As we say back in the Old Country, there are no comrades for taste and color. As a reader and a theater goer, I am continuously amazed at how, while there are some acceptable universal truths (who doesn’t like Les Miz?), there are some experiences that are polarizing, and some that elicit just very different emotions in people. For example, the touring production “The Notebook” left me entirely unmoved. Maybe it was everyone saying to bring Kleenex, and I hate when I am expected to love something that everyone seems to love. Whenever I do NOT cry at a tearjerker, I always worry a little, as in, have I become emotionally detached? But no, still wept through the entire performance of a local community theater’s “Come from Away”. I have feelings, and lots of them. They are just not always activated by the same stimuli.
For example, I saw this amazing play in Stratford, “King James Bible Play”. It is almost two related stories, one about the men who were literally translating the King James Bible into English in 1609 in Act I, and one about the women putting on a play about these men in present time in Act II. I found Act I more moving, on every level: touching, funny, soulful. Some of it was the sheer unexpectedness of the depth of feelings expressed, occasionally with some reluctance and wonder, by these 17th century Englishmen. I mean, there is no shortage of stories about women’s feelings, but men’s, especially so far removed in time, well, that was a surprise to me. What was also surprising is how I reacted to the appearance on stage of a certain tropical fruit.
The pineapple is meant to be a humorous moment in the play, a recurring joke. One of the translators (Henry Savile, played by the charming, versatile Cyrus Lane) procures a rare fruit, a pineapple, which he keeps in a box and shows to the others, to their great amazement. He actually rents it as a prop, for no one would dare to destroy it by eating. There is deeper meaning in this whole pineapple concept, but once I saw it emerge, and as much as I laughed (for who among sophisticated theater goers in North America can imagine that there are folks who have never seen a pineapple?), I was instantly transported to a very different time and place.
I was visiting my mother where she lived in the suburb of our town. I must have been of pre-school age, when I still had some friends in that neighborhood. It was a summer weekend, and I was outside by the transformer substation, a kind of informal gathering place for the kids that lived in the apartment building. I always felt very independent at my mother’s. She did not hover over me, partially because the windows of her apartment were not facing the inner yard and playground, partially because she had better things to do, and mainly because I believed she genuinely trusted me, which is the greatest gift she gave me (she regressed a bit as I got older, but it was too late—the opposite of damage was already done, I had already learned to trust myself, and no one was going to convince me otherwise. I say this with love).
I am not entirely sure what purpose a transformer substation serves, even having looked it up. It was this gray metal structure, right by the apartment building’s entrance #4 (our entrance), and I took its presence for granted. There was a bit of a paved square in front of it, making it perfect for various games involving a ball, after which started the grassy courtyard and the playground. The playground contained a set of swings and a sandbox. It was from this swing that I famously flew (wondering what would happen if I let go of the metal bars onto which I was holding) right into the sandbox, completely unharmed, aged around five, if memory serves—but that is another story for another time.
That day, as I went outside, I saw a crowd of kids already gathered around one boy who was holding a pineapple. I knew what it was because I had seen a picture of it in my grandmother’s Encyclopedia of Home Economics. Among other exciting stuff, it had pictures of all sorts of fruits and vegetables, some of which I have not encountered to this day (such as kohlrabi—what is that?). So yes, I was aware of the existence of certain tropical fruits, but did not expect to run into any of them in the courtyard of an apartment building near a transformer substation where it was much more common to find an occasional stray cat. Some kids got to touch the pineapple—I did not, because I was a latecomer to this spectacle, and generally on the fringe, being just an occasional visit to their patch. I do not remember a single name or face from that crowd, but I vividly recall the general feeling of excitement and awe as this precious exotic fruit was held aloft in all its glory until the lucky kid carried it back to his apartment. Despite the fact that years later, after coming to the U.S., I discovered that I rather hate the taste of pineapple, find its shell extremely irritating to the tongue, and avoid it whenever I encounter it in any fruit salads, that moment stayed with me forever. And so, when I saw it replayed on the stage of Stratford’s Studio Theater, I cried and cried, for my childhood that was so full of wonders and miracles. This might not have been what the author of the play or anyone involved with the production intended or expected, but there it was. Behold, a pineapple!
