issue 1: what plants can teach us
in praise of family, resilience, and womxnhood
I have spent most of my life desperately trying not to become my parents. The classic “rebellious immigrant daughter chooses to enter the music industry and embark on a choice as far removed from what her parents came to this country for as possible” move. And yet, just as my mother has embellished every inch of my family’s home with potted greenery, I myself now mother a veritable greenhouse of plants. (My current apartment is also blocks away from where my parents lived when my dad completed his residency at Weill Cornell. Such is the irony of attempting to escape your parents; you will only feel closer to who you truly are).
When I began collecting plants a couple years ago, I surely embodied this plant-as-coping mechanism cartoon, hoping to fill the yawning chasm of self-doubt and self-hatred inside me with the paintstroke colors of a pinstripe calathea or playful buds of an elephant bush. (I was also seeking a less chaotic alternative to owning a dog, which I could not yet afford). I have since relished in watching my monstera deliciosa grow from four sprightly leaves to a glorious, glossy mess, roots protruding every which way (she loves the drama!!). Five other plants have joined her, not to mention a few I did not get along with (looking at you, Ikea jade tree).
There is something almost fairy-like in the way my radermachera sinica (emerald tree) leaves appear papery and matte as the sun rises and glow a deep forest green as dusk settles in. I love looking at my plants and I enjoy touching them even more. I revel in the velvet waxiness of my silver pothos’ decadent leaves and the way new leaves unfurl in their quiet, tantalizing way. I think about how miraculous it is that a particular alchemy of water, oxygen, temperature, and time have allowed these plants to exist at all, for me to have intersected with their lifetime, and the lifetimes my ancestors must have lived for me to exist in this frighteningly short life on our fragile Earth.
Becoming a plant mom has allowed me to better understand my mom and my mom’s mom—a distinctly femme lineage rooted in the pursuit of selfhood, and resilience against enormous odds, that I may not have otherwise discovered. The patience my mother exhibits when caring for her plants is almost like reclaiming the time she has lost as a first generation American immigrant. Her plants will only grow and thrive at the pace nature will allow, a marked departure from the painfully unnatural experience of leaving her home (literally uprooted) and building her life in a foreign land.
My grandmother’s favorite color is green—not light green (like chartreuse, jade, or mint), but “spring green, like a mountainous forest after a thunderstorm, a pure asparagus green” (I’m translating from WeChat). I can hear her telling me how surrounding yourself with green improves your eyesight and boosts your qi. I think of how she has lived through war, famine, revolution, the kind of loss that should break her spirit. Yet, still she stands, radiant and steadfast as the gingko tree outside her Beijing apartment, its leaves the green hue she so adores.
Fellow plant parents, what do your plants mean to you?
Curious?
For those hoping to begin their plant parenthood journey (pun not intended, I guess): pothos, ZZ, and snake plants are virtually foolproof.
Try Home Depot or your local bodega for healthy plants on a budget. For those who live in big cities, plant stores and nurseries abound—in NYC, I particularly like Crest Urban Garden Center, Greenery Unlimited, and Da Hing.
I use Notion to keep track of plant care. Here’s a template you can use if you’re interested (inspired by cloudyhills).
For Soupbone’s spring 2021 zine, I recorded a guided meditation with plant pairings that you can practice to with or without plants :-)
Lately (Recommendations)
Amia Srinivasan’s The Right to Sex
Brooklyn Nine-Nine Season Five
“What is ‘Latin Music’ Anyway?” from Code Switch
MaisyLeigh and shannon lee violin fan YT channels