SEEDS OF CHANGE
At the onset of the pandemic in America, my family and I struggled to find a routine. Creating some sort of normalcy for my partner, our four year old, and myself was at the top of the list. To get out of the house and spend time together safely, we began to take drives all over Louisville. My favorite area to drive through is the West End. In the evenings, you can see the sunset with little to no obstruction. As the pinks and oranges spilled on the sides of houses and cars, I began to notice how devoid of color many of the streets were.
Illustration by August Northcut
WHERE THE ASPHALT FLOWERS GROW
We live in the predominately white Highlands neighborhood, where brilliant blues and other colorful hues are so prevalent. Houses are adorned with enviable landscaping and lush porch plants. But in the West End where the highest concentration of the city’s black population lives, many of those houses are boarded up and abandoned with overgrown yards. On some streets, the most colorful thing was a memorial at a telephone pole with balloons and flowers for someone who was taken far too young.
As I began to process the very visible differences in the two areas, I realized the significance of the color I saw in the Highlands. It seemed to create community; a sense of pride in the space which was upheld by the neighborhood associations and the city government. That, in turn, bleeds into everyone who shares the space. Knowing that the city’s beautification effort doesn't extend itself to the entire city, meant that writing to government officials would likely result in very little change.
Tajah McQueen, September 2020 by Bryan Jones and styled by Takia Madjani
I sat with the question, ‘what can be done?’ for about a week before I had a conversation with my mother, who was living in New York City at the time. We talked about the fear and new reality that comes with a pandemic. We talked about the explicit impact this virus has had on the black community; the emotionally taxing balancing act of dealing with COVID-19 and police brutality. We talked about the helpless feeling of not being able to catch a break as Black Americans.
As I sat with both the weight of the conversation and the reality of it all, I knew there had to be something I could do to lend support to those who lived in the areas where Taylor and McAtee were killed. Areas of town that have long lost their support from the city through systematic racist practices like redlining, white flight, and now, gentrification. It was important to me that whatever I did would add color and a sense of belonging.
THE PLANT PROJECT
One of the things that has helped to quell my anxiety during the pandemic has been taking care of our house plants. Making time once a week to water, prune, re-pot, and fertilize when necessary, has given me something to look forward to each week. Working with the plants brought life and light in a time of death and darkness. It was then that I realized that I wanted to provide every home in the West End with a plant. Everyone deserves to enjoy the simple joy of caring for a house plant.
My plan was very straight forward. I’d ask friends and family via social media to donate money to me so that I could purchase a single plant for every house in the West End. I’d then take those donations and purchase plants, pots, and soil from black-owned plant shops. After I was able to collect enough supplies, I would deliver the plants along with a little love note and care instructions to their new homes.
The response to my donation request was overwhelming. I received $1600 dollars at the end of the first day. For people to be so willing to give during a time when jobs were being dissolved and companies were closing, was breath-taking. With those funds, I began the search for plants.
It was and is extremely important for me to buy solely from black-owned plant shops. Many times, black entrepreneurs and creatives are kept out of conversations and spaces that their white counterparts seem to have lifetime passes to. I wanted to be able to financially support black communities while emotionally supporting black communities. However, due to the pandemic, many of the few black-owned shops were closed or unable to ship plants.
Through a little digging through social media, I was able to buy the first 53 plants from an online black-owned shop, based in New Jersey, called Planting with P. After receiving those plants, I was hit with an overwhelming sense of dread. What if the project didn’t work? What if the recipients considered my gift as a burden, another thing they had to take care of? What if I lost my green thumb and killed all the plants that had been paid through gifts from others?
I really struggled with the fact that my way of helping didn’t look traditional. I wasn’t providing food, shelter, or clothing. I even debated whether or not I should give the remainder of the donations to other groups here in Louisville that were working towards providing basic needs. Then, almost as if the universe knew I needed a sign, I received a message from a stranger on the internet who had found out about my project. She wrote to me and told me about her childhood. She told me about how her mother had very little money so they could only get what they needed. She talked about how she wished there had been something like this around when she was younger. To her, a house plant represents stability, roots; something that feels almost foreign to those without either.
Soon after, I began to get other messages of encouragement. People in other cities began reaching out to get specifics on how to start a similar project in their city’s “West End”. Local and non-local farmers began to offer soil, plants, pots and seeds. There was no time to question the purposefulness of the project because it was moving forward regardless of my own insecurity.
ROOTS OF COMMUNITY
The morning of the first plant drop had come. I chose morning to try to avoid being seen by any of the recipients. My partner, my best friend, and I loaded up our cars with 60 house plants as a reporter from Spectrum News captured it all.
(L) Tajah McQueen and (R) Melissa Manzo delivering plants, August 4, 2020
As the deliveries took off, we were inevitably caught by some of the recipients who thanked us for the gift. I was able to chat with one woman who told us about a chunk of concrete that had fallen from the abandoned house next door. And how she had tried to get someone from the city to come remove the concrete for over a month with no avail.
In that single moment, my mission was reaffirmed. Although, I don’t have the means to remove that concrete block, nor was it my place to do so, I was able to listen. I was able to be there to remind her that although others may not be listening, those who donated money, supplies, note cards, and plants were listening.
At the end of my next drop, I will have placed close to 200 plants in their new homes. However, there are far more homes that need plants. I have plans to continue to collect funds, pots and soil until I can begin to resume deliveries in the spring, next year. Providing homes with plants isn’t something I’d ever thought I’d be doing during a pandemic. On the other hand, I never thought a city would ignore the needs of a whole community. This is our reality and we have the power to help each other through it.
If you are interested in donating to The Plant Project, you can Venmo: @Tajah-McQueen, Cashapp: $TajahMcQueen, or paypal tajahjeraem@gmail.com.
