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In a lovely little loft on the edge of the city, we sit around two rectangular tables pushed together to form a large square.  On the table in front of us, a cat named Moon-Pie is lying nestled like a sardine in a cardboard box and overhead spins the “ginkgo mobile.” Surrounding us are random sculptures and paintings, some of school busses and of the moon, and framed poetry written by children hangs on the walls.

This is my weekly writing class.  The teacher is a beautiful woman with wild multi-colored hair,  a shock of white strands framing her face.  She wears thick black glasses–like a Harry Potter character–and is fond of saying things in a sort of mystic tone of voice.  To her left sits Georgia the poet.  A 70 year old single woman who wears bright clothing, smiles constantly and has a way of conveying her point with only a few well-chosen words.  Next to her, sits the paranormal archeologist writer: at least, that’s what I think she is.  She has a deep and raspy voice and is always first to volunteer for anything.

Beside her sits the younger woman who always wears those cute chopstick things in her hair–the kind that would never work in my hair.  She writes mostly about problematic men and feels free to use swear words to explain the depths of her inner self.  Next to her is the quiet and bubbly woman who never had anyone to encourage her creativity.  She’s comes to each class wide-eyed as if seeing the world for the first time and is always making happy cooing noises when something new is revealed.

Then there’s me.  It wasn’t exactly what I expected from a writing class, but if nothing else, I get a kick out of it whenever I go.  This week, our homework assignment was to write about a piece of fruit.  (These exercises are supposed to be unedited train-of-thought writings to spur creativity).  Georgia the poet wrote an unbelievably beautiful poem about a withering strawberry.  The paranormal/archeologist wrote an amazing short story about how a pear changed a guy’s life.  The others wrote deeply personal stories that their fruit brought to mind.

And then, there’s mine: silly because I mean, hey, it’s a piece of fruit.  Here it is.

Bananas: The Resentful Fruit

  I am a banana of the Chiquita clan.  We are a proud but jealous lot.  My particular clan is favored by the American’s for our length, usefulness and ability to be used in both knock-knock jokes and those jokes of the more phallic variety.  We are kept humble by the necessity of our undressing before being consumed.

  We are also kept humble by history–we have never been the favored fruit.  Apples seem to rule the show and have since the beginning of time.  Many people think that Adam and Eve ate an apple, but I would like to point out that the word used in the original text was “fruit.”  We bananas believe that that it was our ancestor to whom Adam and Eve partook.  The irony of undressing a fruit simply to realize that they too were undressed is the height of banana humor.  *chortle*

  Sir Isaac Newton propounded the glory of the apple by crediting it with helping him discover gravity.  Apples get a body part named after them (Adam’s apple), and all kinds of sayings of their own: “Apple of your eye,” “As American as apple pie,” and so on and so forth.  You get the idea–damned apples.

Small children enjoy smashing us between their fingers and consuming us with dried Cheerios–utterly disgraceful.  We are frequently being paired with other fruits that also get all of the glory.  Takes smoothies for instance.  No one ever orders just a plain banana smoothie.  They like things that seem more exotic: blueberries, strawberries, mango, kiwi, or the worst–acai berries.  What the heck are those anyway?  Glorified blueberries, that’s what.

And yet, none of them could have all of that glory without the silent smoothie backbone: bananas.  Yes, we are the mighty banana.


  1. I like it!

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