once upon a time there was a coconut tree
on the bygone bliss of ignorance
How It’s Made was my Roman Empire as a tween. I reveled in berating my peers and their parents with facts that they didn’t request, about objects they didn’t own or care about or both. Pool tables and coffee machines. Neon signs and firefighter boots. Aluminum cans. Paint balls. Solar panels.
I was, of course, partial to the food episodes, often imagining my then small body backstroking through steel bins of melted chocolate and yellow cake batter. One terrible late summer day I made the mistake of watching the hot dog episode. Hot dogs, a staple in my American home, as prevalent as popcorn and peanut butter. Hot dogs on buns, of course, but also hot dogs in spaghetti with red sauce, hot dogs in casseroles with potatoes, hot dogs on their own, cut into the shape of limp octopuses for me and my hungry siblings.
The episode starts like any other, with a string of anecdotes on the classic food: Hot dogs are still the number one treat on the street! the narrator chirps. Heck yeah, they are! I squeak back to him through my pre-braced teeth.
My smile fades as the screen cuts to a vat of grey-pink mounds of mystery meat trimmings. Processed chicken trimmings are added to the ground meat! he continues to chirp. Corn syrup adds a dash of sweetness! he says, in a voice far too chipper for the subject at hand. Freddy Krueger-levels of horror paint my face as I gawk at the vile scene playing out before me.
I felt awful for the poor factory workers in their hair nets and face masks, toiling for hours, days, years over the rank pots of warm, meaty slop. Never mind the butchers who’d had to slaughter the animals, or the farmers who raised them. Never mind the pigs and the chickens and the cows themselves, once living, now reduced to a chalky beige mystery mush. To this day, I won’t touch a hot dog.
Little me would be terrified today. Turns out that hot dogs are just the tip of the tip of the tip of the iceberg: the entire world is a gargantuan vat of sour ham and everything that I love is just a different version of the same sad, over-processed, floppy frank.
Kamala Harris (bless her) didn’t have any real policies to speak of, but the woman sure could craft a catchphrase, the reference of the coconut tree being the stickiest of all. The coconut tree has become a symbol of aloofness and disconnect, a silly tropical blindfold sprouted from the bliss of ignorance. Something for us to laugh at while things fall apart… elsewhere. Always elsewhere. It offers a refuge from the bleak context (of literally everything) for us to scurry up into when we are overwhelmed by the expanse of devastation that we perpetuate by simply existing as Americans. Monkeys, the lot of us.
I was ignorant to the woes of the world for a long time. It was a true ignorance for about two-thirds of my “before” life, a result of my plushy, middle-class upbringing. My parents sheltered me from the harshest of our societal realities, and were rewarded with a happy-go-lucky, air-headed little girl as a result.
The ignorance became intentional at a point that I can’t fully identify. There was a big push for “self-care” during the 2010s in the form of avoiding the uncomfortable. With the rise of therapy-speak came the rise of shut eyes and plugged ears. One of the big calls to action that I recall was “stop consuming the news, it’s bad for you,” and boy, did I run with that one. I deleted the news app(s), unsubscribed from the newsletters, curated my social feeds to show only the white meat and wings and none of the gizzards. I curated a world in which everything was okay. I took to dumping buckets of sand atop my own vacant head because the dark was nice, and the silence was too. I simply had no “capacity” for humanity.
I used to be bothered by the people that I called the “woke folk,” always yelling and finger-wagging and providing historical context that severed everyone’s silver linings, however thin. If you’re not angry you’re not paying attention, they would say and post and accuse. You’re angry because you want to be, I would think to myself. You choose to only focus on the bad things. Then, 2020. The year I felt the earth quake and was flung from the coconut tree by force; there was no choice but to pay attention. And the boiling undercurrent of rage and disappointment? It now flows, sneaky and snaking, beneath the surface of my skin, too.
For much of my life I thought that wokeness was a badge of superiority, like the early risers who claim that productivity is only possible if you awake at 3am. The woke were the knowledge keepers — their early rising had allotted them all the worms and now they could fly, fat with their not-so-fun facts above the rest of us, still asleep. I think now, though, that wokeness is less early rising and more insomniaic. It’s not a jog at sunrise to clear your head for the day as much as it is an Adderall-riddled twilight cramming session ahead of tomorrow’s exam.
It’s a desperate desire to sleep, paired with the knowing that you can’t. There’s too much to do.
Earlier this year at a mid-summer barbecue, flowers and hot dogs and spritzes abound, I turned to my friend and asked why every conversation spiraled to talks of fire and brimstone. They cocked a bleached brow, placed a gentle hand on my shoulder, and whispered, “It’s you, babe.”
So now I’ve become that kid again, rambling on and on about things nobody asked to know. Only, the facts are less fun. Less Legos and Twinkies, more bombs and capitalism. No puzzles and buttons and all the prison industrial complex and pollution. More how it’s destroyed than how it’s made. Did you know that the grass on your lawn is contributing to the water crisis? Did you know that someone died for your banana bread? Did you know? Did you???
Knowledge is, allegedly, power, but I… don’t feel any more powerful knowing all the terrible things there are to know. Maybe (probably) it’s on me for equating power with positivity in the first place. As I age, my fear of context swells and swells. Nearly everything, in this young, spoiled brat of a country, is rooted deep in hideosity and exploitation. The power of knowing does not grant you the power to change anything and maybe that’s the part that drives me fucking bonkers.
I can’t get dressed (fast fashion), or make a phone call (cobalt mines), or eat a snack (bananas) without exploiting someone, somewhere.
My wife is a history buff — when I’m curious about something, there’s a 50% chance that they’ll know a tidbit about its historical context, and if they don’t, there’s a 100% chance that they’ll look it up and ELI5 me. Lately when I ponder on a new thing, I’ll ask a question and am more often than not met with a wary look.
“Coconut tree?” I ask incredulously. (or, Is the history of this thing rooted in someone’s pain and terror?)
“Coconut tree,” they respond. (or, Yes, it is.)
I groan and decide internally whether or not I’m in the mood to have my day ruined with an inevitable tale of cruelty and abuse. Do I want to climb down from the tree today, or would I like to continue trying to pretend like everything is fine? (How selfish that I can’t bear to be burdened with the inconvenience of truth. How fortunate I am to be able to choose.)
I have never known an ethical world, and it’s highly unlikely that I ever will. I, so badly, want to remember that there are good things happening with the bad, but it’s really difficult to smile and wail simultaneously.
Some days I stay offline as a treat. I ignore the whispers of the unsustainability of oat milk when I sip my morning latte, or pretend to be unaware of beef industry’s effect on carbon emissions as I lick burger grease from my fingers. But in the back of my mind, I know. I always know.
The coconut tree was burned down a long time ago, and rightfully so. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss it sometimes.
I appreciate how you said sometimes you stay off line as a treat ! It really is.