Advent 2019 - Day 13 - The Pineapple

I bought myself a pineapple in December.Without thinking, plunked it in the basket.It wasn’t on sale.It wasn’t particularly colorfulor fragrant.It was mostly unripe—Bright green, like bamboo,With a foreshadowing of yellow.I was willing to wait for it to ripen.The next day, I didn’t even glance at it.I sat at the computer,Jiggling ice cubes in my glass,Working hardTo not procrastinate on my novel.The next day, I permitted a peekat the pineappleIt was slightly less green.I refilled my glassAnd returned to the computer—Content with the pineapple’s progress,Frustrated with mine.Two days later, I lifted the pineapple,Felt its weight,Thumped its side,Sniffed its skin.It was still mostly unripe,A fibrous yellow-green.Would its thick hide ever ripen?The next day,The sixth day,Its few traces of yellow were beginning to rot.I looked out the windowAt the cold-hard Pittsburgh sky.Perhaps, under the cover of greyish grey,It had ripened as much as it could.I would cut the pineapple after work. But work ran late.As apart-time,temporary,administrativeassistant,I don’t often work late.When I got home I was tired.I wanted to enjoy cutting the pineapple:CarefullySlicing its crown,MethodicallySawing its husk,LeisurelyPitting its thorns.I could cut the pineapple tomorrow. That night,I dreamed of Hawaii.I dreamed I was my great-grandfather,Hired by white land-ownersTo survey land for pineapple fields.I stood atop the Maui mountains,Looking back toward Kyoto,Looking ahead toward Washington, D.C.That night,I dreamed I was my father,Hired by white plantation-ownersTo labor in fields among pineapple stalks.Sweating under the yellow sunI longed for the cover of cloud.That night,I dreamed I was my grandmother,Hired by white factory-ownersTo sort machine-sliced pineapple into cans.I waited impatiently for cigarette breaksAnd ached for the closing whistle.That night,I heard the voices of my ancestors:“Two Ivy League degrees and you’re doing what?”“As long as you’re happy. Are you happy?”“Is this why I sacrificed, so you can pretend to write a book, and leisurely cut fruit?” I dreamI am not a lawyerWho left Wall StreetTo get an MFA in Pittsburgh.I dreamI am not a not-yet writerWho studies too closelyThe methods of Hemingway and Faulkner.I dreamI am not a creative writing school drop-outWho jiggles and jiggles ice cubes in a glassandnevereverfinisheshis novel.I dreamI am the pineapple.I am the green-yellow-brown fruitIn December,In Pittsburgh,Under the cover of greyish greys.When I cut into my thick hide,I reveal I amNot particularly sweet,Not very colorful.When I taste my yellow-enough flesh,I realize I amAn unworthy descendant,A shameful legacy:Barely ripe and almost rotten.I dreamOne dayMy great-grandmother—Who over a century agoBraved the Pacific Ocean for HawaiiWith a Japanese passportAnd a photo of a husband she had never met—Finds me.She throws away my husk and my thorns.She places my crown in cool water.One dayThe crown grows roots.She plants it in the earth.One dayIt sprouts leaves.One dayIt buds flowers.One dayIt bears fruit.The fruit grows.It sweats under the yellow sun.It flourishes and flourishesUntil at last ripensaSweet-fragrant-tangybright-juicy-sunnyluscious-abundant-amazing-wondrous-holypineapple. One dayI will finish the novel.One dayI will put down the glass.One dayI will understand not to buy pineapple in December.Until then,I wait.

Reflection

Learn a new story about one of your ancestors. Interview them, or someone who knows them. Research them, or the broader social group to which they belonged (e.g., Korean picture brides in early twentieth-century Hawaii). How might the holy be revealed through your ancestors’ stories?

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