“Home is where you know the names of the plants.” — Camille T. Dungy
“What type of trees do you have where you’re from?”
I tried thinking of the trees we have in New York or Missouri. Or Nashville, DC, Miami. All places I’ve called home. Oak? Maple?
I spent a few days in Jamaica and quickly learned that I am not a resort girlie. It could be because I live in New York and am hyperaware of the ins and outs of living in a city that’s popular for tourists—I wrote about this, no? If I visit a city, I want to experience the actual city and the people who live there.
To keep away from the rambunctious pool scene, I spent a lot of time at the beach, particularly in the early mornings before most people had even made it to breakfast. I’d have chats with men heckling—selling everything from ganja to waist beads and flirting with anyone who would pay them any mind. Thank God I live in Brooklyn and have already had my share of flirtatious Caribbean men.
I’d been drawn to one particular tree all week so I asked its name from someone who worked at the resort I’d been staying in Montego Bay, Jamaica. It was a mangrove, as I suspected. The man I had asked used a rake to gently poke the tree. “It’s tough,” he explained. I nodded. I knew that mangroves protect the environment—their forests also line the coast of southern Miami-Dade County, where I taught in 2015—and are home to hundreds of species of fish, birds, reptiles and amphibians, and mammals.
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