As a young girl, Nezhukumatathil finds shade under catalpa trees. Her mother warns her not to get “too dark”—not to let her skin tan—and there are many shady catalpas on the walk to her mother’s office at Larned State Hospital, a psychiatric hospital in Kansas. Catalpas are “one of the largest deciduous trees at almost sixty feet tall,” with “long bean pods and flat seeds with wings” (2). Their leaves are noisy in the wind, and they attract sphinx moths.

After school, the bus drops off Nezhukumatathil and her younger sister in front of the hospital, where they wait in a small office until their mother’s shift ends. Nezhukumatathil’s mother is the first doctor from her small village the Philippines, but in Kansas she endures many racist comments and microaggressions from families of patients. As a young adolescent, Nezhukumatathil never fully appreciates her mother’s stoicism. As an adult, she wonders, “How did she manage to leave it all behind in that office, switching gears to listen to the ramblings of her fifth- and sixth-grade girls?” (4).

Thirty years later, Nezhukumatathil observes the largest catalpa tree at the University of Mississippi, where she teaches. Its branches are so long they must be supported by metal struts.