Little Seed

Little Seed

LANGUAGE LESSONS

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When my brother had his initial psychotic episode, I knew little about ferns other than the fact that the one I owned was dying. Its leaves, shaped like seashells, appeared to be draining life, transitioning from jade to chartreuse, then cream, and finally sienna, resembling a stained pillowcase. Despite knowing ferns thrive in humidity and light, my small studio was dry and dim. Each week, I shifted the fern’s position, trying to capture elusive sunlight. I placed its pot on river rocks submerged in water and misted its fragile fronds twice daily. New growth sprouted, yet it wasn’t long before the fronds withered to paper.

One cold December morning, I took the A train to Manhattan, inspired by an Oliver Sacks essay on the New York Fern Society and their monthly meetings at the Bronx Botanical Garden. On the northbound journey, I envisioned a room filled with friendly white people in khakis and pith helmets eager to help.

Just as I imagined, the office bathed in fluorescent light filled with elderly individuals with delicate hands. Earlier that week, I had bleached my hair platinum blonde, and my scalp still stung. I politely listened to a faded slideshow of ornamental ferns on immaculate Westchester lawns.

After the presentation, a Fern Society member inquired why I was there. I explained that a beloved plant had died and that I was eager to learn about ferns. She mentioned another Asian attendee who wasn’t there, instantly making me both relieved and horrified.

A botanist revived a brown resurrection plant in a glass bowl, and a man displayed exquisitely detailed fern paintings. A brief lecture followed on a specimen the society had discovered on a recent trip to China.

Despite their kindness, I never returned.

Realizing my fern was dying, I sensed I needed to change my perspective on plants. I devoured books on ferns, learning their biology, cultural history, and classification. My drive to understand partly stemmed from the ongoing grief of knowing my brother lay in a dark room in Tennessee. My parents assured me he would recover with rest. Eventually, I convinced myself to believe them.

But my brother remained unwell and my fern died. I viewed my life as a series of failures, dictated by others’ expectations. It was my grief that pushed me to break free. I needed to know what it was like to truly live. My brother’s name, Kang, was a constant refrain—soothing, frustrating, a name woven into the air.

I left my job, abandoned old stories, and carried the dead fern out the front door.

A TAXONOMY OF INFLUENCE

Initially, ferns were enigmatic. I couldn’t discern bracken from grass or maidenhair from ivy. Fascinated by their language, I learned: pinnules, pinna, petioles, fronds, rhizomes.

Fern names can be straightforward or mystical: Ostrich fern, filmy fern, adder’s-tongue, polypody, cliff brake, club moss, maidenhair, quillwort, spleenwort, moonwort. These names conjure images of crystal orbs, velveted rooms, and the realms between consciousness and dreams.

Victorians saw ferns as magical symbols of courage and curiosity. Modern interpretations are more ominous, indicating anxiety, illness, and fear.

After my brother’s breakdown, dreams pulsed with his presence: his voice, an unexpected touch. As a child, Kang had been my loving protector. He was brilliant, adventurous, and eleven years older, a reliable caretaker in our often volatile home.

My parents, Chinese aristocrats in Tennessee, expected standard Chinese successes from Kang—medical school, a good wife, intellectual airs, fine dress. They had similar, though less intense, expectations for me. As a daughter and an American, I had more leeway.

Growing up, I was taught to submit to elders, especially Kang. I adored him, following him everywhere, finding refuge with him during our parents’ arguments. He introduced me to Star Trek, the Appalachian Trail, the Big Dipper, and more.

In his twenties, fed up with our father’s temper and parental expectations, Kang distanced himself from our family. I followed his adventures through social media and letters, watching as he traveled, windsurfed, and pursued degrees.

My idealized vision of Kang as my guide persisted into adulthood, straining our connection. I still needed his protection and advice, holding onto an untainted image of his adventurous spirit.

In 2014, Kang visited me with something urgent to share. Over dinner, he disclosed working for the CIA and other delusions. It became clear his psychosis was fulfilling our family’s unresolved expectations.

SPORES, FABLES

My brother’s loss deepened my connection to the fern world. Ferns reproduce with spores, not seeds. Spores, unlike seeds needing pollinators, rely on wind to travel vast distances.

Ferns are often the first to repopulate disaster areas. For instance, ferns quickly colonized Mount St. Helens after its eruption in 1980, some spores having traveled from Japan.

Under a microscope, spores appear beautiful, coming in bean or onigiri shapes and various colors. Historically, the fern reproductive cycle was shrouded in mystery, leading to fascinating tales of invisible fern seeds.

German folklore imagined fern seeds acquired through magical means, granting powers or strength. By the Victorian era, methods became less supernatural, involving elaborate collection rituals, believed to confer invisibility.

As I pondered these fables, the idea of invisibility seemed a privilege for those already seen. In contrast, I sought visibility and validation, longing for acceptance and recognition.

FERN FEVER

Others too have found solace in ferns. In Victorian England, naturalist Edward Newman turned to ferns after selling his family business. During a walking cure in Wales, he meticulously documented ferns, leading to his acclaimed book, A History of British Ferns, igniting a fern craze.

Victorians became obsessed with ferns, known as Pteridomania. Rare ferns commanded high prices, sometimes endangering species due to overharvesting. Enthusiasts adorned homes and public spaces with ferns, transforming city windows into lush plant displays.

Wardian cases, developed by Newman’s friend Nathaniel Ward, allowed for ferns’ indoor cultivation, protecting them from pollution and creating miniature worlds in glass cases.

After ferns, Newman’s interests shifted to ghosts. In 1843, he founded the journal Zoologist, publishing both natural history accounts and, later, reports of sea serpents and other cryptids.

NOMENCLATURE

The certainty of names has always comforted me. Everything alive fits into three taxonomic Domains and one of five or six Kingdoms, collectively known in all languages. Ferns fall within Kingdom Plantae.

Since their initial classification, ferns have undergone several taxonomic changes. Despite this, scientists diligently assign each fern a genus and species. Currently, there are around 319 fern genera and over ten thousand species.

In my family, names are significant. My maternal grandfather renamed his daughters with Western-sounding names, reflecting the cosmopolitan culture of Shanghai. My father, born in 1945, was named Sheng for liberation, and known as Sonny.

My brother’s name, Wei Kang, means safety and health, given with hopes for our family's new life in the United States. Over time, he adopted the name Kang, a authoritative single syllable.

My name, Wei Xiang, was given by my great-grandfather, symbolizing flight—both a desire for safety and freedom. My parents later asked a neighbor to provide an English name, though I dislike using it. Familial hierarchy influenced how we addressed each other, with respect accorded to elders.

When I went to boarding school, I attempted to call my brother by his given name, but he reprimanded me, reinforcing our family's strict naming conventions.

CROSIERS, GENERATIONS

The new fern shoot forms a tightly coiled spiral known as a fiddlehead or crosier. As it unfurls, it becomes a ribbed structure with leaves called pinnae, recalling wings. Some ferns are fractal, with smaller leaves that also form spirals.

Fractal nature means fern leaves’ descriptions rely on identifying divisions. Ferns can be simple, once-divided, twice-divided, or even thrice-divided, forming intricate, delicate structures.

The tight, protective spiral of a crosier, called circinate vernation, safeguards the tender growing point, ensuring continued growth and the next generation.

Understanding fern structures mirrors my life’s quest for origins, as each part points back to a beginning. In tropical regions, many ferns are epiphytic, growing with the aid of other plants. They are independent yet connected, illustrating a unique form of commensalism.

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My observations of ferns lead me to ponder my own life, seeking validation and understanding. How do I fill my needs without harm or imbalance? The epiphytic fern, like Platycerium (staghorn fern), illustrates adaptive, symbiotic relationships.

Staghorn ferns’ spores carpet their fronds’ backs, while basal fronds develop layers, fusing with branches or trunks, symbolizing growth and connection.

STRUCTURES, STRICTURES

Some ferns lack typical structures like pinnae, fiddleheads, and sori, such as horsetails (genus Equisetum) or whisk ferns (genus Psilotum), originally classified as mosses or fern allies.

Recent DNA sequencing has reorganized these plants into true ferns. Despite taxonomic revisions, the idea of fern allies helps appreciate the diversity among ferns.

In my lineage’s field guide, I am like a fern ally—sharing origins but differing in cultural and social behavior. My parents sought to raise me as American, valuing independence over collectivism.

Girls in my family’s culture are often considered dispensable, prepared to marry into other families. This invisibility provided some freedom but also pressure to meet familial expectations.

American culture remained partly alien, governed by unspoken familial rules. Navigating this duality led to reckless attempts at safety through conformity or manipulation. Names became superficial labels rather than true connections.

Learning fern names is different from identifying them in nature. Field guides, with their detailed descriptions and personal interpretations, offer structured paths through the natural world.

In 2015, I left New York for Austerlitz, seeking to apply my theoretical fern knowledge practically. Initially, I struggled to differentiate ferns in the wild. The reality diverged from the books.

The field guide’s keys became my compass, helping me slowly see and identify ferns, despite initial failures. Recognizing Onoclea sensibilis, the sensitive fern, provided a small victory. Its presence in both the U.S. and China felt significant, a shared secret.

GHOSTS

In Times Square, I mistook a man for my brother, Kang. My heart raced as I approached him, speaking Shanghainese, desperate to bring him home. It wasn’t my brother, leaving me distraught.

Kang remained with our parents, recovering. Mom occasionally shared updates, including a fish he kept in his bathtub-turned-aquarium. This connection to life, however small, brought some comfort.

In Austerlitz, I found a grove of silver-haired ferns, evoking memories of Tennessee woods and my mother’s garden. The fragrance and textures connected me to past moments with my brother, seeking waterfalls, his hands ready to catch me.

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