By Sarah Khasawinah
This morning, I rolled out of bed in the double digits. I was supposed to go on a run and end at the peach stand a mile from home. From my half-open eyes, I could see that the Farmer's Market would close in less than two hours, leaving me with little time to run and fetch peaches. I deliberated in bed: run? or just get peaches? I don't deserve peaches if I don't run.
I flipped and turned, and even thought, might as well go back to sleep since it's already so late. Then, suddenly, the red lights forming numbers on my digital clock displayed a new hour. I had just wasted more time in bed. Finally, I declared to myself out loud: I want peaches. I want to run.
I threw on my running clothes, grabbed my key, found some cash, and ran with conviction. I had been dreaming about these peaches ever since I first tried them. "Like candy," does not begin to capture their sweetness. "Like ice cream" does not even half approximate their creaminess. Although a similitude to these peaches is beyond the human imagination, I will try to re-construct my memory: upon taking a bite, the flesh erupts with a lightly tangy extremely sweet mixture that immediately melts almost faster than you can process its goodness. So I quickly take another bite, partly because I want more, but also because the core that remains in my hand is dripping with peachy juices. In this manner, I continue, and in less than 30 seconds, I have just devoured the most delicious thing I have ever had. The experience is fleeting.
I replay that in my head again and again. My breathing is heavy; I am out of shape. My foot hurts. But, Oh the peaches...!
I finish my short route, and race to the peach stand. I wove through people, running. When I got to the peach guy, I stumbled. I didn't see his delicious peaches on the table. I asked him of their whereabouts, and his response:
"Sold out."
That's the end of my peach story and the beginning of another...
I didn't want to go home feeling blue, so I bought two other types of peaches and a dozen of free-range eggs. On my way out, I passed by a melon stand, with several watermelons cut open. Glued to the colorful display of bright reds and yellows, I marveled "Those look delicious." Then, the guy gave me watermelon. I tried to pay him, but he explained that they were about to get thrown out.
“In fact, they’re all gonna get thrown out,” he lamented.
Right away, I offered to take them, although I was already carrying a full load. Somehow, we packed everything up, and I started my trek home. A few blocks away, I collapsed. I convinced myself that it was just a necessary break, and picked myself back up a few minutes later. To the light post, to the light post, I talked myself into making it half a block. Then collapsed again. This cycle of walking a few blocks and falling happened a couple more times. Then, I realized, I’M NOT FASTING AND I’M CARRYING WATERMELONS! I stopped, broke a melon open with my hands, and devoured like a thing of the wild. If I finish this whole melon, it will be one less to carry. Finishing it was easy. From the heat, the run, the trek, and the sheer weight of the watermelons, I was parched. In just a few minutes, I swallowed the fruit whole. At the time, it felt like the most delicious thing I have ever had.
I probably looked like a beast in the middle of a Baltimore block. But in Baltimore, strange things are normal. For instance, the other day, I helped my roommate move into her new place—we carried her queen-sized bed 7 blocks. Instead of outsider stares, passer-byers cheered us on and said things like “That’s teamwork! Good job!” It is also normal to see people sleeping on the patch of grass in between the sidewalk and the street. So, although the question of what people think didn’t cross my mind during my heavy melon trek, in retrospect, I don’t think that a beast in Baltimore is such a strange sight.
Some Arab guy did though. And he made it a point to dwell on.
“You must be hungry,” he approached me from behind.
I ignored him and continued to eat as if I could not hear him.
“You must be from Afghanistan or Pakistan,” he persisted.
At this point, I was annoyed, and firmly replied “No.”
“Really, then where?” he interrogated.
“I’m from here.” I proclaimed.
I wished he would go away. I continued to eat my melon. I was on a mission to make my burden lighter and I wasn’t gonna let this dude stop me.
The guy continued, “I asked because you are dressed like a Moz-e-lem.”
“I am a Muslim,” I declared.
“Then where are you from?”
“I’m from Missouri.”
“OH. Then why are you a Muslim? How did you decide to be a Muslim?”
OK, so maybe he was trying to be friendly; but really, I was so annoyed: “I found it, and it was easy.” (A white lie? I don’t know. I do think that everyday when I wake up in the morning, I make a conscious decision to be a Muslim, and I pray not to die except in a state of submission to God.)
The guy didn’t seem to register my social cues, because even with my terse responses and continued consumption of the melon, he continued.
“I speak Arabic, but I’ve been here for 20 years. Not in Baltimore, but in the U.S. I was wondering you know because it’s Ramadan and all. But that’s OK because I don’t fast either.”
At this point, I kinda wanted to slap him. But it is Ramadan, and even during my lady time, in which I cannot fast, I will try to adhere to the compassion part of this Holy month—or at least to the not-getting-angry part!
“Have a nice day,” I bid the guy farewell because that was the best not-mean thing I could think to do.
I devoured the rest of the melon before anyone else would have the chance to strike up an unwelcome conversation. I found a trashcan for the rinds. And indeed, when I picked myself back up, nourished with the water of one melon, and carrying only 5 more, I felt much lighter and able to proceed.
I made it all the way to the main streetlight without feeling the need to collapse. At the light, a homeless guy was asking for money. I asked him if he wanted melons, and his eyes lit up; so I gave him two, and smiled.
Sticky, sweaty, and smiley, I dragged myself home.
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