Community Spotlight: Elizabeth Weisel

fuck palm trees

I can’t remember when Elizabeth started taking Written in Brooklyn classes. It seems like she’s always just been part of the community; a friend to sit with at our shows, stories that make you laugh and think, thoughtful feedback you look forward to hearing. I’ve been lucky enough to have had Elizabeth for several classes, and I love everything she writes, and honestly, you will too. It’s selfish of me not to share some of her work, so this is really more about me than here. Below is a great example of her writing (written in 5-Minute Stories). I hope you enjoy it and share it widely.

xo

Carly

Paradise Lost and Found by Elizabeth Weisel

I hate palm trees. I think they’re the ugliest plant on God’s green earth. They look so unfinished, like God planted them, put a few leaves on, took a snack break, and forgot to come back. They have no flowers, no fun shapes, no colors. Even poison ivy shines a little red so you know it has a fun, dark side. Sure there are coconuts, but they’re impossible to reach without a crane or Olympic climbing skills, not very ADA compliant if you ask me. They’re also impossible to eat without brute strength and a sharp tool; I want to reach up and pluck a juicy apple off a reasonably small tree with my bare hands and bite into it with my human teeth like the good Lord intended.

In ancient Egypt, the palm frond represented immortality, which according to the mummies I’ve seen at the Met, didn’t turn out that great. Sounds to me like the palms can’t be trusted. Historically, Romans used palms to celebrate their military successes — do we really want to get behind trophies for murdering soldiers? Not for me thanks, I’d rather have the Starbucks gift card my boss regifts me every Christmas. In the Christian tradition, the townspeople of Jerusalem laid palms at the feet of Jesus to welcome him into the city before his death. See, even Jesus Christ himself spent his last days walking all over those useless plants.

Not to mention, palm trees are barely native in the United States. They’re meant to be in Florida, and some parts of the deep south (South Carolina, Georgia, Alabama) but that’s it. The American obsession with them as a symbol for relaxation is a direct result of advertising companies trying to trick you into thinking you’re in paradise when it’s actually Houston. We’re already bombarded by ads on our phones, our TVs, the subway, and now we literally can’t even trust the trees in front of our faces. We are being played by these giant, leafy, capitalist sticks.

If there’s one place in the US that is most associated with palm trees it’s gotta be Los Angeles. Guess what. Most of those palms are from Mexico and the Canary Islands. Capitalism meets colonization in those skinny little trees, and vacationers everywhere are eating it right up. When the city was established at the turn of the twentieth century, they imported the palm trees as an ornamental feature, despite their lack of shade or fruit or function at all, just to lure people under false paradise pretenses into moving to that useless desert. And it WORKED.

Unfortunately, Los Angeles is the only place I can go. I’m 30, and just broke up with a man I thought I was going to marry. Then I spent the next ten months planning an engagement, two bachelorette parties, and a baby shower, being a bridesmaid in two weddings, attending six other weddings, and going to Tulum for my best friend’s birthday. I should have spent the year glued to my couch, cry-eating oreos and peanut butter instead of celebrating all my friend’s life achievements, but that isn’t reality and I am dying for a break. I’ve been bled dry financially, emotionally, energetically, spiritually. I have nothing left. I don’t even have the energy to get a knife for the peanut butter at the bottom of the jar so I shove my whole Oreo-laden hand into the jar, covering my knuckles with sticky butter and wash it off with tears.

I have to get out of godforsaken New York City and find myself again, but my bank account is dangerously low. It turns out, when people want you to celebrate them, what they actually want is for you to spend money on them. Fly to rural Wisconsin, chip in for the lake house, don’t forget a wedding gift and also it’s rude if that gift doesn’t pay for your plate, and if you host the baby shower I guess you’re also paying for all the food, and as far as I can tell, money still doesn’t grow on trees, which is actually the only thing that would make a palm tree worth something, but no, they’re just regular plant matter that can’t be exchanged for goods and services.

I examine my options. Visiting my parents is basically free, but definitely not restful. Renting a car to drive somewhere is way too expensive. I have points for a flight, but the cost of a hotel is prohibitive and you can’t rely on public transportation in other places. Then I remember - my friend from high school lives in Los Angeles. He’s my only friend outside the tri-state area, and told me I could stay in his extra bedroom for free. To entice me he adds that I can borrow his car for the week while he works from home. Free bed? Free transportation? Free flight? Check, check, and check. Sure he lives in Satan’s armpit, but what choice do I have? I spent the last year plastering a fake smile on my heartbroken face at an engagement, a baby shower, a birthday trip, 3 bachelorettes and 8 weddings, and the last thing place I want to relax is the city hiding its barren desert behind the world’s tallest marketing tool, but I am desperate. I’m going to Los Angeles.

I arrive in California exhausted, but immediately relieved to be away. For seven days in a row I sleep ten hours every night. I eat cheap tacos from a food truck every day. I have a whole list of things to do, but instead I wake up every morning and drive to the beach and sit quietly by myself. Do a crossword puzzle. Read Stephen King’s Misery. Stare out at the waves, letting the horizon line ground me while I ignore the palms waving in the breeze behind me. The grit of the sand scratches between my toes as I bury my feet. The thick, salty water cools my ankles and sends goosebumps shooting up my legs as I wade in the water. I smile proudly when I complete a puzzle, and gasp loudly when Annie starts to saw off the foot. With every new sensation, I slowly return to my body as the exhaustion fades, drop by drop.

On my last day in LA, I drive to a tiny, hidden beach in Malibu. I park illegally and hunt down the public staircase hidden by bushes to walk onto a gorgeous small crescent shaped cove. I set up my chair and breathe in the salty breeze. I am surrounded by a tall, craggy cliff capped by a scattering of stout palms. They’re hiding me from the neighborhood houses and the sound of the freeway. They brought palm trees here because Los Angeles needed a little help looking and feeling good. Didn’t I come here because I needed help too? Maybe there small, reluctant, heartbroken, deserted part of me formed over one of the hardest years of my life needs these trees too. And here, on this beautiful secret beach, surrounded by palms, I hate them a little bit less. And I finally feel like myself a little bit more.