When We Are Young, We Think We Are Invisible

​A wise man (my father) once shared this statement with me, as if it were (like all his pronouncements) a sage adage that concealed life-changing revelations in the empty passageways appearing between each word. He multi-tasked as he spoke, hands manipulating a miniature paring knife to slice ripe, homegrown guava into a porcelain rice bowl with an enviable dexterity that has forever eluded my crafty fingers. My father meant “invincible,” of course, but for once I failed to correct his imprecise English because I believed he had, entirely by chance, stumbled across a hidden truth of my childhood.
 

Tart flavor exploded on my tongue as I began to fathom the long voyage that sliver of fruit had charted to reach the dark cavern of my bottomless stomach, savoring the love and care that nourished our backyard garden’s earthy soil (as it had nourished me, too) until the plant budded and flowered and offered us (me) fresh sustenance. Still, the unmeasurable ingredients of homecooked meals remained shrouded in silence within the walls of our home, unspoken sentiments displaced by harsh criticisms that left me vulnerable, never invincible.

In outside spaces where our culture was misunderstood (even misappropriated), I often felt invisible: a winter tree surrounded by lost leaves. But the promise of heartier seasons lurked beneath the land, my twisted roots forever exploring history in the depths of the darkened dirt. In time, my body would reanimate above ground, grow and glow until bright blooms of color decorated my sturdy limbs. I would not stay hungry.

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