"Beryl" by Danielle Monique
I am a giant blueberry.
My mother gave birth to me in an alleyway. She wasn’t alone, nor did she plan to throw me in a dumpster. She and her sister had just left the movie theater. It just happened to be where her water broke (actually, it was more of a blue, slushy dripping). By the time the ambulance came along, I was on my way.
The paramedic said, “Holy fuck, is that a huge ball? Is this a joke?”
It was not a joke. I am a giant blueberry, and my mother would later name me Beryl. She didn’t name me for weeks after giving birth or hold me for too long. She was eighteen and scared. She shared an apartment with my Aunt Olivia after their parents disowned them (one for being pregnant and one for being gay). They couldn’t afford an ultrasound so she took prenatal vitamins and hoped I would come out like everyone else’s babies. I like to laugh at the assumption that she only picked out the blue ones.
She wasn’t expecting a blueberry, and doctors didn’t know what to tell her. I still drank milk like a human baby, but I was technically a fruit. I digested it too. At first, they had to stitch together diapers for me so it would fit my round body. Then they handmade a reusable version for cost-efficiency. I use the restroom like everyone else. You’d be surprised how many people don’t believe me or ask to see how.
I hated dogs growing up (and still do) because they’re the first to notice. People typically just walk past me, assuming I’m a human in a fruit suit. I have arms and legs, but my face and body is that of a blueberry. When I talk, they gawk at me. Unsurprisingly, I was homeschooled. Mom got used to it, but she is still very defensive of me, reaming everyone who asks questions.
I remember, when I was six, standing in the produce section by the broccoli, enjoying the cool temperatures of the fridge. The sprinklers came on above the vegetables to keep them fresh and dewy, and I basked in it.
A man walked up to me and watched. I smiled at him at first. But then he reached out—I think he wanted to see if I was a display—and jabbed me right in the chest with his index finger. I said, “Don’t touch me!” then howled out (even though it didn’t hurt too bad). He dropped his basket, then ran as fast as he could to get away. Mom found me and carried me the rest of the time. Later, the man saw us as we were leaving the store.
“Excuse me, ma’am.” Mom turned toward him with a sneer. “Is that a real, live blueberry?”
“Yes, she is.” She turned to continue walking.
“That’s remarkable!” He jogged a little to catch up to us, chuckling.
“Did you grow her? Or was it like—” he rounded a hand over his stomach a few times— “because that’s absolutely insane! And she talks so eloquently, too!”
“Listen, you old creep. If you ever touch my daughter again, I will slap the taste out of your big mouth. You fucking baboon.”
After that, she stopped taking me to the store. She stopped taking me anywhere. She wasn’t ashamed, just scared.
At seventeen, I was approached to work my first job as a clerk at an organic food store. They hired me because they thought it would be neat to have a fruit bagging groceries. I was an unofficial mascot, and the number of customers surged. But soon they accused me of being too slow and causing long lines. It didn’t matter that they were understaffed. They fired me.
It was after this that I started working on my bachelor’s degree—online. It only took me a few years, but I didn’t want to give up on the college experience. I had no friends, so I’d go out where I was less likely to be harassed if I was alone. Halloween used to be my favorite night of the year. Farmers’ markets were less fun, but if I knew where to point for fruit stands, I was a welcome representative. At music festivals, people were often so high or distracted by the chaos that they thought I was just painted.
A few years after my first job, I graduated. I began job hunting for white collar positions. Mom begged me not to, but I couldn’t resist the desire to have my own cubicle and make my own money.
Over breakfast one morning, she said, “This is too much like the Thompson’s pool party. I turned away for one minute and their kid shoved you into the pool.”
“How is this anything like that, Mom?”
She was silent. Aunt Olivia spoke instead, between mouthfuls of spaghetti.
“We just want you to be safe. Maybe you can find one of those remote jobs. Work from home!”
I tried to remind them that, growing up, we’d watch all those shows with silly coworkers and office romances. In reality, my plan was to eventually move out and stop depending on the both of them for everything from housing to food to a social life.
At my second job, as a telemarketer for a cable company, I toured the office on the day I was hired, and no one batted an eye. I assumed this would be a fruit-friendly office because of this. I had butterflies.
After weeks of working there, I noticed that no one talked to me at all. Not really, anyway. My own supervisor wouldn’t look me in the face.
Rita was the only person who seemed to like me so far. She was the head receptionist at the front desk, and made a point to greet me every morning. We talked about glasses being superior to contacts (even though no glasses fit me, and I still wore contacts), about bowls being more worth your money than burritos, and how much we hated sports.
However, I knew I made the rest of the office uncomfortable, so I decided to be proactive. One day at lunch, I invited some coworkers out to have a drink with me.
A few accepted. We got a table at the tavern below the office. I was sitting on the edge of the table in a chair because I couldn’t fit inside the booth. Four of them sat in front of me like it was an interview.
“So, Beryl,” a sharp-faced woman named Sheila spoke to me first, shouting a bit over the bar’s noise and music. “Where are you from?”
“Right here in Boston!” I said excitedly. Everyone took their time getting drinks, and I was ready to get started on the bonding. “Born and raised in Chelsea.”
“That’s not really Boston,” she said simply. “Anyway, how do you manage?”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I mean, do you take the orange line, green line? Can you fit on the train?”
She kept a straight face while two of our other coworkers snickered. One was a skinny, pimple-riddled woman named Jay; we shared a cubicle wall. The other was a conventionally attractive guy named Alex; his arm draped casually on the booth behind Sheila.
To Jay’s right side sat Rita. When I had invited her, she seemed relieved to be asked to do something other than holding calls.
“I can get around just fine.” I continued to smile, determined to make this a positive experience. “What do you all like to do?”
“I like to go hiking,” Alex said, leaning toward me. “What do you do?”
“I’m a gardener!” I said. “We keep a small one on my balcony.”
“We?” Sheila said. I ignored this because I didn’t want to tell them I still lived with my mom and aunt at 22. How do you explain being not only a blueberry but a dependent one?
Rita jumped in and said, “We garden, too! My husband and I love chili peppers.”
We discussed gardening techniques for most of the night. I regretted inviting the others because they seemed less interested in getting to know me, and more in dissecting me. They asked what my childhood was like without volunteering much information about themselves. They laughed when I smiled. Every normal hobby I had felt like part of the freak show to them.
It felt like being poked in the chest by a stranger all over again. Except no one was there to pick me up and carry me away.
When they started to move into the topic of dating, I stood, a little wobbly on my feet from the cocktails I guzzled throughout the night. Rita offered to walk me to the train station before she got in her car.
“See you later, Blue Beryl,” I heard someone call as I left. The table erupted in laughter.
Rita and I were quiet. She very obviously pitied me, but I wanted to show her that I was stronger than that. On the walk to the station, I asked her if this was what the office was usually like.
“Honestly, no,” she sighed. “It’s cliquey like most places, but I’ve never seen anyone get singled out the way you do. I’m sorry.”
We walked a little farther. Then I looked down at my hands. When you’re drunk, your hands become the most interesting part of your body. I told Rita this, and she laughed. We reached the front of the station, and I thanked her for walking me.
“No problem,” she said, offering a smile. “Have a good night!”
As she was walking away, I called out to her, and she spun to look back.
“I know I’m different. I’m not stupid. I think that’s what hurts the most when I meet people like this. They think I’m too dumb to realize I’m not like them. I’ve had mirrors. Some people try to rip off my flesh and taste me. Once, a man pantsed me at a music festival to see what my body looked like. It’s been like this my whole life.”
Rita looked on at me sadly. I knew the alcohol had loosened my lips, but I couldn’t stop myself.
“I always think I can stop the bullshit by being nice or by being witty, but at the end of the day, I’m still a fuckin’ blueberry. Even those who have been at the bottom of the barrel—when they realize they can shit on me, I always end up being shat on. So, thank you for being patient enough to be around me. For being willing to be seen with me.”
There was a long pause. It was dark and my vision was blurry so I couldn't tell what her reaction was. I definitely regretted talking so much.
“Don’t thank me for doing something decent people should do.”
She strolled back to her car.
When I got home, my mother and aunt were asleep already, and had left me dinner on the counter with a note: PROUD OF YOUR EFFORT! - MOM AND AUNT ’LIVIA
After eating, I tried to wash off the day in an ice-cold shower.
Even though my mom would love to see me quit, I dream of saving up to move to Canada one day. I want to visit Big Ben, float along the Nile, and see a real kangaroo. I can’t remain cooped up for my entire life. But people in those places don’t have live fruits either.
I leaned in close to the toothpaste-flecked mirror to inspect deep violet skin peeking behind the specks. No one outside of my family knows this, but if you look closely, you can see my eyes aren’t black just as my skin isn’t blue. They are yet another dark purple.
Afterward, I wiped myself down with my polishing towel, and rotated, observing my naked form in the mirror.
I am a giant blueberry.
Danielle Monique (she/they) is a queer Black witch who writes short stories and essays about purposeful omissions. She was born in raised in South Texas and now lives in Baltimore. Her writing has been published, or is forthcoming, in Joyland, Business Insider and Texas Monthly. You can find more work at wstpch.com/writing