We All Play with Our Food

Summary

An English teacher reminisces about a student named Andy who creatively transformed his uneaten fruit into amusing characters, with one particular tangerine creation becoming a memorable classroom fixture and memento of the student's quirky habit.

Abstract

The narrative centers around the author's recollections of Andy, a high school student from the Class of '98, who had a peculiar pastime of carving faces into fruit instead of eating it. The author, an English teacher, recounts how Andy's mother would pack him a nutritious lunch, which he would always finish except for the fruit. Andy's artistic endeavors with oranges and tangerines led to the birth of various characters like Ninja Orange and Principal Orange. One day, Andy left a tangerine carving in the classroom, which the author found after it had dried into a hard, shrunken head-like object. This object became a fixture on the teacher's desk for years, even acquiring a string to hang as a decoration, and served as a humorous anecdote for parents during Back-to-School Night. The story concludes with the author reflecting on this unique piece of art after discovering it again during a recent move, contemplating the creativity and oddity of the student's behavior.

Opinions

The author finds Andy's fruit carvings amusing and a testament to his creativity, referring to them as "strange but beautiful things."
The author initially sees the tangerine creation as a simple, humorous art piece but later appreciates its longevity and the conversations it sparks.
There is a hint of fondness and nostalgia in the author's recollection of Andy and his antics, despite the potential messiness of his habit.
The author humorously suggests that the tangerine creation served as a warning to other students, implying a playful approach to classroom management.
The author expresses relief that Andy did not prefer bananas, implying that other fruits were more manageable for his creative expressions and less messy.

But orange you glad he didn’t like bananas?

Sometimes the nexus of creativity and immaturity lay the groundwork for strange but beautiful things.

I first met Andy — Class of ’98 — at the beginning of his sophomore year, when he was 15. That means he’s approaching 41, or thereabouts, this year — difficult to think of this kid as a grown-ass man, but there we are.

He was tall and skinny, with his dark hair cut in one of those odd bowls that looks like a mushroom. A very 1990s style. Quite apropos, since Andy played with his food.

Andy’s mom — dutiful caretaker that she was — always packed a “nutritious and delicious” lunch, as they say, and Andy — growing boy that he was — always ate it down to the very last Ho-Ho. Everything, that is, except the obligatory piece of fruit that Mom included daily. And, of course, she always included a cute note to go along with the lunchtime comestibles.

Andy’s regular post-lunch activity was carving said fruit — usually an orange, tangerine, or one of those hybrid tangelos — into the faces of various characters. He used a pen, or sometimes his house key, and named his creations, too. Ninja Orange, Principal Orange, Pirate Orange, Nerd Orange — we saw quite a few of these sticky renditions, and I almost always encouraged the young man to dispose of his lunch trash before he left for Algebra 2. Orange was Andy’s specialty. Who knows what he could have accomplished had he known anything about the impending reign of the former occupant of the White House? The Tangerine Terror, though, would have nothing on a teenage boy with a mission in mind.

(Photo: Author’s Archives)

As the designated adult in Room 215, I was vigilant — that is, until one busy day before a long holiday break. Andy came to my classroom to do some work on the school newspaper. He brought his bag lunch to class, per usual. I don’t recall if he ate Mom’s lovingly prepared repast down to the last scrumptious Ho-Ho that day, but I do know that he carved his fruit into what would turn out to be a quite memorable classroom character.

This particular creation started out as a simple work of art. Andy drew eyes on the tangerine with a ballpoint pen, pushing in the pliable skin slightly in an approximate imitation of eye sockets. He didn’t bother with a nose, but went straight for the mouth. Wielding a pair of classroom scissors, this 15-year-old Michelangelo sliced open the small orange sphere, extracted one tiny segment, squeezed the opening he’d just fashioned and inserted the tangerine slice into it, protruding like a juicy, fruity tongue.

“Very funny, Andy,” I said after he placed his work on the window sill. “Don’t forget to throw it away before you leave.”

Well, Andy didn’t follow instructions very well (we hope, now that he’s middle-aged, that he pays more attention to his superiors. Who knows? Maybe he’s the supervisor now? God help us.). He left the classroom, and the orange “person” he’d just created, behind on the window sill when the bell rang. No surprise there.

Of course, everyone went home for break but the mutilated tangerine, which proceeded to ossify, or perhaps petrify, over the school vacation. I’m an English teacher, not well-versed in the sciences. All I know is that the dang thing shriveled up into a hard, weird, head-like “sculpture,” which strangely resembled the head of a teeny, tiny little old man. One who was sneering “Neener, Neener, Neener,” with his tongue protruding at an odd angle.

When I came in the following Monday, I discovered this work of art — worthy, at least, of a place on my desk. Pretty creepy. Pretty funny. And quite the conversation piece.

I kept Andy’s Tangerine Person on my desk for several years, until one of my students decided it looked like a shrunken head and braided a string fob for it to hang on the bulletin board. One Back-to-School Night, a parent asked its origin. I said, after a couple of beats, “Oh, it’s a freshman who misbehaved. We have him on display as a warning to the others.” She smiled uncomfortably, then sat down to peruse the yearbooks I’d left for parents on the round tables in Room 215. And guess what? It takes more than a slightly snide comment to get fired from America’s public teaching ranks.

I haven’t thought about Andy and his creation for years. Decades, really. It took retiring, packing up our home of close to 30 years, and a move Down South to get me thinking again.

I was unpacking my last box the other day and came upon the oddest sight —the tiny, shriveled head of a teeny, tiny little old man, or maybe it was a misbehaving high school freshman, crudely stapled to the end of a braided string fob. There’s not much color in Andy’s work of art after all these years, unless you count the graying tones given to an object that was crafted at the hands of a teenage boy 24 years ago. Oh, and the dark, sunken “cheeks” of his creation, which generally creep me out.

I don’t remember packing Andy’s tangerine tour de force when I cleaned out Room 215 prior to my retirement four years ago. So, no, I couldn’t tell you what I was thinking when I put it away for safekeeping. I only know that when I pulled it out of the box the other day I was deluged with a flood of reflections — about this weird young man and his preoccupation with fruit. I’m blessed the boy didn’t have bananas in his lunch every day.

We all play with our food — but that would have been a nasty mess. Agreed?