Putting Down Roots

Like a true millennial, I went through a houseplant phase, watching closely as my vining pothos put out each fragile new leaf. Soon after, I became intrigued by gardening and vegetable growing. I started to appreciate the beauty of a garden ecosystem, with pollinators buzzing from one nectar flower to another, earthworms squirming deep in the soil to stay cool, and neighborhood squirrels always bringing the drama. Watching tiny seeds harness sunshine to transform into flowers and fruit was as wondrous as watching my own offspring grow from infants to toddlers.

I first truly noticed the early signs of spring during my postpartum period. On stroller walks around the neighborhood, I inhaled the fragrance of Chinese paper bush flowers, observed a blooming hedge of azaleas, and admired a giant weeping willow swaying in the breeze. These perennial plants were a feast for the senses, and I was seeing them with fresh eyes because they were not the plants I grew up with. I grew up with plants that thrived in the tropics of Malaysia, like Chinese red hibiscus with its delicate yellow pistils, the ixora and its spikes of sweet nectar, and bougainvillea with its paper-thin petals (known as bunga kertas, or paper flower, in Malay). 

I wondered if these plants, which flourished in the hot and humid weather and the torrential monsoon rains, would survive the temperate summers of the Pacific Northwest. So when I had the liberty to mess around with a few garden beds, I decided to see how the tropical plants of my youth in Kuala Lumpur would grow in Portland.

It was more than just a fun way to pass the summer. This experiment, small as it was, would help me come to terms with putting down roots in a foreign country. Unlike immigrants and refugees who have to flee their home countries due to political uncertainty or for personal safety, I was privileged to choose to leave my birth country to study abroad. I constantly wonder about the parallel life I would have led had I stayed—the jobs I would have had; the relationships, opportunities, and interests I would have explored; even how my style of mothering might be different. The last decade of my personality developed during my life in the United States. How would it have developed in Malaysia?

This garden project was one way I hoped to address the duality that I struggle with daily. While a lot of things in my life were new and different, I thought that if some things could stay constant, like plants in the garden, perhaps it would help me feel I belonged, as though these pieces of my past came with me and I could nurture them here. If I could grow the same hibiscus—Malaysia’s national flower—perhaps seeing my little ones identify it alongside native rhododendrons would make me feel like I have done some of my duty to teach them about both worlds. How fun would it be to exchange gardening notes with my parents who still live half a world away? Maybe then I could be at peace with where I was in life, knowing that both of my worlds could exist together, to some degree.

 

 

I started planning the garden’s layout and looked for tropical plants that held nostalgic significance for me. I found seedlings for bok choy, cilantro, hibiscus, lemongrass, and okra at the farmers market. I squealed in excitement when I found kaffir lime at a garden store—its aromatic leaves are used in various dishes from my Peranakan heritage, and I wanted it to grow just like the plant that stretches bountifully over my parents’ apartment balcony. I learned to propagate ginger from YouTube videos, and stuck pips of garlic into the soil praying that something would happen. My expectations were quite different from the previous year—my first year growing anything in a vegetable garden—when I chose vegetables known to thrive in the Pacific Northwest. I expected a bounty then, and for the most part, I achieved it. This time, I defined success by whether or not anything would sprout at all. Even for me, the sun felt different here. Maybe these tropical plants felt it as well.

When I was growing up, I wasn’t known to be nurturing. Sometimes my parents would ask me to water their plants, but I always forgot, and when they went to inspect, they would find their plants wilting after a long day under the equatorial sun. When I did remember, I watered them with little sincerity, always a slight grumble under my breath. Suffice to say, it would come as a surprise to many, not least my family, that I began to show an interest in gardening many years later, in a different country many miles away from home.

 

 

While I worked on my garden, I looked out for vendors at farmers markets who were selling produce different from the usual summer fare like kale and zucchini. I kept my eyes peeled for immigrant farmers who were also growing a piece of home away from home. One day, at Woodstock farmers market in Southeast Portland, I was pleasantly surprised to find kacang panjang (long green beans) for sale. They were jade green with a fresh snap. I knew exactly how I would cook them: cut into small cross-sectioned rounds and added to an omelet eaten with rice congee, just like we eat during Good Friday in my family. In my excitement, I missed taking down the vendor’s name, so I sleuthed online to find them: Sufiya Farm, owned by immigrants from Bangladesh and Myanmar, in Boring. At Southeast Portland’s Come Thru Market, an incubator for BIPOC producers, I discovered Kasama Farms, a queer Filipinx American–owned farm growing culturally relevant produce like bitter gourd, which is so delicious when sliced thin and deep fried.

The availability of culturally relevant produce and food took on a deeper meaning for me. If this experiment, small as it was, could help me understand a new dimension of myself as an immigrant, what could it do for farmers sharing their produce with the wider community? I wondered about the challenges these growers faced, like understanding the soil type in Oregon, the length of season, appropriate varieties for this growing zone, and even deciding what to grow.

The United States, a nation of immigrants, is increasingly recognizing the importance of wider food offerings for its diverse people. In Oregon, several initiatives to promote culturally relevant food exist, for example, through state-wide programs in agriculture, farm-to-school, and food aid. The USDA’s Natural Resources Conservation Service provides Oregon’s historically underserved farmers, including immigrants, with financial and technical assistance to grow culturally appropriate produce (a recent example is De Leon Farm in Aloha, Oregon). The Farm to Early Child Education and Farm to School programs are doing their part in providing culturally relevant lunch foods to pre- and K-12 institutions (see for example, Umi Organic providing to local schools). During the pandemic, the distribution of food boxes was a lifeline for many communities of color. The Oregon Food Bank, in coordination with USDA and APANO, worked to provide food boxes for aging Asian elders, especially when violent incidents against the Asian community increased during the pandemic.

It was significant to learn that others in the community I live in and beyond had wondered about culturally relevant plants and even chosen to center their lives around them. To discover that allies had advocated for foods of non-dominant cultures to exist in agriculture and the wider food system. In a world where immigrant sentiment is increasingly negative, learning about progress in acceptance for things that look different—like new foods—brought me comfort and helped me feel a stronger connection to this place.

 

 

Over the weeks, the garden worked its magic. Seeing the okra flowers bloom and the cilantro go to seed held extra meaning for me. Early in the season, I laughed at how puny my lemongrass plant was, but as September approached, it transformed into the tall grass I remember my father harvesting in our backyard for dinner. I gave the ginger as long as I could in the ground, so much so that I forgot it was in there. As tiny leaves shot up from a random corner of a garden bed, it was a pleasant surprise to remember that the ginger’s rhizomes were spreading; its final harvest was small, but respectable. With its first bloom, I discovered that I had actually ended up growing roselle hibiscus, not Chinese red as I had intended. Their petals are white with deep red centers. The good news was that roselle is the variety used to make hibiscus tea. On several summer evenings, we enjoyed lemongrass and hibiscus tea, the former freshly harvested by my firstborn, who knew her way around the garden as well as I did. My prized kaffir lime has mercifully survived one winter (indoors, under careful watch).

The garden became an emotional place. I looked around at each thing that was intentionally chosen and I felt proud. Proud to be able to grow a daily staple like garlic, closing the loop on its life cycle, seeing it come out of the dirt and into my frying pan. I was possessive over each plant, making sure my little ones stayed away from pulling a precious bud or even a new leaf. I felt wistful, having taken this long to find a missing piece of my journey as an immigrant. I discovered, after all this time, that I needed to grow and nurture parts of myself from the past because they helped me feel more like myself inside the person that I had become in this new country. Like me, these plants grew in soil that was not native to them. They lived under a different sun, in a different climate, and yet they thrived.

Tags

Belonging, Culture, Food, Place, Home, Migration, Ecology, Heritage