Essay #4: Classroom Plants

On Monday, I purchased a hoya hindu rope from my local plant seller. It doesn't have traditional flat leaves, but instead its leaves curl, bend, and close over each other in clusters along the stems, which trail down from the plant. On mine, the effect is that of two green and white, overly-twisted octopus tentacles emerging from a tiny black and white pot.

In my houseplant family, I think the hoya is the quirky step-sister, small but full of personality. Why does it need to curl its leaves so tight? How can a stem support such weight? I rearranged a number of items on my desk at school so that I'd have it in constant eyesight. It probably would do better directly on the windowsill of my classroom, but that's behind me, and I want the new addition on full display.

I have a lot of houseplants. Most are at my house, but my classroom at school has three wide, east-facing windows that receive fantastic sunlight. Plants thrive in my classroom in a way I can't achieve at my house. Right now I have nine plants at school, and though the hoya may be my current favorite, it's not my newest, even though I acquired the hoya only three days ago.

Last night I was at Kroger with my youngest daughter, waiting for the pharmacy to fill her amoxicillin prescription (for a double ear infection). We wandered over to the "reduced" section, where we nabbed a box of mini croissants and I noticed a shopping cart of reduced plants. Most were air plants that I had little interest in, but a small arrowhead plant in a pot designed to look like tree bark caught my attention. There was no price tag, which meant the poor self-checkout lane attendant had to spend ten minutes in consultation with other employees to finally decide that she would charge me $2.50 for it.

Today, the arrowhead sits in one of the coveted east-facing windowsill locations. It has a cluster of mid-sized leaves shaped like a sharply-pointed hearts, but it was "reduced" for a reason. The leaves have a brownish tinge, and many have dried-out tips or cracks. I think the arrowhead is a bit of a grandmother, holding on despite years of wear. 

I hope the hoya isn't jealous that I gave the arrowhead the prime window location. I've been glancing behind me every so often to ensure it's doing okay next to my suffering homelomena selby, a "rescue" from home. I'm still holding out hope it'll revive in the sunny window location, but it's the sulky teenager in the family, so I'm not entirely confident.

My classroom plants give me delight. I burst with pride when they develop new leaves; I admire them as I wander among the students in my classroom. I stop to visit during my prep periods, a break from the constant essay-reading. They promise growth and renewal; even the ones that die don't feel like real failures, but an opportunity to start anew. As the mug on my desk at home proclaims, I'm a "proud plant parent."