It all begins with an introduction:
"Hi, how's it going? I'm so-and-so...."
Only, in my case, it's, "Hi, how's it going? I'm Ariel."
By the way, I'm a man.
The inevitable response is a polite, "I'm sorry...?"
And I, always ready to accommodate, reply, "You know, like the mermaid."
It's an old game. I've been playing it for many years now. I wait for the hesitation, the attempt to conceal the disbelief that a guy could possibly be named...! It's fun, actually. In any case, it's a heck of a lot more fun to make it fun than to wallow about my lot in life.
I am not changing my name. I happen to really like it. I mean, I REALLY like my name. It's unique, it's Biblical, it's Shakespearean, it's Israeli, it's... Disney. And I'm an animator.
I really like The Little Mermaid too, actually. It's one of the classic movies from my childhood. Great story, incredible artistic, cinematic, and musical execution. Got nothing against the movie.
I have no idea how to pronounce my name. My own name, no idea. Is it "Air-yul" or "R E L"? during my undergrad years I went by the former, because I had a classmate named Arielle who pronounced it with the long-A. Nowadays I'm feeling a bit more ethnic, a bit closer to my Semitic roots, and I've been going by the latter. Call me whatever, just not "Zed," like Ms. DaRosa, my freshman year high school history teacher (don't ask).
So who am I? Why does a guy with a name that makes us picture purple clamshell brassieres decide to start a blog one Saturday night and, perhaps more importantly, what makes him think the rest of us are going to care?
Well I'm going to tell you: I've reached the end of the internet. I found it; here's the frontier, and there's nowhere left to go. So I thought I'd add a bit to it, in case any of the rest of you find yourselves in a similar dilemma. What I mean by "the end of the internet," by the way (for those of you who don't know, "by the way" means "BTW"), is that no one was on facebook chat tonight. No one interesting.
So I guess I'll start at the beginning; that's what most stories I've read seem to do.
I was born in Children's Hospital at 3:33 in the afternoon on a Sunday in late November. This was in the mid-1980s, when hair stylists were warding off alien invasions by making our planet appear dangerously humid. I was originally due to be born on November 7th, which would have made me a day older than my best friend Dennis, and we all know how important these minute distinctions of age are to ten-year-olds. Unfortunately, in my foetal days I didn't know I'd have a best friend whose birthday was November 8th, and so I probably considered what a great deal I was getting. Think about it - I didn't have to eat, breath or blink for myself, it was soft and warm - what more could I want? So I sent my mother into false labor twice and finally made an appearance on November 24th, which means - yes! - every year I get a great big turkey dinner and four glorious days to celebrate. Unless it's the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. In that case I usually get a mid term exam and an impossible drive from Los Angeles to San Francisco.
I don't remember the hospital, I don't remember being held for the first time, I don't remember coming home. I know that doesn't make me special, but it sounds kind of poetic. There's a picture somewhere in my parents' house of a frightening creature that sort of resembles a giant pink nipple with round, black eyes and thin, black hair. They say it's me in my first week, but I hesitate to admit a resemblance. In any case, as I've already said, I can't remember anything from those days. In my earliest memories I already have a full head of thick, curly brown hair, inherited from my mother, and, through her, from my grandfather.
I was born into a relatively small extended family, by American standards. My parents, four grandparents, an uncle, and one great-grandmother. That was it. I am the first American in my family. I don't just mean the first to be born here. As it happens, I was born an American before any of the rest of them were even naturalized. My mother's family were refugees from the Soviet Union, having fled that country in December of 1979. My father's family were, likewise, refugees. They fled the USSR a few months later, in April of 1980. My parents met two years later, through mutual friends at the San Francisco Jewish Community Center, which at the time served as the social watering hole for the recent Russian-speaking immigrants. They met in the swimming pool. My mother was wearing a flesh-colored bathing suit and my father was intrigued because he had his glasses off.
It's funny to think that they were around the same age then as I am now. I'm a bit older, actually.
This blog is about my family, and it is titled "Guilt Equals Love Equals Food Equals Guilt." Nothing is truer than these words, as they pertain to my life. Every positive quality that I exhibit, and every hangup as well, has been informed by this philosophy. It's the religion of a people who know no better way to communicate. When someone you love is being an ass, you make him feel guilty so he'll change. This is for his benefit, not yours, so it is an expression of love. To allow oneself to be manipulated by this guilt is to show you love them back. The truest demonstration of love, particularly if you are my grandmother, is to feed your loved ones with seven courses of the most delicious food until they turn blue and are begging you to stop. Then you are supposed to act concerned and say things like, "The meat was too dry, don't you think? Why aren't you eating - did I overcook it? Does it taste strange? Oh, no." Guilt. They validate your culinary skill by denying every self-deprecating suggestion. Love. And, finally, if you are like me and live in LA, there's always an extra degree of guilt plaguing you each time you eat something you half-enjoy.
Next time, I'll introduce to you, my as-of-yet-non-existant readers, the members of my little family, along with a tactfully-edited account of all their peculiarities. They have the most incredible stories of life in the former Soviet Empire, the War, Stalin, emigration, building a new life, and raising a new generation. I'll be keeping it light and funny until somebody pays me to make it heavy and full of action sequences.
Best!
Ariel Goldberg
