Our theme for the month of February is “plants.”
Monica was the original plant lady. When we moved in together, her banana tree was already four feet tall.
I don’t remember when her tree—known fondly as “the banana”—became an unofficial mascot of our home. Like roommate nights and many of our other traditions, it just sort of happened. But it would have been hard not to adore the plant, with its vibrant foliage brightening our living room skyline. Bananas grow faster than most houseplants, so every few weeks a tiny new leaf would peek out between the others. Watching these slowly unfurl meant we always had something new to be excited about. Kelsey and I even decorated the plant for Christmas.
Banana plants are a fascinating bunch, pun absolutely intended. You have the long genealogy of the banana fruit itself, cross-bred and hybridized into the seedless clones we eat today. Or there’s the dark political history of banana agriculture, astutely examined by our own Katerina.
For me, banana plants are simply happy houseplants, independent of their global and economic baggage. They bring me joy. I didn’t know how else to explain it when Josh asked me, “Why is it you love banana plants so much?”
Sure, I know a few trivia facts about them. There are over seventy species in the Musa genus, ranging in height from two to thirty feet. They aren’t technically trees―the “trunk” is merely the firm aggregate of all its leaf stems, growing wider as more sprout from the middle. Banana plants reproduce asexually, sprouting mini-plants called “pups” right from their stalks. A commercially grown plant can grow as tall as a person in a single year. After producing its sole fruit crop, the plant is cut down to the stem to grow again from a pup. Bananas kept indoors won’t produce fruit without the humidity of a tropical climate, but they can still grow incredibly high.
Monica and her iconic banana haven’t been my housemates for over a year. By the time we parted, the plant was taller than us. It had a huge pot, a scooter for improved mobility, and its own UV lamp to help it through the winter. It seemed like half our kitchen had been taken up by the banana tree, bringing a bit of the tropics into snowy Wisconsin.
I brought my own banana plant to Canada with me, a gift from a friend of a friend who couldn’t keep it alive in her office. Since then I’ve bought two more from Facebook Marketplace. My dwarf banana sprouted half a dozen babies last summer, which I repotted and gave away to new acquaintances and friends. Some were excited for a plant to remind them of their native India or Malaysia. Others asked if it would actually grow bananas.
To many friends here in Toronto, I’m the plant lady. All of my window sills are crowded with succulents and cacti and monstera. Often I’m working to propagate a new Musa pup, praying its roots will survive. I might even sing to it like Susan used to, whispering “Baby banana…” to the tune of “Baby Beluga” in the hopes of inspiring it to grow with music.
I feel like an imposter when Canadian friends comment on my green thumb or ask me questions about plants. No, I want to tell them. Monica is the plant person, not me. But they don’t know Monica. All they see is me.
In yesterday’s post, Katie observed how easy it is for us to find metaphors for our own lives from the story of plants. Our everyday language brims with plant metaphors, from growing up to putting down roots, branching out, and turning over a new leaf. I’ve experienced plenty of shedding and branching and pruning during this time of transition. The pots in my windows show little microcosms of that story. My banana plants remind me of where I came from, who I’ve grown with, and the new version of me unfurling today.
Laura graduated from Calvin in 2015 with a degree in art and writing. She lives in Toronto, Ontario, with her husband Josh and dog Rainy. She works as an IT support analyst and enjoys painting, rock climbing, and exploring the city.
