“I couldn’t care less about the reputation others have painted for me.” — Joan Jett

Before Joan Jett, Patti Smith was dubbed the “Godmother of Punk.” While she’s now a celebrated poet and writer, she remarks, “That title is a mark of respect; I just don’t want it to be my sole identity. I’m not against being recognized as that, but I wish people could see beyond and recognize the breadth of my work.”

Crinum enthusiasts: Cole Mitchell, Jenks Farmer, and the young intern, Sam Engler.

Sometimes, during the early hours or a midsummer daydream, remnants of a wounded young spirit emerge. This boy remembers being overlooked in school sports, mocked during his rebellious teenage years, and how some of the taunts lingered. The negative impressions from the past seem to cling. Even now, the community’s old Farmer’s Club, where my father’s portrait resides, hasn’t extended an invitation.

In moments of introspection or doubt, the weight of others’ opinions can be overwhelming. Being typecast is just as painful.

Reputation and labels. Both can sting, even if momentarily, invoking feelings of sorrow, remorse, or resentment. They tend to capture us in a singular light, ignoring our multifaceted nature.

…

“That’s the crinum expert!” An enthusiastic gardener exclaims upon approaching my stall. I force a smile, muttering something about my broader interests in plants. Patti Smith’s words resonate with me: “People don’t grasp the entirety of my expertise.” I wish I could share more with this woman, but my immediate task is to sell her a crinum.

Jenks Farmer’s cherished Orange River lily, Crinum bulbispermum, has lived for over eight decades.

I’ve always championed crinums, even as they battle their own stereotypes. Some recall them as overwhelming plants that overtake gardens, while others remember them as commonplace southern plants. I’m committed to helping others see the beauty and diversity of these plants. When I talk about their history and variety, the passion in my voice is unmistakable.

At times, being known as the “Crinum guy” feels restricting. Yet, this identity, alongside my talents in writing and speaking, has allowed me to rejuvenate interest in these plants over the years. My work has introduced me to hidden libraries, unique ecosystems, and intriguing people. The crinum has been a constant source of learning and exploration.

I’ve come to realize that this label, perhaps, isn’t too far off.

In my quest to celebrate the crinum, I’ve contributed to its popularization. If circumstances were different, I might’ve fully embraced this identity and delved even deeper into its history and biology.

These plants have a vast history, traveling with sailors, traders, and horticulturists alike. Their resilience and adaptability are truly remarkable. They deserve extensive study and appreciation.

However, real life comes with responsibilities: bills, mortgages, and daily expenses. While crinums are a passion, they aren’t my sole source of income. Maybe one day, I can immerse myself completely in their world.

…

One significant lesson I remember is from a profound experience amidst the majestic Douglas fir trees on the Olympic Peninsula. As a student in Seattle, my Southern roots were often a source of amusement for my peers.

On this day, as I ventured deeper into the woods, I shed various identities – the Southerner, the gardener. Layer by layer, I felt liberated. In that heightened state, I questioned our very essence and whether we could revert to our previous selves. The answer was profound: we can embrace our identities, but our perspectives, once expanded, cannot be narrowed again.

…

The rebellious teenager in me has mostly receded. Yet, the boy who adored plants remains ever-present. Every spring, when his cherished crinum blooms, his heart soars. With time, he’s learned that looking back and returning to the past aren’t the same. He realizes that dwelling on others’ perceptions is futile. Surrounded by fellow plant lovers who value his expertise, he’s come to appreciate the affectionate title, “crinum guy.”

Jenks Farmer, a South Carolina-based horticulturist and author, has boldly titled his recent book “Crinum — Unearthing the History and Cultivation of the World’s Biggest Bulbs.” While some may contest his claim, he playfully challenges them, saying, “Google isn’t the ultimate source. Show me what you’ve got.”