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. 

Living Through the Legacy of Mad Men

We’ve been binge watching the past seven years of Mad Men before the final episodes air in April. With each show, I’m getting madder. The subtle way that Betty stifles her emotions. The entitled way Don subjugates women. The rampant sexism found in the office. While the time is late ‘50’s – ‘60’s, I lived through a variation of it as a child and then again as a twentyish old in the ‘80’s - 90’s to be sure.

When Roger’s daughter refuses to have a lavish wedding that sends Mona into near tears, I lived through that. We invited over 400 strangers to our wedding so that my mom could show off. It was a thing back then. Showing off for your friends. Equating the wedding to your wealth and stature. I lived through that.

When Trudy whines to buy an apartment, then, is near hysterical when she can’t conceive, I was that. And all because of social norms that my parents inflicted on us. I remember insisting we buy a condo in Hoboken, pretty much because my father thought paying rent was a waste of money. Yup, I was Peter Campbell’s cringe-worthy social climber. Ugh.

I’m pretty shocked by how little progress women have made since the ‘60’s. Today, 55 years later, even at jobs dominated by women, we are still paid less then men. In publishing, most women I knew started out as receptionists and executive assistants. I was flippantly told by the Executive Director at a large publishing house where I worked for years that I wouldn’t be promoted to Editor because, and I paraphrase, “I was just going to go off and have babies every couple of years…” I probably could have sued him, but I didn’t. I should have gotten mad and argued with him, but I didn’t. I lived through it and sit here today and wonder why I had to live through it and why it goes on today.

There are a lot of very nuanced plot progressions in Mad Men that makes the show so brilliant. Probably more so for those of us who have lived through it. Like the shocking and yet hilarious way that Don chucks his beer bottle in the public park and the way they just threw the napkins off the blanket and left them all over the freshly mowed and manicured lawn. As if it would somehow magically disappear.

My parents didn’t drink but you know damn well if they had, they would have been just like the Drapers where Don instructs the daughter to mull the fruit at the bottom of the Old Fashioned as she makes drinks for their dinner guests. So funny because it was true. I lived that.

But what makes me mad is that I continue to relive these stirred and shaken feelings over and over again. It’s not the ‘60’s, and today’s inequalities are being addressed in public forums and not just undressed in bedrooms away from the eyes and ears of the impressionable children.

And still, I want to make a point to my husband that he shouldn’t have flirted in the office. I had gone to two separate workplaces and the first thing one of the women blurts out to me in each place was, “Oh the things I could tell you about your husband!” What the fuck is that supposed to mean? This was pertaining to a job he held in NJ and then again several years later in Florida.

And you can be damn sure, I felt the slap across my face the same way Betty did when the crass comedian told her something similar for the first time. And funny, she responded the same way I did (or should I say it the other way around?). We both got really drunk and threw up.

And there’s Don. Asleep in the couch and Betty comes up to him with very little emotion, actually, for such a serious accusation. She wakes him and asks him, “How can you do that to someone you supposedly love? “ Of course, she didn’t confront him when she found out. She waited nearly a week, I think. And the provocation wasn’t another woman, but her choice of beverage. Betty takes offense not at his affair, but that he was laughing at her, that she was so predictable that his latest ad campaign had lured her in, unwittingly. She says, “You embarrassed me.” And he has no idea what she’s talking about. When he does figure it out, he denies it. Because in Don Draper’s world and in mine, men work hard at jobs that tear them down which makes them feel entitled to seek attention outside of their homes. Because, like it was during my dad’s day, the men in my generation had only my dad and Don Draper as role models. They had a work-life – where they were the hunters. And they had the home-life where they joined the gatherers. Dogging around was part of their job. It validated them as men and while they’re out there in the world, they’re entitled to that. Afterall, it was their job.

Women, on the other hand, like the women of Sterling Cooper, were paid for their time at work. They sacrificed self-esteem, self-worth for what little power they earned in the workplace. No matter what, as with me and Peter, he would make the money. I would always, always make ½ what he did.

I loved my job. As an editor in a family-owned children’s publishing house, my community was supportive, for the most part. I knew my work had positive social value and I appreciated the steady climb of my career. I had planned to work even after I had children, but that wouldn’t be the case. Peter didn’t want his kids growing up in Manhattan. Not enough green space.

And so, we moved to a beautiful but remote area, an hour and a half commute each way for me. I loved my job. This was all I had ever wanted since I was in second grade. But that meant being away from my daughter for 11 hours a day. Someone else would be raising her. How could I do that? How do you juggle your career, your family, your marriage?

For me, I gave up on me. I made do with freelance that, by the way, is far harder then going to work 8 hours a day. Deadlines were insane and so my family suffered regardless of my not having to go to work every day. Because to meet that 6 week deadline for a book to be completed, I had to put the kids in daycare, have my parents watch them, work on weekends and evenings, stressed out and spread too thin, I never did anything well. It broke me. But I lived through it.  Much like the countless women on Mad Men and around the world lived through their own set of sacrifices in order to maintain their home and their marriage.

Just look at my mom. She was a great student with much promise. But, she met my dad and it was up to her to support him in his career. Becoming a doctor was about as good as it got in the Philippines. If she stood behind him, she would be there when he was the head of the pack. And he was, and she did. And I lived through that.

She also gave up everyone she loved and everything she knew in order to progress his career. They had the opportunity to move their family to the United States in the ‘60’s. That would cinch their fate and the fate of their children. It was a huge sacrifice for a woman who had servants, was from well-respected family, and was surrounded by loved ones. But this would ensure his success, and so he went, and she went with him.

The sacrifice was also in leaving their children. My older brother, my younger sister and I stayed behind until they could find and set up a home. Then, they would send for us. Two weeks or months tops. But our grandfather didn’t want us to grow up American. They had decadent ways. He refused to accompany us to the States. My brother was only four, I was three and my sister was not even one.

One year and countless heartaches later, we arrived and grew up American – good and bad…We arrived in 1967, which is where the demise of Don Draper starts to unfold.

* * *

Jon Hamm’s facial expressions are so telling – the mark of a truly great actor. And who doesn’t believe that January Jones is really that cold and vacuous? That’s how good she is! All of the characters go through multiple manifestations over the seasons and during each episode.

And we’re like that right? We can watch period pieces like Mad Men and remember the way things were. The set-up of a perfectly decorated home only to find out that it’s locale was best known for it’s maximum security prison and with the change of name, came the influx of growing families fleeing the city for an idealic life in the suburb – the Madison Avenue Ad Man gets taken by his own creation. Funny.

And we remember the ads they talk about too and remember how much we relied on the new medium, television, to bring us what life was supposed to be, how we were supposed to live it and I can remember distinctly when life came in techni-color.

And like the characters, one thing I realized during the harrowing awareness of life imitating art, I was thrust right back into the same feelings I had back then. Back when Peter and I were first married and my parents still dictated how I should behave. I remembered the commercials for Spic and Span and Playtex, who I tried to meet their standard of cleanliness and beauty. Blah blah blah…

But it’s not real and it’s not life. It’s 55 years ago and things have changed. While I can vividly recall how I felt when I learned of Peter's flirtations; it was much like Betty's confusion and devastatation upon learning of Don's philandering. I can relive that hurt again and again. But it’s not happening today. We lived through it and we moved on.

I can feel those feelings but they’re not happening now. Quite frankly, I’m watching these episodes, but even they aren’t happening now. We’re rewatching them so that we’re on top of the final season’s final episodes. We’re going over them again because we forgot some plot twists and want to be current when the new episodes air, so we don’t miss anything, so that we understand what is going on now.

And that’s the significance of this for me. I’m reliving, recapping, rewatching rethinking what happened over the years so that I don’t miss anything today. The price I pay for documenting our life together is rehashing the bad with the good.

But there's something else I just realized. My husband is just one generation away from Mad Men. As I said before, he and I only had those mad men and women as our role models. But our children, they’re going to have us. And Peter and I have taken careful notes and have lived in radically different ways and worked hard to recognize the shortfalls of the Dons and Bettys before us. Our children can look at the time that this show takes place and say, ‘OMG! I’m so glad women don’t have to wear such those clothes; that men aren't so clean shaven; that we all know how bad smoking is; and how we need to buckle our children (and dogs) in car seats; and that women are smart and can contribute intellectually to a conversation, a household budget, and serve as world leaders! And on and on and so forth…

I’m glad I lived through so much of this madness so that my children can live without it.