Trees and Allergy Season: Patreearchy and its Pollenly Consequences

Oh boy, oh boy. It’s that time of the year again: the time for my annual tree crashout brought upon the world like a lumbering sleeper agent waking up to bring the roof down before shouting “TIMBER!” Well, call me a lumberjack, because I’m going to go down to these arboreal annoyances. 

You may be wondering—or you may not be, my fellow sufferers—why I hate trees. Well, I only hate them during the month of April. To answer your question in the simplest of terms: sperm. I hate tree sperm. 

In most populated places, like New York, only male trees are primarily planted—Betcha didn’t know trees had sexes!—in some blatant act of misogyny. This reinforces the patriarchal idea that blossoming (read: female) trees’ extra leaf litter is too much hassle for them to deal with. Seriously, women can never escape the high-maintenance allegations. But you know the easiest way to get trees without the extra clean up—even though all trees need it? Don’t plant female trees. Thus, we are only left with, well, men. And men do what men do best, which is get around. This, obviously, is what I mean when I say I hate tree sperm. Literally, pollen is just tree sperm. Male trees just shoot loads into the air and pray some unsuspecting female tree comes along (Okay, well, trees can’t really “come along,” but that’s yet another consequence of the patreearchy, I guess.) and gets a face full of it into their blossoms, through which the miracle of life is created: fruit. 

This is also where our problems lie. 

See, in nature, trees usually come in assorted groups of male and female trees. Nice little tree couples ensure that their genetic material spreads to the next generation—less pollen per tree on average because fewer trees can actually spread it. Plus, some gets dumped into blossoms, further limiting the amount of tree sperm in the air. However, in our artificial, unnatural, man-made concrete jungles, we don’t believe in such gender equality. We are so oversaturated in male trees that in some places, the sky turns yellow from tree explosions. Look it up, it’s a real thing. 

Oh, it’s truly pitiful. We got so sick of gray concrete and brick walls and orange rusted steel, and we decided to spruce it up (pun unintended) with nature. Except that nature just makes us sicker. It’s like if you picked up a new pet, except from the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. It’ll liven up the house, sure, but someone will be walking away with at least one (most definitely more) vicious (possibly rabies-infected) bite. Those poor, poor housemates are subjected to constant feral animal behaviors—peeing everywhere, biting, food stealing—just like how us poor, poor allergy-havers are subjected to constant torture from tree ejaculate. And it’s not just bad for all the humans, it’s also just as bad for the pet since they’ll have to deal with whoever you live with deciding that personal space is still a God-given right. It’s like expecting you’ll still have any furniture that survives the pet—a futile hope.

In addition, can we talk about how because there’s so much pollen for so much longer, allergies are getting worse? Like, even the mildest allergies are made so much more irritating due to the sheer amount of tree sperm. And this is because of how we placed these trees in the middle of damn heat sinks, a.k.a. cities, with all their dark coloring and tall architecture, which traps more heat, telling trees that it’s prime time to get their genetic material out, which means the trees are hornier—I mean, the pollen season stars earlier and lasts longer with no benefit for these poor bachelor trees, since there are no blossoms in sight. Can you imagine how painful that is? For the trees constantly trying to get laid and being unsuccessful for so long? Those trees will die virgins, man. Is that not sad enough? 

And for us fellow tree victims, it’s multiple levels of pain. Pain from stuffy noses, rubbed raw with all the tissues we use up. Pain from swollen eyes, itched until they are puffier than the average botched botoxed big-name. Pain from throats itching and bleeding, sneezed to hell and back. Pain from buying packs upon packs of tissues and anti-histamines, which don’t come cheap if you need to down several packs and pills to make it through the week. Pain from having to stay indoors away from any and all hints of nature and missing out on all the fun gatherings and beautiful sights in the season. And of course, the pain from the truest test of dignity and willpower, always having to make the walk of shame to the class tissue box—Why, just why, is it always in the front of the room?—and clearing your sinuses very audibly (I swear the other classrooms can hear me struggling).

In these trying times, our survival skills are tested. Our morals. Our restraint. Our humanity. We have to survive the allergy symptoms, yes, but we also have to survive the constant sound of coughing and nose-blowing. You non-allergy-havers have to resist punching said allergy-sufferer for their crimes against peace and quiet, and we allergy-havers have to resist punching trees for their unhinged incel behaviors—because, if we’re being honest, a mob of males who spread their sperm everywhere just sounds like band of incels. We sufferers also have to try to not renounce our very own flesh and bones for giving us such pain because, I’ll be honest, being a fish in the ocean where there is no pollen sounds really great to me right now. Actually, nothing sounds great right now. I can’t hear a thing because my ears haven’t popped yet from all the nose-blowing. 

To all the allergy-havers, may you have the willpower and strength to survive this test of patience. You are stronger than your immune system’s irrational response to tree sperm. You can’t let the trees get away with this. You have to resist the patreearchy and its painful effects on all of us, tree-lovers and tree-haters alike. Godspeed, soldier. May your tissues always be plentiful and antihistamine side effects light.

To all the non-sufferers, may you have the patience and mercy to grant grace to all of us who do suffer. You never know who is currently suffering from the consequences of unfortunate tree reproductive measures—it could be your renowned Speecher (and less renowned Editor-In-Chief) Myles Vuong, your tree-hating AP Computer Science teacher, everyone in your immediate family, and then some—all 60 million of us sufferers in America will thank you. You are our greatest allies and supporters in this struggle. Thank you for helping empty my trash can filled with used tissues and old pill blisters. Thank you for putting up with our noise—nose-blowing, crying, whining, and the like—and our inability to function as people. You guys are real ones.

And to all the trees out there that insist on spreading their seed—literally and figuratively—year after year and are still unable to make fruits and saplings: simply, get good. Touch some grass (oh wait). Maybe then a female will finally blossom in your direction.