While drawing from memories, the piece isn't truly autobiographical. I only raked mangoes once, maybe twice, in my life. And I just used my hands. Fingertips, actually since those things are messy! However, I loved the image of going around picking up mangoes as a chore. I scribbled out some notes in my journal and here is the blog version.
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My grandmother spoke of plants in homespun anthropomorphisms. A tree my father planted never bloomed because it was "manly." A tiny weed, whose leaves reacted to touch, was "magic," and she mentioned an old neighbor that tried to label it as the eight wonder of the world. Right there in Mayaguez, Puerto Rico.
I am sure she would have described the mango tree in our neighbor's backyard as "pregnant." Fruit always seemed present on the tree, hanging down from leathery vines in the branches. While planted in the neighbor's yard, two solid branches jutted over the hibiscus strangled chain link fence and over our property. My mother said rats lived in the hollowed out recesses of the trees roots. "Go pick up the mangoes to stop the rats," she said, handing me crumpled up plastic supermarket bags from underneath the sink.
The mangoes begin rod shaped, hanging hard and green on the tree. They fall to the grass with soft thumps once they turn peppered emerald color filled with tiny black spots. They are in stark relief with the mangoes you see in the stateside supermarket. Those are softball sized balls that look more like avocados. My grandmother called these "Cuban" mangoes, which were better for straight up eating. Our mangoes, Puerto Rican ones, were better for making into jams and pastes. Better for baking too. She also called the hydroponic lettuce sold at store "Puerto Rican Lettuce" because it came from facilities on the island. Each bag was embossed with an outline of the island. This lettuce supposedly made you sleepy. "American" lettuce came only in bundles of threes. A single head of Romaine lettuce would have probably blown her mind.
The mangoes ripened on the ground, even though, at this point they already developed a blush coming from each end. Then like a banana they turned a splotchy black with a cucumber beetle orange skin. If left for too long, they became completely black with intermittent rings of deep purple in the bruises. At this point the fruit was so soft as to quiver when touched. These were my least favorite to pick up as I imagined centipedes and rats under each one. I filled the supermarkets bag full and carried them over to the trash at an arm's length. "Not in the trash, boy," my mother would say. "The rats will get them there!"
I am sure she would have described the mango tree in our neighbor's backyard as "pregnant." Fruit always seemed present on the tree, hanging down from leathery vines in the branches. While planted in the neighbor's yard, two solid branches jutted over the hibiscus strangled chain link fence and over our property. My mother said rats lived in the hollowed out recesses of the trees roots. "Go pick up the mangoes to stop the rats," she said, handing me crumpled up plastic supermarket bags from underneath the sink.
The mangoes begin rod shaped, hanging hard and green on the tree. They fall to the grass with soft thumps once they turn peppered emerald color filled with tiny black spots. They are in stark relief with the mangoes you see in the stateside supermarket. Those are softball sized balls that look more like avocados. My grandmother called these "Cuban" mangoes, which were better for straight up eating. Our mangoes, Puerto Rican ones, were better for making into jams and pastes. Better for baking too. She also called the hydroponic lettuce sold at store "Puerto Rican Lettuce" because it came from facilities on the island. Each bag was embossed with an outline of the island. This lettuce supposedly made you sleepy. "American" lettuce came only in bundles of threes. A single head of Romaine lettuce would have probably blown her mind.
The mangoes ripened on the ground, even though, at this point they already developed a blush coming from each end. Then like a banana they turned a splotchy black with a cucumber beetle orange skin. If left for too long, they became completely black with intermittent rings of deep purple in the bruises. At this point the fruit was so soft as to quiver when touched. These were my least favorite to pick up as I imagined centipedes and rats under each one. I filled the supermarkets bag full and carried them over to the trash at an arm's length. "Not in the trash, boy," my mother would say. "The rats will get them there!"
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I wrote that stream of consciousness style, with some help from the notes. It shows. But, you got a post, eh!?
Peace!
Peace!
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