emperor of Ethiopia fascinated the Warsaw populace to such an extent that peculiarly dressed people began to be called by his name. Menelik II’s honourific was negus negesti (king of kings), and as a result, the slang term ‘nygus’ (loafer, good-for-nothing) became part of the Polish language.
The people of Warsaw also insulted each other (for no discernible reason) with the use of names such as kopernik and gambeta. While the former referred, of course, to the famed Polish astronomer and mathematician Nicolaus Copernicus, Leon Gambetta was a French statesman during the Second French Empire and the Third French Empire periods. […]
Questions like ‘Kapewu?’ can sometimes still be heard in Poland, but today, the phrase is mostly associated with the slang of the heroes of cult children’s TV series from the 1970s like Podróż za Jeden Uśmiech (A Trip for One Smile) and Stawiam na Tolka Banana (My Bet’s on Tolek Banan). Today, you’re more likely to be asked questions like ‘kumasz?’, ‘czaisz?’ ‘jarzysz?’, ‘kminisz?’ or ‘kapujesz?’. They all mean ‘do you get it?’ – and the last of them can teach us something about the etymology of kapewu.
The Polish ‘kapować’ probably came from the German capiren or Italian capire, meaning ‘to understand’. Forms of the latter, like ‘capito’ and ‘capisce’, are sometimes still present in Polish slang. For example, the rapper Włodi rhymed on the Molesta group’s debut album: ‘Źli i łysi to klima, kapiszi?’ (The bad and the bald are my squad, understood?).
Kapewu is a humorous, quasi-French form of the Polish ‘kapować’, created as analogous to phrases like ‘parlez-vous’ and ‘comprenez-vous’. Other examples of such French stylisation are two phrases present in an old Warsaw local dialect: ‘iść de pache’ (walk hand in hand) and ‘przepraszam za pardą’ (I’m sorry for interrupting or bothering you).
In the above-quoted book about schoolchildren’s slang from the late 1930s, Ignacy Schreiber lists several words for joy and approval. These include words like ‘byczo’, ‘morowo’, klawo’, but also a mysterious exclamation: ‘sikalafą!’. This stemmed from the French ‘si qu’a la font’, which is itself a slang term which means ‘that’s the way it goes’ or ‘that’s life’ (I’m tempted to write here: ‘that’s c’est la vie’ to preserve the spirit of other French loans in Polish slang).
The slang is fun, but take the etymologies with a grain of salt; there is, for example, no “French ‘si qu’a la font’” (as an inquiring mind discovered in this Wiktionary discussion — scroll down to I need your help :)).
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