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Jan 15 min read

Sources for “Touch Me Not”

“Touch Me Not” is a flash piece from the point of view of what we in the English-speaking world call the Himalayan balsam. Given that the work touches on the plant’s history, specifically its journey from the Himalayas to Europe in an era of European colonization in Asia, I read pertinent (and sometimes tangential) articles and papers to grasp this aspect of non-human history. Here, I share the readings that helped me write “Touch Me Not,” along with my notes.


Before the 1840s, colonial masters engaged in seed smuggling by placing seeds in layers of dried banana leaves, then placing these banana leaves in cane baskets. This was the case for the rubber tree in Brazil. I couldn’t find information on how other seeds were transported from the European colonies, but it’s possible that they were smuggled in the same way. Most seeds died during the travel; I saw a 19 to 20 ratio of deaths to survivors.

The Wardian case, which was like an early terrarium, was invented by accident in 1829. After a few successful test sails, in the 1840s, people stopped transporting seeds and instead began transporting seedlings and more mature sprouts. Death to survival ratio reversed to 1 to 20. “Touch Me Not” opens before the widespread use of the Wardian case, because the Himalayan balsam was introduced in London as an ornamental plant in 1839.

The following websites helped me get an estimate for the full moons from 1838 to 1839, especially for the journey between India and Britain before the Suez Canal opened in 1869. In my mind, plants don’t have the same concept of time as humans do—the days and months and years—so I turned to moon phases instead. The mention of seven full moons in “Touch Me Not” is my own approximation.

Plants from Asia, such as azaleas and hydrangeas (from Japan), were smuggled to Britain and replanted in London’s Kew Gardens. Rubber tree seedlings (whose seeds had been transported from Brazil) also grew at Kew Gardens and were later shipped to Ceylon and other British colonies.

In “Touch Me Not,” the block quote from the Spirit Stealers incorporates phrases in news articles and government websites about the “invasive species” on my side of the world. I didn’t fabricate the war language. Phrases like “better diversity for our native species” and “coloniz[ing] roads and rail tracks” are also pulled from the same sources.

The structure of the above-mentioned block quote, and how it is one long sentence, is inspired by a letter of conscription written by Abraham Lincoln in 1863; accessed on Loc.org.


The poems quoted in “Touch Me Not” are:

As I was about to finish one of the early drafts of “Touch Me Not,” I wondered: In Britain, and perhaps other parts of Europe, why were some flowers propagated over others in the 1800s? The rose that is the face of Valentine’s Day today, the hybrid tea rose, emerged from breeding European and Chinese varieties of roses. Why is that, along with azaleas and hydrangeas, not considered invasive in Europe, while other flowers, like the Himalayan balsam, are? How much was economics a factor? Roses were well-loved for their fragrance even then, and they were used in the growing tea industry. Azaleas, despite being poisonous, are said to be easy for people to grow in their gardens. Was the desire to control plants—where, how much, and how often they grow—what informed the Himalayan balsam’s status as an invasive species and weed? The hardy balsam can grow and spread without humans, and it hasn’t been contained by humans. And isn’t control of resources a backbone of any industry, monopoly, or oligopoly?

I’m not the first to consider the parallels between nationalist/anti-immigrant/imperialist sentiments and genocide in the non-human realm. These works gave me the confidence to pursue “Touch Me Not.”

Similarly, I want to acknowledge people whose writing and work on their respective lands (through permaculture, and more importantly, natural farming and agroforestry) have shown me other ways of living and engaging with nature. I’m grateful for their generosity.

  • Masanobu Fukuoka, who wrote The One-Straw Revolution: An Introduction to Natural Farming (1975). Fukuoka grew and maintained his orchard in Japan with the help of the Morishima acacia. In his book, he spoke of the tree’s functions and benefits, and was mindful enough to add that it was not “native” to Japan.

  • Ben Falk, who wrote The Resilient Farm and Homestead: An Innovative Permaculture and Whole Systems Design Approach (2013). Falk believes that “non-native species,” or “invasive species,” are important to biodiversity, which in turn helps make the earth more resilient. He questions the whole notion of nativeness by asking, “Native to when?” I highly recommend his appearance on the podcast Rewild Yourself, where he discusses the concept of invasive species.

  • Angela of Parkrose Permaculture on YouTube, for talking about invasive species, showing how she uses “weeds” in her garden, and leading me to Ben Falk.

  • Timothy Lee Scott, who wrote the book Invasive Plant Medicine (2010). In it, he details how chemical companies and governments have begun and bolstered warfare on plants and people, and he shares the medicinal benefits of the “weeds” and “invasive species” in the US.

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Aug 27, 20233 min read

Hello, Reader

Updated: Aug 29, 2023

Welcome to this tiny space on the internet. I already have a few places (like this one) that list my creative work, but I’ve decided to make another one to go beyond lists.


Don’t get me wrong, I love lists. I make them a lot. As of this writing, the most recent essay I’ve finished is a list.


***


I’ll go ahead and be dramatic and say that I don’t think I’ll ever publish a book. In my days as a creative writing major, some ten years ago, I was set on one day producing a book-length collection of essays. I was slogging my way through. I’ve come up with a title that I love, which captures all my issues and the way I navigate through them.


But a month ago, I realized two things: First, I don’t have it in me to go back to my older work and face my younger self and all her suffering—and potentially relive those memories. I tried. I managed to edit an essay from 2014, which was about my family and the family home. But it’s not the same for my body essays. I was proud of one of them, which I wrote in the summer of 2012; it was the first long piece I ever wrote; I remember the intensity with which I wrote it; some writers/professors told me it could win a Palanca (it didn’t). Now, I shy away from it. Not out of shame, but out of horror (or cringe) by how open, unflinching, lonely, and self-critical I was. (And could still be? I don’t know and don’t want to know.)


The other thing I realized is that I don’t think I’ll ever stop writing what I write about: myself, my culture and heritage, my home/s, art, and more recently, nature—and all their intersections. I don’t see any bookend as long as I’m alive, so I can’t possibly publish a book-length essay collection, which would have a closed narrative, a clear beginning and end.


I want to stay open to what the future holds: all the joys, the aches, all the ways and things I could become. A book doesn’t stop that, technically. But it does preserve a narrative and lens of my life that could become less true to who I am as I continue living.


***


At the SEA Lit Circle Writers Festival last July, horror writer Tunku Halim confided that he misses the time he didn’t have a single book out. Bookstores no longer give him pleasure, as he ends up fussing over where and how his books are shelved, and which authors—usually from abroad—are spotlighted more.


That publishing is a business hit me hard. I used to think that being read was the point of releasing a book. But maybe it’s not the root. The root is for people to buy one’s book, if not become a bestselling or award-winning author. There’s a fine line between reading a book and buying one—any book-loving person knows this. And even if Writer X doesn’t care about the numbers at first, the systems and culture surrounding them will inevitably make them anxious about The Data. The Sales.


In my case, because I often write about my issues and insecurities, the work that goes into producing and promoting a book would make me mine my darkest times for some level of prestige or bragging rights. (I’d include money, but it wouldn’t even be a lot.) That doesn’t sit right with me. It doesn’t even sound like a good deal.


Writing is a way to process my experiences, my questions, and the world around me. This has been the case for a while. But only in the last one or two years did I realize how much it helps me heal. (I have a pandemic, a police state, and a fun and supportive writing community to thank for that.) I wouldn’t trade or ruin this relationship with my art for a book and all the logistics it comes with.


My writing would have to evolve—perhaps become more joyous or more empathetic—for me to reconsider a book.


***


So here’s this website, where I can celebrate my work as they each find a home in magazines or journals. (I still appreciate being read!) Where I can share the ideation and creative process because it often differs per project. Where I can credit the people who’ve helped me. Where, through recordings, I can give voice to my mother tongues—Tagalog and Hokkien—as I give space for them in my writing.


Because I write creative nonfiction or personal essays, some writers have called me self-absorbed. This website might support that idea, and you’re free to make an assessment. All I know is that a lot of judgment hounds creatives, and there’s not enough space for sharing one’s joys and inspirations.


So here I am making that space for myself, and you’re welcome to join me.



With kindness,

Steph

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