Joshua Yama

I grew up on concrete in the city of Chicago. The only plants I saw were sprouting in patches along sidewalks, curbs and alleyways. They were weeds and dandelion puffballs. And if I was lucky, especially on a hot summer day, I’d spot a bloomed dandelion or two, tucked under a slab of concrete pressed against a brick wall. With my bare little hands, before dandelions sprouted, I used to pluck its fluffy white stems, blowing into the sky, watching its feathers travel along the current of my wind, and Chicago’s wind, on a still, through breezy, summer day.

I can’t forget about spruce needles, how they’d jab into my right index finger. Spruce trees filled the edges of my backyard, resting on a sea of white rocks that split my backyard in half—there was the driveway on one half, and on the other—a mat of rocks on dirt, the color of sand. 

Spaces of green have always commanded my attention, but not like before. Since I stepped foot on this southern campus, it feels like mustard greens, elephant ears, bumble bees, fungi and perennials are only a few inches away from tapping my shoulder wherever I walk. 

Here, gardens are full. I have rosemary sprigs to pinch and smell, purple basil to snip and eat, zinnias, African marigolds, sweet roses and fleabanes to dry on my wall, bulbs of strawflower and amaranth to keep in bowls, a bush of hydrangeas to hold in tomato cans, anemones and sea lavender to squeeze in old wine bottles freckled with dust.

I have plants living amongst me. I can wait for carnations to unfold and break from its shell as it catches light that slips through my window shades. Even the okra I used to eat in Nigerian soups followed me from home, filling my hands, maroon and ripe. 

I was afraid that the blocks of concrete I attached to my name kept me distant from this campus, that my urbanness was only reserved for the brick and steel towers that guarded me from smelling cherry blossoms and sunflowers, from touching the palette of dahlias. And if we can keep this between us, I hope Wake’s landscaping team can forgive me for snagging flowers from the quad. 

But I don’t keep all of these flowers to myself; I share them with my dear friends. In a way, I get to share a part of me with my friends and the Wake Forest community.  We can all take notice of something that builds a new home for us in our own way. Connection doesn’t have to start on this campus. 

To me, a part of being a student here is getting to share who you are, while carrying pieces of home and making other communities yours. As you’re searching for a new community, whether you’re already on campus or are hoping to be, don’t be afraid to pluck those flowers from the quad. 

One afternoon Matt Clifford, Assistant Vice President of Campus Life and Dean of Residence Life and Housing, saw me waiting for a clear coast to pluck roses outside of the gym, and told me to just “take ‘em… they’re meant to be enjoyed.” To extend his generous encouragement—just take ‘em, because they’re meant to be enjoyed by you and by the next person walking across from you.