Tag Archives: levirate

avuncular

Hey, how are ya? Doing great? I found out something interesting you might like. A couple of things, in fact. The first thing is, it turns out that although I have three nephews and two nieces, I can’t be literally, etymologically, avuncular to all of them. Figuratively, sure, and that’s fine, of course. But that leads to the second thing: there are more English words than you might think that come from Latin kinship terms. And if you start trying to be literal about them all, you’re going to make trouble for yourself. It’s your life, of course! But just in case you wanted to know.

Isn’t it nice how uncles are assumed to be friendly and caring in a down-home, benevolent kind of way? That’s what we mean with the term avuncular, which, along with broadly meaning ‘kind, benevolent, tolerant (especially in the manner of an older person to a younger one)’, literally means ‘of, relating to, or like an uncle’. Except the Latin original, avunculus – from avus ‘grandfather’ and the diminutive suffix -unculus – refers only to the maternal uncle. You know, the mother’s brother – or, yes, the mother’s sister’s husband. So since my wife’s sister has two kids, I am literally avuncular to them. My brother’s three kids, though? Nope, sorry. Not etymologically literally, anyway.

But of course sticking to the Latin meaning of these terms would be atavistic. It would be not grandfathering the senses but great-great-great-grandfathering them – because, yes, atavistic relates to atavus, which means ‘great-great-great-grandfather’ – or just ‘ancestor’. That’s from the same avus (‘grandfather’) plus at-, which is a form of ad-, meaning ‘to’, ‘toward’, and a whole bunch of other things.

But let’s take a look at some of the other terms we have in English that come from Latin terms for family members. There are the literal ones like maternal (from mater, ‘mother’), paternal (from pater, ‘father’), and uxorial (from uxor, ‘wife’, which also gives us uxorious, ‘highly devoted to one’s wife’). There are the ones that have both literal and figurative uses, like fraternal (frater, ‘brother’), sororal (soror, ‘sister’; sorority is the most common English descendant), and novercal (noverca, ‘stepmother’ – and in the figurative use of the term, the stepmotherliness is generally wicked). There’s also nepotism, from nepos, which can mean ‘nephew’, ‘niece’, ‘grandson’, or ‘granddaughter’ – our use of nepotism to refer to hiring family members (especially direct offspring) comes from when the popes of the Middle Ages and Renaissance would appoint their nephews as cardinals.

We also have some other less common ones. There’s the term the levirate, which I first encountered in an anthropology book where the author, in categorizing various cultures, divided them between those that “practice the levirate” and those that don’t, but did not even once explain what “the levirate” was. Well, it comes from Latin levir ‘husband’s brother’ and refers to the practice of requiring a woman whose husband has died to marry her husband’s brother. (“Oh, that. Of course!”) 

There’s no corresponding term for marrying a deceased wife’s sister, presumably because that’s not a widespread cultural practice, but in any case Latin somehow didn’t even have a special term for that relation; a wife’s sister is just soror uxoris. A wife’s brother is similarly frater uxoris. But oh, by the way, a husband’s sister is glos; if we had an adjective based on that, it would probably be gloral, but we don’t. (If your husband’s sister is named Gloria, that would be close, though not actually related – except by marriage, of course.)

We also don’t have a word socral from socrus ‘mother-in-law’ and socer ‘father-in-law’, which really seems a missed opportunity. We do have a word materteral, ‘of or like an aunt’, the counterpart to avuncular – not broadly used, but it can mean ‘auntyish’. But, like avuncular, it refers only to the mother’s sister (matertera is just mater plus a contrastive suffix). The father’s sister is amita, apparently formed as a diminutive of ama, which basically translates as ‘mommy’. No word on – or for – what your father’s sister is supposed to be like; amital is not a thing, though its homophone amytal is a synonym for amobarbital and is seen in sodium amytal, the sedative that is supposedly “truth serum”… so who knows, maybe your aunt on your father’s side is prone to telling you the plain truth.

Which brings us to your uncle on your father’s side. If I’m not an avunculus to my brother’s kids, what am I? I’m a patruus. As it happens, we don’t have an English word derived from that – such as patrual. But in Latin, the patruus stereotypically was indeed prone to telling the truth – and not in a kindly, avuncular way. Patrual, if it existed, would mean more like ‘severely reproving’ or ‘brutally critical’. As it happens, we do have a term in English for someone sort of like that (though maybe more blunt than actually mean): Dutch uncle.

leveret, levirate

A few of us were lounging around in Domus Logogustationis (the local headquarters of the Order of Logogustation), mostly reading, occasionally exchanging comments on various words.

Elisa Lively looked up from her book. “What’s a levirate?”

“A leveret?” said Maury, barely glancing up from his magazine. “A young hare.” He returned to his reading.

“Oh, thanks,” Elisa said. Pause while she looked back at her book. “Huh.” Another pause. “Huh.” She looked up again. “Because this book uses the term all the time but doesn’t define it. But that doesn’t really clear things up all that much. Young hair.”

“No?” Maury looked over the top of his magazine and peered over at Elisa’s book, but the title of it was not visible at his angle. “There are some other senses based on that, though they are not really in current use.”

“Such as?”

“Oh, a spiritless person. Or a mistress.”

“Oh. That must be what it is. Hm.” Another pause. “So a levirate is a mistress because of the link between hair and tresses?”

“Hair and…” Maury was fleetingly confused, and then realized the confusion, or at least part of it. “Hare as in like a rabbit. H-a-r-e.”

“But… so… OK. I thought maybe it was some kind of game or an instrument or something. But I can see some relation to keeping a mistress.”

“Well, rabbits are a kind of game. As are hares. You can hunt them.”

“But can you practise them?”

“Can you what?”

“I guess when they say practise the levirate they mean they’re in the practice of keeping mistresses. I mean, I don’t see where little animals really come into this.”

“What are you reading?” Maury was straining forward in his seat trying to see the book. “I take it it’s not lagomorphology.” Elisa opened her mouth to ask a question, which Maury anticipated. “The study of rabbits, hares, and pikas, and such like.”

“Oooh, I love pikas!” Elisa said. “But no, it’s anthropology. They’re talking about some cultures in New Guinea.”

“They have hares there?”

“Well, the thing is, I thought maybe they were more interested in heirs. Because they’ve been talking about marital customs and widows and…”

Maury, finally cluing in, cut her off. “Lee-virate! That,” he said, holding his finger in the air, “is what you want.”

“Leave her at that? What, as a widow? She gets a hare for an heir? Or they want to get her out of their hair? Or does she become someone’s mistress?”

“No, it’s a different word,” Maury said. “I thought you said leveret, l-e-v-e-r-e-t. Which is a small hare. It comes from Old French, and ultimately from Latin lepus, ‘hare’. But you mean levirate” – here he pronounced the first syllable as “lee” again – “which comes from Latin levir, ‘husband’s brother’.”

“So I was saying it wrong?”

“No,” Maury said, “the way you were saying is also acceptable. But ambiguous.”

“So neither word has to do with Levites or French lips,” Elisa said. (French for “lips” is lèvres.) “Or lovers. But I’m still confused. They practise the brother-in-law?”

“A widow marries her husband’s brother. This is actually in Mosaic law, in Deuteronomy: if a man dies before his wife has a child, she has to marry the man’s brother to have a child with him. But there is an escape clause: they can renounce the right to marry and the woman is free to marry someone else. Obviously the latter is the norm today, where that law is observed at all. It alleviates the lover-and-levirate problem.”

“It’s like the brother is the reliever,” Elisa said. “So these people in New Guinea are Jewish? Talk about lost tribes.”

“No. Other cultures also do it.”

Elisa sounded out the word silently. “It’s a nice word, anyway. Even if a bit pretentious to use it without defining it.”

“It’s a lovely word, I’m sure,” Maury said. “C’est la vérité. At least as long as it’s more about love than leverage.”

“I wonder what the ceremony would be…” Elisa said, canting her eyes up toward the ceiling in thought. “‘I hare-by take you, Elvira, as my in-law-fully wedded wife.’” She tittered.