Nina's four
Like it or not, we’ve grown up and certain things are irreversibly different. We use forks, we go to and from school on our own, we no longer have to be forced to eat soup, drink tea, or make our beds- whether we do it or not. Yet, while our parents and grandparents are relieved that these changes are considered irreversible, after sitting through certain family dinners they leave the dinner table full not only of food, but of doubt that the changes ever occurred.
There was something in the air, or perhaps in the food (magic brownies? Grandma’s favorite recipe), that drove the four of us to some sort of hyper mutually-encouraging excitement. Perhaps it was also the guest, a relative visiting from Israel. It’s an unpredictable and uncontrollable phenomenon, one that that the “adults” of the family have to sit through, enjoy when it doesn’t interfere with their parental role, reprimand when curses are aimlessly yelled, solely for shock value, while sitting at our grandparents dinner table, or join and fuel when there’s no other option.
The guest complimented our parents on not having changed since the last time she saw them, 11 years ago, noting how the four of us, on the other hand, have grown so much. Marina, 4 months younger than I am, blurts out, “I wasn’t around 11 years ago.” I noticed tiny bits of confusion forming on the woman’s face so before she had a chance to protest, I offered, “Marina is 11 and a half years old.”
This was not the first indicator of the intelligence of the table’s younger generation, so my exasperated aunt finally sought answers.
“It’s like you guys are engaged in some sort of stupidity conte…”
“I’m winning.”
The woman then told us that she looks forward to seeing little ::our respective last names:: running around years from now. Taking this more literally than was intended, Andrey aptly pointed out that he’s the only one whose kids would have his last name. Other than his Yoffe’s, we’d have little Gonzales’ and O’Connors running around, he explained to the family. Andrey thereby offered our Russian-Jewish grandparents Hispanic and Irish grandchildren, which, according to the Russian Grandparent Handbook, is illegal.
Finally my dad arrives. My two cousins and I, all sitting on the couch, start waving at him in unison.
“Guess which one’s yours.”
Quite clearly, similar hand gestures will confuse anyone as to which child belongs to him. Especially when these children are 17-20 years old.
Things started slowing down, and my dad was the new one at the table with an empty plate and a table full of family ready and eager to fill it. My cousins, Jackie and I have yet to reach that age where we gain satisfaction from feeding and overfeeding, yet following my grandmother’s example the four of us competed to gain informed consent and fill the plate with as many varied dishes as possible.
Humiliated by his loss, Andrey tries to leave the living room. Little did he know, the table and couch were strategically placed to allow just enough room for everyone to file in, not exit. “Claustrophobia killed the Mongolian merchant.” Andrey’s parallel to “curiosity killed the cat” gained no sympathy and we all remained seated. There’s only one other way. I was sitting closest to him, so he lifted his body to take a seat slightly closer to the other end of the couch, closer to me, very subtly on me. It was a slow process, as I inched out from under him, he lazily moved closer and, again, partially on me. Each time was progressively less subtle, and eventually my aunt felt the need to remind my cousin he’s 6’1. Neither of us understood the relevance of this comment, Andrey resumed his strategic moving, and I kept trying to breathe but refusing to let him through the normal way. This process was a physical one, leaving our intellectual spheres unoccupied. Just like chewing gum and walking, we managed to simultaneously have a conversation and awkwardly move off the couch.
“If you had to pretend you were trilingual, which language would you say you speak?” Andrey’s question was in no way related to anything we had previously mentioned, but between discussing the craziness of my grandparent’s cat (what kind of cat wouldn’t want Andrey and Jackie chasing it around and calling it names like dog), my uncle’s new glasses, potentially using an NYU Stern education for acting, and the gay guys at my aunt’s workplace rolling their own cigarettes- there were very few topics that truly didn’t apply.
“Would it be spebrew? Hebrew + Spanish?”
“Dutch.”
Taken aback but satisfied with my answer, Andrey lifted himself off the half of my body he had, until then, felt the need to occupy, and refilled my dad’s plate while he wasn’t looking.