I’m a Plant Daddy, and I love my Kids

What do botany, The Count of Monte Cristo, Thanos from Avengers: Infinity War, and real-world implications of certain theological paradigms have in common? Seemingly nothing. But of course, you could always meander your way over to the 2019 publication of Tolle Lege, my university’s peer-edited academic journal on philosophy and theology where, probably not to your great surprise at this point, you will find a brief and bizarre essay titled “I am a Terrible Botanist” written by yours truly (tolle-lege-2019.pdf (msmary.edu)). What is far more important than the content of said essay is the title. Yes, the title; because, all my life, despite my immense adoration of plants, trees, and flowers, I have been cursed with what I can only be described as whatever the opposite of a green thumb may be. Yet, to my great surprise and relief, that curse upon mine hands, which soil and rot all living greenery they tend, has been, for the moment, lifted as if a metaphorical true love’s first kiss had brazed my forlorn hands. Let me explain.

I’ve been in Madagascar for a little over a year now. And one of the first things I decided to invest in while here were some green plants for the apartment. Why? I don’t know. I just like plants and decided that if a cheap investment would fall prey to my cursed hands as I most certainly predicted it would, then I would have only lost perhaps $20 and whatever time I spent watering these poor and doomed plants. But miracles do happen, and let us not forget that the first miracle of human life began in a garden. That is, to my great joy, my plants not only survived, but thrived.

Oh yes, I bought three plants, one of which, I confess, did ultimately die, not to a fault of my own but because it was already infested with these little white bugs called mealybugs, who will make another appearance later. The other two, however, are alive, well, and growing fantastically. I would say leaps and bounds. But plants don’t do neither of those things. So they are growing by leaves, branches, and new stocks. Take this first one. When he first arrived, he had three stalks and only a few leaves. Now he is 8 inches taller and has 9 stalks total.

Or this guy, whom I doubted at first and later had to apologize for doubting. He was just a little guy with barely a dozen leaves. Now he’s a freaking mini tree and has outpaced the other plant by, literally, leaves and branches.

This newfound confidence in my green (pun intended) botany capacities led me to invest heavily in new plants just before all the other Fulbrighters in my cohort left last July and August and I inherited this lovely apartment all to myself.

Imagine this, you’re a Malagasy plant vendor at the long strip of plant stands at the plant market no more than a 5min walk away from lake Anosy in the center of the city. You spend day after day lightly watering the plants in your stand. You never really have much excitement. Most Malagasy already have plants, or they get them from each other. But you live a simple, humble, and unsuspecting life. All of sudden, a beat-up taxi pulls over to the side of the street, and out of the rickety door appears a tall, white foreigner with a goofy baseball hat, a small black bag slung around his chest, and a serious face. Without a single warning, he walks into your stand and starts looking around as if he were on a mission. In fact, he is. He starts pointing, asking questions, and telling you how many of each plant he needs. You’re taken by absolute surprise, partly because you come from a culture where such determination in simple matters like purchasing plants is abnormal to say the least, but that this (relatively) tall foreigner is speaking your language. Within 5min, you and all your friends are pulling plants out of your stands, grabbing plastic containers and plates from another place, and filling the pots with dirt and the sold greenery. Then the foreigner opens his black bag and starts asking how much. You start telling him prices, but he’s a smart vazaha. He starts negotiating prices down from what he knows is unfair. He doesn’t negotiate like a normal vazaha. Someone taught him the ways of the Malagasy bargainer. He doesn’t back down. He doesn’t even flinch when you tell him a ridiculous price before he counters with a much lower, fairer price. This dance between the foreigner and your compatriots goes on for a bit. Eventually cash starts pouring out from his bag as the plants are loaded into the taxi, barely enough room remaining for the foreigner who has to hold one of the plants when he gets in. Then, just as soon as he came, he left without a trace other than the empty spaces in a few of the plant stalls where there were once little green leaves and stems.

By the time I left the plant market that day, I had acquired 5 new plants and had another 2 on their way, which brings the total stock of foliage in my apartment to 10. If I buy anymore, I will be struggling to find space. Needless to say, I’ve become and have embraced the title “Plant Daddy”. I love my plants. I give them fist bumps every day. I pep-talk them each time I water them, which is twice weekly. More recently, I had to take drastic measures to protect them.

The aforementioned mealybug had seriously infected one of my plants. Naturally I had to google what they were. And the ever so accurate “white fuzzy bug on plants” led me directly to the information I needed to begin the process of removing them from my infected plants and preventing them from spreading to my other precious children.

There are a total of three infected plants. One is relatively safe and should be fine. A second is in a position a little worse off, but the measures taken should be able to cure the infection and prevent it from spreading. The most infected plant, however, had to sacrifice a lot. The poor dude was infected all over and had a lot of yellowing leaves, signs that the bugs were draining too much sap from the plant. I did what any good plant daddy would do, I removed any branches and extensions that had clear infestations on them. It was rough because I cut away nearly 80% of the plant. For those Halo fans out there, I felt like the Covenant; “We shall cut into the heart of this infestation, retrieve the icon, and burn any flood that stand in our way. The parasite is not to be trifled with. I hope you know what you’re doing.” Honestly, I half-know what I’m doing.

For the overwhelming majority of you, that brilliant and inspiring quotation means nothing. But those few of you, when we joined the Covenant, we swore an oath. . .

Anyways, everyone here in Madagascar knows how much I love my plants and to what great lengths I would go to preserve them. For me, it’s one of those things that I picked up while I was here and, in my normal fashion, committed to more than 100%. As an admirer of irony, I cannot help but think that nearly 3 or 4 years ago I wrote a quirky little essay titled “I’m a Terrible Botanist” only to become a very successful one who now lives in an apartment that nearly resembles a jungle. I like it that way, though. Living here in the city can be difficult, especially considering I don’t always have the opportunity to escape and get out to the countryside where I most enjoy this island. But having the plants and decorations in my apartment, which I have still yet to name, makes my humble abode a very calm, welcoming, and peaceful place. All my visitors mention how nice it is here and how I have managed to create a place of retreat and serenity.

As always, know that you are in my prayers every morning. All I ask is that you do the same for me. And please, enjoy my plants. I am a very proud plant daddy.

May God be praised.