Stop Asking Me To Pose With Seaweed

Disclaimer. I adore each and every one of the media’s seaweed darlings and am nauseatingly proud to know a handful of them. This post is not a dig at them or even at articles that have been written of their stories. Please consider this an onward+upward invitation to extend the great work that has been done so far.

I use the emails I receive in my inbox as a bellwether of what’s happening in local seaweed. This time of year, I get three types of inquiries.

The first kind is the writer who wants to do a kelp story. Kelp is so hot!

Gaining Access To Fresh Kelp In Person? Even hotter.

Every single one — right out of the gate— says they will need a ‘visual’ to attract readers. They need a farmer. A boat. Maybe just some water. A boat with some kelp in it. Some kelp products on a dock. Someone who looks like a kelp farmer but isn’t necessarily one in real life! A pile of fresh kelp on the dock will do.“Can I meet you somewhere and get some photos where you’re holding some kelp?” I’ve yet to succumb to a photoshoot where I’m posing with kelp- that doesn’t mean I haven’t been petitioned. I don’t belong there. I don’t need or want to belong there because I know I can make a difference either way. I gladly direct these writers to folks who can better fulfill their visual needs. Invariably, the story evolves accordingly.

The second type of inquiry is a teacher looking for a field trip. “Can we come to tour your kelp farm? We’ve been learning about ocean life in biology, and my kids are really passionate about climate change” (or sea life, water quality, etc.) I have to explain that we don’t actually operate our own farm, but there are so many other easier, deeper, more meaningful ways to enrich students’ passions for marine life than a field trip. Once they hear I’m not offering boat tours, I rarely receive a reply.

The third kind is the hopeful volunteer. I love these emails because I see my past self in their inquiries: how do I get started? Can I start my own kelp farm? They want to get their hands dirty. They want to sweat. I get it! I get the most volunteer inquiries asking to help with kelp harvests a week or so after everything has been pulled out of the water + dried. (Kelp is incredibly seasonal. It grows by itself for most of the season- then, for a small handful of weeks out of the year, it’s removed. The end.) I have to tell them that no, there’s nothing to harvest. “But not to fear! I’ve come up with so many other ways you can volunteer your time any day of the year! It’s easy and convenient, and you can build your volunteering around your passions and strengths! Have a look! Let me know how I can help!” No one — and I mean no one — has taken me up on these ideas.

And I think I know why.

How do these volunteers come to learn about kelp, anyway? Likely, it’s through articles. Posts. Things written by you, dear writer: you are feeding them the implication between your lines that the only way to be useful or impactful to aquaculture is to Instagrammably hoist seaweed proudly into the sky (preferably in waders). Or touch it. Or taste it. You’re buying into your own rhetoric of Exclusive Fresh Kelp Access, and it’s rubbing off in your margins as something only accessible to a select few.

The introduction of my senior undergraduate thesis (using psychometrics to assess visuospatial patterns in Alzheimer’s disease, of all things) was a clunky, awkward paragraph on the Sapir-Whorf Hypothesis. I was so fascinated by this concept — I had to cram it in. The idea is this: language influences thought. The words and phrases we use in our cultures to tell our stories shape the ideas that emerge.

How does this concept map onto media responsibility? All of the choices that a writer makes- the ideas, photos, words, and concepts that are to be included or not- ultimately shape the readers’ perception (and I’d argue sometimes even the trajectory and fate) of the topic at hand. If you only write stories about tangibles that you can easily photograph — if you merely retell stories about kelp characters whose stories are already lived — if you neglect to tell the photoless, characterless stories of possibility — you are shaping the ideas of the kelp industry down narrow roads. This approach is causing serious stagnation.

I’ll say it: I’m tired of kelp farmer protagonist stories. Recapitulations of histories and remarkable triumphs- their struggles and corresponding resolve- their dreams, grievances for the future. Rugged Tales of American Elbow Grease. It reminds me of the ‘diaper need’ narrative: organizations reformat the same infographic statistics on an endless loop to fit their own logo color schemes. Reduce, reuse, recycle.

The kelp industry needs great, risk-taking thinkers to shape the seaweed story- ones who think critically and openly not just about progress, but about the urgency of possibility. Apart from the 1% of people who have aphantasia, 99% of us have the most brilliant visual imaginations in our brains capable of conjuring beautifully whatever you put into words. You don’t always need to spoon-feed us the photos to match. It diminishes what’s possible.

We recently built a novel two-phase drying system — using sun and wind — to dry seaweed. Neither phase is pretty to look at. They’re visually unremarkable. And you can bet there won’t be a story on it. (You thought you had me! No, this is not a paragraph where I embed my passive-aggressive lamentations in a yearning for the spotlight. I don’t want to shine. I want people to learn more about the system so that people can critique it — improve on it- suggest alternatives and improvements — or, in the best case, maybe replicate it if it’s good. I don’t want to be the protagonist. I want to talk about my two-phase system, okay?)

Just as much as kelp needs fearless writers, kelp needs volunteers. There are crushing masses of passionate people who could put forth even the tiniest effort, which would multiply and compound through the connective tissue of society. Just imagine that. The problem is that no reader feels qualified or inspired to dig in after reading these accounts because they’re not in waders — they don’t live by the water. Their fingernails aren’t particularly dirty. (Cool fingernail dirt, not the gross kind). They don’t have a dreamy lineage of brave, seafaring ancestors. They don’t fit the bill of someone who makes a meaningful dent in this line of work.

Write a story about the people who email me. The nameless mass of the most unlikely of landlubbing seaweed heroes. A meticulous undertaking of what silent, invisible, modern climate change warriorism looks like. (Challenge: no photos to illustrate!) The untrained enthusiasts in the human mycelium network of currently slumbering energy and talent, waiting to be connected- in apartment buildings, in land-locked suburbia — in industries that you wouldn’t even think to traditionally link with kelp.

Dig deep and write a story about the seaweed club: the dark underbelly of proprietary, competitive egotism and cultural exclusivism in the world of aquaculture. Yes: there’s algae drama, and it’s probably juicy if you know just where to look. And it’ll be the thing that keeps us all second-guessing ourselves- keeps us from rising. Shine a light on that.

Write a crazy story about the products waiting to be invented. Dare yourself to go so far out there that you’ll surely be proven flat wrong.

Write a story that doesn’t just account for what’s been done, but ignites wild possibility.

Write a story that scares us and makes the hairs on the backs of our necks stand on end, where we feel a fight-or-flight urge to spring out of our seats into action.

Write like the world is on fire.