I found out this week that I’ve been mispronouncing the name of one of my favourite marine creatures for my entire life. Comically, my husband, who is a high school teacher, corrected me after he himself was corrected by his 14-year-old student in the middle of English class. I’m secretly delighted that anemones are part of his English pedagogy.
Apparently, you pronounce the word anemone an-EM-on-ee. My whole life I’ve been saying an-EN-om-ee. Mind blown. Now I’m trying to retrain my mouth to say anemone and I feel like my three-year-old toddler trying to pronounce grasshopper (she calls them ‘hop-grass’ and it’s delightful).
My nomenclatural faux pas aside, I adore anemones. Some of my fondest childhood memories are exploring the rockpools of the NSW South Coast, prodding anemones and feeding them bits of debris. This is a memory I now facilitate for my own children. Yesterday we spent an hour and a half at MM beach, looking for anemones and letting them gently grab their little fingers with their tentacles. Then patiently waiting for them to unfurl again.
One of the most recognisable species of anemone at the rocky tidal line in the Illawarra is the waratah anemone, Actinia tenebrosa. This species is common throughout southern Australian shores and is named for the waratah flower, the emblem of New South Wales. The species is also common throughout New Zealand where it is known as Kōtore or Kōtoretore in Māori. Kōtore has a few synonyms in Māori: bottom, bird tail and, amusingly, anus.
Rather fitting I’d say, given that when the tide goes out, waratah anemones hide from the sun and air by retracting all their tentacles, giving them the uncanny appearance of a prolapsed anus.
The poetic honesty of the Māori name is less reflective in their underwater appearance. They unfurl their beautiful red tentacles and do indeed look less like an anus and more like a flower. I can just imagine the Australian colonists with their delicate sensibilities, turning a blind eye toward the anemones' more anal characteristics and focusing on their flower-like ones. Not to mention the fact that these sensibilities were entirely contradictory.
Anus-looking sea creatures? Obviously offensive, please do not speak of it.
Procurement of land that is already occupied and complicity is subsequent massacre? A-OK! The saving grace is that ‘waratah’ at least comes from the Eora Aboriginal word ‘warada’ meaning beautiful. I suspect the common name was likely a more modern attribution, but don’t quote me.
Talking of prickly subjects, did you know that anemones’ tentacles stick to your fingers because they’re shooting tiny barbs into your skin?
Like all cnidarians (think jellyfish, blue-bottles and coral), anemones have specialised cells in their tentacles called cnidocytes. These cells contain a microscopic grenade, complete with a hair trigger. Inside the cell rests a nematocyst, a bag of liquid containing a literal harpoon connected to a long thread. When the hair receptor is tripped by touch or chemical changes, the nematocyst becomes highly pressurised and releases the harpoon into whatever is near the cell. That is the feeling of the anemones ‘sticking’ to your fingers.
Luckily for us, anemone nematocysts are not pressurised enough to pierce our skin. But when you are stung by a blue-bottle or jellyfish, this mechanism is how they inject their venom and why it hurts so damn much.
Another fun fact about waratah anemones (I am practicing my pronunciation every time I write this word – I need all the help I can get) is that they are viviparous! Meaning, they brood their young inside their body cavity, then give birth to fully formed juvenile anemones through their mouth, which also functions as their anus… and, I guess, their vagina? Anyway, they have one hole. The little bebes then plant themselves close to their parent, which is why you see these anemones gathered together on the rock surfaces and crevices.
So besides being part of a lovely memory and creating wholesome experiences for my kids, anemones have now given me a lesson in English pronunciation and, even better than that, they have given me a new avenue to appreciate Māori language and culture. Next time you poke an anemone, remember that linguistically speaking you’re poking an anus. You’re welcome.