Dear Mango,
I didn't know you were writing my story until I saw our names side by side. My name is Mona. Four letters match yours. One letter different. This isn't a coincidence. This is my origin story. Do you remember when we first met? Egypt. Eleven years old. Over 100 degrees.
Okay, maybe it’s not when we first met, but it is my first memory. With child eyes, you were everywhere. Fresh mango and sugar cane juice stands calling from every corner. You demanded what no other fruit did: complete presence. All five senses engaged. You made me slow down. Years later, coworkers called me "Mango Mona." well, because I love you in every form.
Then I wrote a poem, and the first line came: "Name Dipped In Mango." That's when I saw it— Mona, Mango. Almost identical. How had I missed this?
So I started asking questions I'd never asked before.
My mother’s first mango memory was mango achar always on her grandparents' kitchen table in Guyana. And when I asked my grandmother the same question, she said they grew up with mango and coconut trees in the backyard. Stories I'd never heard.
You had me on a treasure hunt I didn't even know I was on. You were my inheritance, waiting for me to connect the dots. Dear Mango, you are not just a fruit. You are the king of fruits. Sacred in Buddhist tradition. You're woven into stories of love in India. The paisley on my hand comes from your shape. From Asia to Africa, Latin America to the Middle East. You connect us all. People carried your seeds across oceans. You became part of every culture that welcomed you. In my poetry, you kept appearing: "Egyptian blood, Guyanese culture." The more I connected to my roots, the less I needed to fit in everywhere else. You taught me identity isn't about blending in. It's about staying true to yourself, wherever life plants you. Like you: 500 to 1,000+ varieties worldwide. All different. All magnificent.
So I asked others: "What's your first mango memory?" Story after vivid story poured in. Memories they'd never reflected on before:
Rajshahi, India. It was picked fresh from our tree and given to be sliced into thirds and placed on a fork, to be used like a stick.
Westchester, New York. My mom gave me a slice. I loved the sweetness and the texture.
Port Hueneme, California. My parents refused to have another painful winter on the South Side of Chicago. My new home brought so much diversity. The local military base brought families from all over the world. My new friends were from Mexico, Panama, and the Philippines. Although we were different in many ways, we were all little kids who played together. Thanks to their families and their graciousness and generosity, I was immersed in new cultures through play and food. They introduced me to the best piece of fruit I had ever tasted. MANGO. It was truly a punctuation for my palate that I have appreciated for decades.
Southern California. I shared it with my younger brother. He's younger than me, so I gave him the soft cubes and I took the seed to eat the meat off of it. I remember the hairs being oddly satisfying. I always think of my brother when I eat mango.
Ibadan, Nigeria. My parents moved us from the UK. It was one of many experiences with different foods we did not get the chance to try in London while growing up. I remember thinking: I could eat this every day.
Democratic Republic of Congo. The first time I had mango was the first time I ever traveled. I was under five years old. It was the same trip that I met my grandmother for the first and last time. She lived in the DRC, but we lived in France. Seven years had passed since my mom saw her. Contact was difficult in the early 90s. So it was a big shock when my mom arrived with four kids under eight and one on the way.
Grandma passed away a few months after that.
I just think about her when I see mangoes now. How my life would have been different with her in it. I never had mango again after that until I hit my 30s.
Peace Corps, Eswatini. My host family had mango trees on the homestead. My host father would bring me mangoes whenever he picked them. I remember thinking: How have I lived 24 years without this deliciousness in my life?
South Africa. A neighbor had several mango trees on his property. Every mango season, he would bring us fresh mangoes from his trees. This is my most vivid memory of mangoes and when I really fell in love with them. Now they have become my favorite fruit. I eat them fresh and dried, nearly every day.
That's when I knew: You weren't just mine to keep. You were mine to share.
Dear Mango, this is why our Reflection Sessions exist. You taught me that sacred spaces aren't built, they're cultivated. Through music that moves something inside us and inspires us. Through writing that extracts truth. Through community where every voice matters, whether it speaks or listens. I don't guide people through my treasure hunt; I empower them to discover their own through the power of pen to paper.
Because transformation happens in the quiet moments. The pause. The reflection. Everywhere I look now, I see people whose seeds were planted in soil that can't nourish them. Working in jobs that drain them, relationships that diminish them, lives that feel too small for who they are and what they want for themselves. I lived this way for years. The constant expectation to perform. The sacrifice of myself for others' comfort. The broken promises that slowly broke my trust in my environments and the people around me. Until I stepped back and found my way back to myself. We each carry the seeds of our ancestors, but Dear Mango, you taught me the most important lesson of all: We don't have forever to connect the dots. To live the life we want to create.
The time to study ourselves is now.
Until we meet again at the next workshop, the next letter, the next moment of presence.
With love and abundant roots,
-Mona Khalil
