The Taste of Mangoes

"Let's go for a drive." he said...Off we went. 

In the rainforest, we passed maybe three others.  

Down an overgrown road we'd never been, we pulled over several times and got out. We inspected plants, took in the scenery, inhaled the fragrance of the moist soil, the trees in bloom and those mangoes ripening on the stem.

We were collecting food for the four tortoises we have. They are picky eaters, liking only red bell peppers, seemingly only red hibiscus but enjoying various greens, ripe bananas, papayas, avocados and of course, mangoes. 

At one stop, as we stood in the sunshine under a tree with plum-sized fruit, we picked a few off the ground. They were warm from the sun, soft but firm, mostly unbruised because they had landed conveniently on the bedding of

dried leaves. 

Peter handed me one plump golden kidney-shaped fruit. He had one for himself and started to peel it with his teeth. I watched him for a minute. So juicy, he had to keep licking his lips. He finished it in moments. But in fairness, it was so small, gone in only three bites. 

I held the one he'd given me. It was so warm in my hand and smaller than my palm. Because it was ready to burst, I cupped it gently. I liked the feel of it's smooth skin. I admired it's color, a deep golden yellow. The leathery skin was nearly unblemished. It was almost too pretty to eat, but eventually, I did. 

I brought it to my lips. My teeth punctured the taut outer-layer. The juices trickled into my mouth, made my lips sticky, it was warm, flavorful, and oh so sweet. I usually only eat mangoes after they've been chilled. And never have I bitten into one before peeling it. Here, outside, under the very tree that nourished it, I had no utensils except my own fingers and my teeth. I peeled back the skin, opening it up, exposing the meat. For a small mango, there was a lot to eat. And the flavor, like no mango I'd had before. 

I am Filipino by origin. I was born in the Philippines, my parents were both born there too, as were their parents. Mangoes are one of the fruits that is quintessentially Filipino to me. My mom will speak of papaya; I don't like their texture or taste. My dad loved coconuts; the young coconut, the dried coconut, the water, the milk, the slimy meat, the fleshy chunks, still moist but crunchy. But for me, I love the mango. 

When we emigrated from the Philippines to the USA in the late 60's, our parents would only speak and insisted we only respond in English. We were going to school soon and they needed us to be fluent. 

Their pride in being American immigrants was so strong, they were willing to forsake their customs, their language, their way of life to assimilate fully. And that's what we did, to our grandfather's horror. He thought Americans were spoiled, uncultured, believed children disrespected their parents. "They will grow up wild!" he told my parents. My Lolo even refused to bring us to America, as promised. He told our parents to go ahead and settle our home then he would bring us a few weeks later. Those weeks extended to months, and finally to nearly a year before my mother threatened to board a plane to retrieve us. 

That year apart caused my older brother (4 years old at the time), my little sister (under one) and me (3 years old), great harm. Our Lolo's actions defined us. We felt abandoned by our parents, traumatized, we grew insecure, fearful, unloved and unloveable. 

And to make things worse, when we were reunited with our parents, they insisted we renounce our life in the Philippines and become Americanized. 

For most of my life, I have rejected my Filipino background. And as a result, I never truly belonged anywhere. But here, on St. Croix, that's beginning to change for me. 

There are so many different cultures on STX and very few identify purely as one and not the other. You can be hispanic, black, rasta, a combination of any and all three. 

The island residents are Crucian, as long as you were born here; Puerto Rican, Black, Cuban, Trinidadian...no matter. There are mainlanders who came for the beaches, who retired to paradise, who are snowbirds, own vacation properties, work here at the refinery, most recently relocated either permanently or temporarily for disaster relief. 

That's us. When Peter first got here January 2017 after IrMaria, the two category 5 Hurricanes that hit in September, he had no idea what the living conditions would be, so I stayed in New York. How long would we be apart, we had no idea? And now, 2-1/2 years later, we're both here. 

With COVID 19, we consider ourselves lucky. On St. Croix there are only a few cases, we have beautiful weather, and outdoor recreation where we can social distance. It's ideal, really. 

And then there are the mangoes. Very few grew after the hurricanes, but now! Swinging from trees that line the main highway; scattered in yards; in the rainforest; along deserted roads. Fruit for tortoises, for residents, free for the taking. The sight of them; red, green, yellow; larger than your hand to those so small several can fit in your palm. They come from around the world. Some are easily recognized, their species identifiable, others...who knows...and who cares? 

Much like the mangoes, life here is sweet, delicious, delightful and diverse...I didn't realize how much my filipino background meant to me until I held that perfectly ripe mango cushioned by the dried leaves from the tree where it grew. 

Something about the forethought of nature taking a seed, protecting it in the warm soil, keeping it moist with the rains, the sun giving it life, energy, encouraging it to grow and grow. Taller and taller, the tree's leaves gaining strength, the flowers spreading, the fruit forming, the water, earth, and sun nursing each mango until it is plump, juicy, flavorful, sweet, growing and glowing from within. 

And one day. This Saturday. Just as we arrived. A gentle breeze blew the fruit on the long wispy stem, and it fell. Cushioned by the fallen leaves, it was not hurt, did not bruise, resting only a moment before Peter picked it up and handed it to me. 

Imagine, we drove up to the tree, ripe with fruit. We took in the beauty of the long green leaves, the bright yellow fruit, the majesty of the tree trunk that stretched 20 or more feet above us. And as we got out to look at the surrounds, several fruit fell, warm, filled with sweet juice, ready to be eaten. Peter casually picked two up. He held them in his hands. He offered one to me and began to eat the other. 

I have to wonder what I'm doing here, how I got here and why. 

A year ago, I would not have known that I would be living on an island, picking ripe mangoes from the ground, and calling this place home...if not for the taste of mangoes...how lost I would still be.