It was pure chance that one day around 1950 Kathleen Kellogg Meserve decided to attend the garden club lecture in her new home town – St.

Life is full of chances, and once chance leads to another, if we are open to change. She relished the fact that she had outdone the pros, and her work shows just what one person can achieve, if they put their mind to it. For all their training and skills, professional breeders often don’t have the single-minded passion of people like Kathleen Meserve, a keen gardeners untrained in botany, but who single-handed transformed the growing of holly in the northeast.

James’s words, among many other pieces of work, motivated me to keep living so that one day, I may live my truth the way I see fit too, whether trans masculine or any other identity that I don.Plant breeding is one of the few areas where amateur, hobby gardeners have made at least as much of a contribution to the plants we grow as professionals – and sometimes even more.

It was this poem, in all its complexity and simplicity, that would push me to find a community of others struggling with the same emotions, and those celebrating their achievements as trans masculine individuals across the world. This poem is trans masculinity translated into a universal experience, a form I could relate to. And when I was fourteen and fighting back the daily urge to grab the razor my mom first used to shave my unwomanly mustache to cut my throat, this poem provided me with a sense of comfort and community. Told that men with straight hair don’t have them braided, that’s a sin, men don’t have this long hair, men shouldn’t do this to their hair, a girl wouldn’t do this. All I was reminded of was long, girly locks that needed to be braided. When I was nine, I threatened my sister that I would chop off my hair in retaliation for something, hoping to make everyone stop their overly feminine stereotypes from imprinting on me.

When I was seven, I burned two of my dresses in hopes my mother would stop buying them for me, or that she would give the rest to my cousins, or any other solution that would get the scratching, stupidly frilly fabric away from me. A childhood growing up as a girl, especially one where you don’t want to be one, is one filled with rage, frustration, pain, and impulsivity. Sharp, brisk words that sculpt a picture of an aching childhood living the wrong life, this poem by Keaton St.

GROWING by keaton st. james