Since a very young age of about, two and half or three, there has been one human fascination that has never ceased to pique my interest, namely potted plants. This might sound incredibly strange or eccentric, but what lead me to write this article was a subtle yet vaguely menacing nametag on a fichus tree. The tag, as I walked into my dormate’s, Blake Hawk, room read, “Nacho.” My question to all of you, is, do plants have feelings? If they do, why would you give them such a superficial and ridiculous name as Nacho? If they do not have feelings, then why give them a name? Are they going to respond? Are they going to give you moral, friendly, or sexual appeal under any circumstance? I should hope not. But the main issue I want to address is the lack of feelings humans have toward plants and the tremendous amount of stress and torture we place on them on a daily basis. The next statements are aimed at the idea that plants possibly do have feelings. What if plants are claustrophobic? What if pots cause their delicate roots to ache? Am I the only one that possibly might be concerned with these issues? In a completely hypothetical situation, place yourself in the shoes of a sprout growing out of the head of a chia pet. You would probably be thinking, “What am I doing with my life? I am growing out of a ridiculous looking clay head that looks like Donkey Kong.” At least in this sprout’s case, you would only feel minor depression thinking about your lack of purpose. This is better however, than being a plant scared of heights suspended from the ceiling, constantly peering over the edge of a 20 pound pot 8 feet above the ground, swinging back and forth in a strong breeze, held up by a piece of twine and thumbtack. Now tell me truthfully, that you would not feel terrified. Every time a breeze would come, you would peer over the edge, stare immense pain in the face and say, “Oh, crap!” I mean no wonder ivy clings. It outstretches its arms and puts its fingers into pin pricks in brick work saying prayers to Judeo-Christian God hoping it doesn’t loose its grip and fall to the ground. To add on to the stress of dangling plants, what about if your roots hang through the pot? Wouldn’t you get cold? If I were a plant, I’d certainly want to be a snug, cozy place, where I wouldn’t fall to my death, and I wouldn’t get cold. There are worse things, however, than being a plant hanging from the side of a building or from the ceiling. These things being potted plants on the ground in a household with a male dog. Every time that dog gets let outside, that poor plant must think, “Please not again.” I mean, not would it get pissed on by a rambunctious Jack Russel Terrier name Nemo, it would then have to sit in that urine for days until your next watering by your torturous master. Sadly, plants do not have the means to end their own lives. Perhaps only then would humans see the strain we place on them daily. To begin the process of righting centuries of wrongdoing to plants, don’t ever put a plant on the back of a toilet or in a bathroom for that matter. They hate that for obvious reasons that I have the civility in which not to delve into great detail. Be nice to your plant. Give them a civil name. Place them in a window with a view. Loosen their soil to prevent aching roots, and most of all, treat them the way you would want to be treated.
