Have you ever heard of the plant
Mimosa pudica?
It has compound leaves that fold inward
and droop when touched or shaken
Like hands touching in prayer.
It is defending itself from possible harm,
From grazing animals who could eat it
by disappearing into the greenery.
Have you heard of it?
As a kid, I would spend hours just sitting by a patch,
touching them, waiting for them to reopen.
No matter how harsh or how gentle I touch,
They always hide.
It’s called Makahiya in my language,
The shy plant. Others even call it the shame plant.
So, imagine a little plant that when touched,
hides inside its own reassuring hug.
diaspora thrives in memory
The first time I rode a plane, I was ten. It was a long ride, the food was meh and I missed everyone I had left behind. At the same time, I loved being in the sky, floating with the clouds.
It was thrilling, like I was doing something naughty, naughty like defying the laws of gravity.
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The first time I set foot in Canada was at the Toronto Pearson Airport. I stepped out of the automatic double-doors and into the December chill. My tender, tropical cheeks felt like they were sliced by the winter air.
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The first time I had stretchy, melted cheese was at Pizza Hut. I was always amazed by the commercials back home. We only had salty queso, and when I finally had that first pizza here, I couldn’t stop giggling because the stretchy cheese just kept going on and on and on and
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The first time I was called a racial slur was at a bus stop, by two little white boys. They were my neighbours, brothers, aged five and seven. They used a word that didn’t even represent my nationality. I so badly wanted to correct their mistake. They told me to go back where I came from.
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The first time my father took me shopping was at Value Village. I had no winter clothes to speak of, so we went through the coats section. I could choose by era, by style, by level of wear and tear. I could mix and match a ski jacket with a baseball cap, or a fancy velvet coat with a toque. I’ve never had this many options before!
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My first day of school in Canada was in a small elementary school in Ontario called St. Bernards. It was winter. I was wearing the stuff I bought at Value Village with my dad. I was wearing a pageboy cap and an ankle-length brown wool jacket. I looked straight out of the Great Depression.
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The first time I saw what my half-sister looked like was when my dad was at work. My mama and I were cleaning a closet when she found a shoebox, hidden on a high shelf. It was full of letters and photos of people I had never seen before. There was a photo of a little girl who looked vaguely familiar, familial even.
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The first time I saw my father beg with tears in his eyes was in the middle of the night. My mama was sleeping beside me on the bottom bunk and he crept beside her. He was crying and begging as quietly as he could. I was facing the wall and closed my eyes tighter, not wanting to give myself away. She didn’t respond. He sulked out of the room. I wanted so badly to call out to him.
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The first time I lived in a house with anyone but my family was with a bunch of strangers in a giant house. We cooked and ate meals together. They helped my mama find a job. They had a basement full of clothes and stuff, like a mini–Value Village I could shop in!
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The first time I cried on the phone was when I called my dad on a payphone in this giant house. I cried and told him I loved him and missed him. I didn’t understand why he couldn’t come pick us up, we were in the same town. And we just got there.
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The first time I saw snow — it was through giant windows of my aunt’s house, like a live-action large screen TV. I only ever saw it in cartoons, like the episode where Bugs Bunny met the Abominable Snowman. I had to go outside to taste it to believe it.
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The first snowman my brother and I ever made was with my dad. Although he was a civil engineer back home, he had no idea how to construct one. So, improvising, he took out a big bag of recycling filled with bottles of Coke, boxes for waffles and pizza, and said, “Just pack around it!” The snow wasn’t packy enough, but we made it happen. I put my green scarf around the snowman’s thick neck and stepped back with my brother. He looked like Jabba the Hutt. So, when my classmates asked if I wanted to build a snowman during recess at school one day, I asked them, “Where do I get the recycling bag?”
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There’s always a first time for everything, right?
There were experiments run by Dr. Monica Gagliano, an evolutionary ecologist from the University of Western Australia. They made a swing that held a potted Mimosa pudica and they would drop the plant unexpectedly. Pull, drop. Pull, drop. Pull, drop. The first and second time, they always close. After they find out that the same move does not hurt them, they stay open.
Like the Mimosa pudica, diaspora thrives in memory.
I close
I close
&
I transform
My experiences, my traumas, my emotions, My memories
By learning, processing, and sharing.
Sometimes it takes more work,
Sometimes I hold my leaves
touching in prayer a little longer
Sometimes I hug myself a little tighter
Sometimes I remind myself that I’ve defied gravity before.
I am cautious
And I learn
And I remember.
To stay open
I won’t remain a closed, shy plant forever
I won’t remain a shame plant forever
I stay open
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