The Humble Banana

Every time I eat a banana, I think of my husband, not just because we are both born under the zodiac sign of the Monkey, but because of a story he told me about his youth. We had both known hunger and poverty before immigrating to the United States. At school, when the other boys in his class would pack fulfilling lunches complete with a fruit for dessert, my husband would ignore his rumbling stomach and try to hold out for dinner, his next meal. Once, he casually asked if a classmate would share the banana he was eating, and the classmate responded off-handedly that he could have the thin veins, leftovers of the peel that came off the main flesh of the fruit. My husband took this small afterthought gift and ate it, savoring the tannin-like astringency on his tongue, enjoying the slightest hint of banana flavor. We have to learn to sample the astringent in times of hardship before we can partake in tasting the sweet in times of abundance.

Now, we buy Cavendish and Thai bananas by the bunch every week, never to go short of them again. We make banana smoothies with the fruits from the backyard of the house we saved up for and bought together; we bake fresh loaves of banana bread in our oven and enjoy them for breakfast. My husband has this grand dream of growing some Thai banana trees (my favorite variety) in our yard, even though they are a Southeast-Asian-native variant.

And down the road, when we are both old and gray, when our skin has developed the aged liver spots that also freckle an overripe banana, even long after we are comforted with never having to worry about our next meal again in a land of lavish and bountiful food--whenever I sit alone and peel a banana to eat, I will still savor the smell of youth and hope from this sweet, humble, and nutritious fruit; I will think of my husband's days of long ago, and never forget what it is like to lack, to want, to strive, and finally--to achieve.

Thai bananas for sale in a Viet Nam market