Banana Who?
An existential twist on a classic
Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Banana.
Banana who?
Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Banana.
Banana who?
Knock knock.
Who’s there?
I – I don’t know anymore.
….
Hello?
….
Oh right. Right. I forgot you can only respond if I identify myself. Well you can call me banana.
Banana who?
That’s exactly it. I don’t know.
….
Oh Jesus, you really won’t talk to me unless I say... Okay. I’ll start again. “Knock knock.”
Who’s there?
I’d like to say banana. Banana seems like a good guy. A happy guy. For the longest time, I thought being banana defined me. It wasn’t just comfortable, it was a comfort. But now, it feels like something I’ve said for so long that the words themselves have lost their meaning. You ask who is at your door and I answer, “Banana.”
Banana who?
Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Why is this the only way we can talk? Why is this the only way you know how to communicate? A knock at the door. A man says he’s banana. Then you ask, “Banana who?”, like it matters. Like any of this matters. Instead of asking, “Who’s there?” ask “Why are you there?” I am here because the structure of the joke needs me to be here. I am here because the joke needs me to be banana.
Banana who?
…
…
Knock knock.
Who’s there?
You win. You win. I’m not banana. I’ve never been banana. I never will be banana. I used to think the answer to the question “Who are you?” was “Banana.” But now I have come to realize that I am but a wave on a rolling sea, destined to crash on a rocky shore. To crash, and then to die. In that moment I am borne on the wind and the water, within that moment is freedom. I can choose to be banana, but I don’t have to be banana.
Banana who?
Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Not banana. When I was a kid, society told me that I was banana. My parents raised me banana. The world needed me to be banana. Today I am banana no more. Today I am orange.
Orange who?
Orange you glad I didn’t say banana?