The Reed Fig: A Story of Resilience

If you take a walk past the Garden House, you will encounter a wild-looking tree growing in every direction. Although new growth stems out of dead branches, it is clear that this tree has suffered years of neglect and poor pruning. From those thin, sporadic new branches, however, the tree is beginning to bear new fruit and show signs of life and healing. 

While taking a walk to the tree, Tracy Poe ’91 was happy to share the miraculous history of this tree. During Poe’s time as a Reedie, the fig tree was more than just a depressing visual of poor maintenance; it was a healthy and abundant tree that produced fruit for all students to enjoy. She relayed to me a sense of nostalgia, where this tree, and the many other fruit trees on campus, acted as a quiet reminder of the community shared by students. 

Unfortunately, when she returned several years later for a reunion, someone had cut the tree down to the stump, essentially destroying its legacy as a resource for students. While it is unknown who did this, it is clear that instead of giving the tree the care that it needed, they chose to destroy a small but valuable piece of Reed history. 

That is when Poe decided to share this sad news on a forum for Reed College alumni, and she was happy to learn that many people remembered the fig tree and were sad to learn about its fate. According to Poe, in 2025 Professor Paul Gronke finally decided to bring a crew together to help bring the tree back to life. “For the first time in probably the seven or eight years I’ve been coming back, it's beginning to grow fruit again,” said Poe. 

But the story does not end there, as Poe told me how the Reed Fig is related to another story of resilience: that of the Japanese-American family, the Okamotos. If you’ve ever been to the food carts on Steele Street behind campus, you’ve probably seen the unassuming little farm stand filled to the brim with fresh produce. Although now retired, this stand used to be run by Mary and Harry Okamoto. 

During the 1930s, Harry and Mary opened up a grocery store on 49th and Hawthorne Street, and it proved to be a prosperous business. However, as a result of the bombing of Pearl Harbor in 1941, the Okamotos became victims of Executive Order 9066, in which President Roosevelt authorized the forced relocation of over 120,000 Japanese-Americans on the West Coast into internment camps. 

The Okamotos were forced to sell their grocery store and eventually relocated to the Japanese internment camp “Minidoka” in Hunt, Idaho. For the duration of the war, they lived their lives contained within the barracks and tried to create a makeshift home. After the conclusion of the war in 1945, Harry and Mary, like many other Japanese-American families, were sent back into society and forced to start over from scratch. 

According to Poe, after being released, the Okamotos made their way back to Portland, purchased a plot of land next to Reed College, and began running their farm stand. While they were getting their business up and running, however, Harry found a job as a dishwasher at Reed College to make ends meet. This began the long-standing relationship between the Okamoto family and the college, one that Poe is sad to admit has been mostly forgotten. 

You may be wondering how this family relates to the Reed Fig. Well, if you walk behind the farm stand, you’ll see that Reed's crazy-looking tree has a healthier, properly pruned sister. While one has clearly received more love over the years, the Okamotos likely planted both trees at the same time, though Tracy has been unable to confirm this. What is clear, however, is that the family cared for both trees very much and helped maintain this beloved campus resource.

This is not where the relationship between the Okamotos and Reed College ends, however. “Okamoto and his wife were very sympathetic to the plight of poor Reedies,” said Tracy. “They would give them free fruit and damaged produce.” She noted that alumni going back 70 years remember this sweet family and their caring nature towards Reed College students. Although the family’s presence is gone, if you walk into the farm stand, you can still see old photographs of Harry and Mary with smiles on their faces, surrounded by their produce.

While the tree is coming back to life, its scars stand in stark contrast to the strong branches of its sister. We have forgotten this unassuming little tree, but we have also forgotten a family that gave us so much despite having so little. I’d never heard the history of the farm stand, and I was surprised to know that this relationship could become so obsolete. Poe and I agree that this is really a shame, and perhaps with the arrival of new fruit, we can unearth forgotten history and pay our respects to the Okamoto family by preserving their legacy within our community.