Memories of Peace

You know that feeling? Where a smell, or a taste... a sound even, takes you back to a time and place in your past? A wistful fondness in your remembrance to look back on. Nostalgia for your childhood, perhaps. A time when the sun shines, and there’s not a cloud in the sky. Where the ice cream truck sings its song for the masses listening out for its icy goodness.

I remember fondly trips to Jones beach. Field 4 was always a party. On Sundays, there was Latin night, with hundreds of people moving to the beat of drums and dancing to the rhythm of the live band on the stage. Bachata, Salsa, Merengue, Kumbia, even break dancing. You name it: we danced it.

We would stock up with all the necessities. There were at least two coolers, one for drinks and one for food, umbrellas, sheets, beach chairs, and a speaker loud enough to hear for at least a 30 ft radius. Chips, cold cuts, and, of course, alcohol were just a few of the things we equipped ourselves with any time we headed out for a beach day.

There were always people walking around with things to sell. Little Hispanic ladies with mango slices, tajin sprinkled over the sweet fruit with some hot sauce on the side. Or Nutties, short for Nutcrackers, which were homemade drinks in these little juice bottles. They were usually extremely strong and had a variety of flavors. Some were better than others.

The people walking around selling Quenepas always caught my attention. You'd have to get them at the right time. Too soon in the season, and they were sour. Too late in the season, and there was a sickly overripe sweetness to them. They are these little, green-skinned fruit that you bite into to get to the goodness inside. They feel feathery soft on your tongue, with a gooey type texture, and taste like a cross between a lime and lychee. They are a bit acidic, however, so if you’d eat too many your mouth would dry up and feel a little raw. I always ate too many.

I remember the bodega by my middle school used to sell them, on Guy Lombardo on the corner of Main st. I used to go there before soccer practice, and you knew, once the quenepas came out, summer was right around the corner. They originate from warmer climates, essentially South and Central Americas, and can be also found to thrive in The Caribbean. They develop on Melicoccus Bijugatus, a tree in the soapberry family, according to my google and Wikipedia search.

The Quenepa can also be called by many other names. limoncillo, Mamon, Mamoncillo, Abakan ackee, Skinip and Spanish lime are only a few.

Held over a three-day weekend, Ponce, Puerto Rico celebrates The Genip fruit, the official fruit of Puerto Rico, in a festival known as La Festival Nacional de la Quenepa. It’s a fairly young tradition, only about 15 years old give or take, but I mean, who doesn’t like a good party? I’ve been twice and those experiences will last me a lifetime. I love the culture and dance. So different from growing up in New York, more grounding I'd say. A closer familial connection and appreciation for the little things in life. It's a blessing, to see family members who’ve never been to New York City, and the awe in their eyes when I tell them of how Times Square is so bright, even at night, it's as if the sun is still out. It warms me a little. The people in this jungle of concrete that raised me, tend to be jaded. Cynicism runs rampant, and excitement and wonder...... genuine excitement and wonder, leaches out of us so early on that to feel any type of happiness, one drinks. And dances. Or smokes. Anything to use as a distraction from the everyday calamities.

I remember the first time I saw the bioluminescent waters of Fajardo, with my great grandfather, mi Wello, in a canoe paddling through the waters at night. I was 12, and it was surreal in my young eyes. We had stopped in the middle of the river and he asked me if I wanted to go in. After seeing the movies Jaws, Piranha , and even Titanic, my fear of bodies of water where I can’t feel or see the bottom, had grown exponentially. But as I go to say no, he jumps in. If he can do it so can I, right? So, I leap into his arms and we float among the mesmerizing lights of the water. After a few minutes, my nerves get the best of me and we got back on the boat. We sit there for a while before he passes me a bag of fruit, and that was the first time I ever had a quenepa. In a canoe, at night, watching the bioluminescent waves our boat made.

I remember riding horses through the country, Mayaguez, where my family originated from. We’d ride throughout the afternoon and take a bag of quenepas to snack on during breaks. Mi Tio had a stable and a farm, quaint, but thriving. Chickens running around everywhere, and the farm dog and her pups making a ruckus. We’d have big family dinners and the line of cousins, aunts, and uncles that have yet to be introduced, just kept growing. It was one of the best times of my life.

When I think back on these memories, a sense of melancholy hits me. While, yes, there were areas of my childhood that were less than ideal, adulting has made me wish for simpler times. Twelve plus years of school doesn’t really equip you with the skills you need to survive in the real world. They don’t teach you about taxes, or how to properly deal with credit. They don’t fully explain the heavy hit bills lay on you. Once you feel you’re caught up another one comes out of nowhere. It’s a never-ending, brutal cycle that makes millions of people miserable. I guess Quenepas reminds me of happiness. Of lazy summer times before the stress of life turns one pessimistic and worn-out. I used to often wish we’d never have left the island. That we had stayed and lived a simpler way of life on mi Tios farm. I actually want a farm of my own one day. With horses and chickens and a pet pig. With a kennel that rehabilitates and finds forever homes for bully breeds. I also want to foster preteens and teens, kind of like the show pit bulls and parolees, but instead of convicts, I’d help troubled teens learn discipline and responsibility. To help put kids on track for a better life than they might otherwise have had in the system. The stories I have heard were horrifying, and at one point I was almost in foster care.

That’s why I write. To perhaps publish something great, where I can earn enough money to not just be comfortable, but live my dream. I've struggled, been knocked down, been homeless. I’ve hit rock bottom so many times, that I can’t really blame anyone but myself. But keep on I must, for to stay still makes one stagnant. Not a true death, but enough of one where life passes you by. It’s the little things, like the memory of biting into a Quenepa that first time, and the feelings of peace they bring that help me remember that there are good things in life. Growing up, it’s easy to lose track of what makes you smile. Memories help you relive those happy moments. My summer fruit helps bring me peace.