Saturday, January 14, 2006
Life as a Mango Slice
Over a million years ago, in a desert under a sparkling midnight sky, warriors arrived -- not to fight -- but to write poetry and drink wine. Amidst the candle-lit festivities, as a result of thunder and lightening, the entire village died but only a girl had survived, by closing her eyes and hiding under a rock. When she could no longer bear the pain of mourning alone, she turned into a mango tree trapped in a misplaced climate.
A boy from a caravan passing by pulled a ripe mango off the tree and cut the fruit into thin strips to be dried. Thus, she began life from the perspective of a mango slice. When the boy reached the city, he set sail for an island where he would only be surrounded by dolphins and singing mermaids. He left one last mango slice in his pocket, to bring a sweet taste to his mouth when the seas became stormy. As he boarded the ship, he slipped on the deck and while the boy survived, the last slice of mango fell into the Sea.
As a slice of dried mango protected in the warmth of a pant pocket, the water felt cold and choppy, but a large streak of sun was shining directly above me. I floated for what seemed like an eternity. There was no television, no cell phone, no war, no exams, no grading, no xenophobic policies, no prisons, and no police brutality -- but there was also no love, no peace, no music, no candles, and certainly no hugs.
I became radioactively ill because depleted uranium (used by the world’s strongest army to violently obtain oil in a war that misleadingly appeared extremely neat and clean on T.V.) had seeped into the sea with all its carcinogenic, defect inducing capabilities. I also faced a bit of factory made toxic waste that had been illegally dumped in the sea.
I nearly became friends with a bannanna peel who in a previous life had died from the broken heart of losing a spelling bee, but my potential friend was drowned in a single gulp of sea, by a pregnant whale – she was very thirsty. The face of the glaring sun was dehydrating the texture of my mango slice body, so I dove deeper into the water. To my surprise, the ocean floor was covered with high-rise buildings, suburbs, farmland, and rural areas. People with webbed hands and feet swam around the ocean floor cities and streets. Airplanes flew underwater across the globe.
I couldn't believe my eyes and I knew that if I was to ever reach the shore of a landmass, no one would believe me – I understood that to the human world I was just a talking mango slice. In fact, most people would rather believe they are hallucinating or going crazy then actually find it in their heart to live beyond stereotypes and pay attention to the words of a mango slice.
I felt the water rise as the arctic glaciers melted away carelessly, little did I know about the disasterous flooding or the epidemic of global warming. By the time a huge wave ultimately pushed me to shore, I was exhausted. My worst fear came alive when a bird flew down and pecked at me with its sharp beak.
Later that night, caterpillars crawled over me and discussed America’s embarrassingly high incarceration rate while admiring the tangy sweet flavor of the mango in me. I had always felt that the untimely and abrupt death of all my people left a gaping hole in the sterling sky. The memory of rosewater, pearls, and calloused hands still haunted me. Early the next morning, before sunlight littered the waking world, I turned into a butterfly, floating through the hole in the sky, and closing the door behind me.
A boy from a caravan passing by pulled a ripe mango off the tree and cut the fruit into thin strips to be dried. Thus, she began life from the perspective of a mango slice. When the boy reached the city, he set sail for an island where he would only be surrounded by dolphins and singing mermaids. He left one last mango slice in his pocket, to bring a sweet taste to his mouth when the seas became stormy. As he boarded the ship, he slipped on the deck and while the boy survived, the last slice of mango fell into the Sea.
As a slice of dried mango protected in the warmth of a pant pocket, the water felt cold and choppy, but a large streak of sun was shining directly above me. I floated for what seemed like an eternity. There was no television, no cell phone, no war, no exams, no grading, no xenophobic policies, no prisons, and no police brutality -- but there was also no love, no peace, no music, no candles, and certainly no hugs.
I became radioactively ill because depleted uranium (used by the world’s strongest army to violently obtain oil in a war that misleadingly appeared extremely neat and clean on T.V.) had seeped into the sea with all its carcinogenic, defect inducing capabilities. I also faced a bit of factory made toxic waste that had been illegally dumped in the sea.
I nearly became friends with a bannanna peel who in a previous life had died from the broken heart of losing a spelling bee, but my potential friend was drowned in a single gulp of sea, by a pregnant whale – she was very thirsty. The face of the glaring sun was dehydrating the texture of my mango slice body, so I dove deeper into the water. To my surprise, the ocean floor was covered with high-rise buildings, suburbs, farmland, and rural areas. People with webbed hands and feet swam around the ocean floor cities and streets. Airplanes flew underwater across the globe.
I couldn't believe my eyes and I knew that if I was to ever reach the shore of a landmass, no one would believe me – I understood that to the human world I was just a talking mango slice. In fact, most people would rather believe they are hallucinating or going crazy then actually find it in their heart to live beyond stereotypes and pay attention to the words of a mango slice.
I felt the water rise as the arctic glaciers melted away carelessly, little did I know about the disasterous flooding or the epidemic of global warming. By the time a huge wave ultimately pushed me to shore, I was exhausted. My worst fear came alive when a bird flew down and pecked at me with its sharp beak.
Later that night, caterpillars crawled over me and discussed America’s embarrassingly high incarceration rate while admiring the tangy sweet flavor of the mango in me. I had always felt that the untimely and abrupt death of all my people left a gaping hole in the sterling sky. The memory of rosewater, pearls, and calloused hands still haunted me. Early the next morning, before sunlight littered the waking world, I turned into a butterfly, floating through the hole in the sky, and closing the door behind me.
# posted by BaharMeansSpring @ 3:50 AM 
