My Life In the Deep South, Explained By A Tree

Some say the South is plagued with a heritage of hate yet I’ve been surrounded by love my whole life. 

I arrived at the Herbert Hotel in Lexington, Mississippi, in the late spring of 1900. I found my home in a partially shaded area outside the hotel, atop one of the rare hills in the flat Mississippi Delta. Snuggled into the rich soil, I established deep roots into my new home. As a seedling, it became a hobby of mine to watch the guests of the hotel. In doing so, I quickly adapted to the culture of the South. I learned to be polite, I kept my thoughts to myself and never spoke out of turn. 

As nice as it sounds, the first decade of my life was a lonely one. I longed for a family—one that I could watch over. 

But the Herbert Hotel burned down and I was devastated. My limbs weaved and drooped towards the ground. Floods and fires ravaged the surrounding area, destroying the neighboring plantation homes. Then Lexington entered the Great Depression, and I along with it. 

PHOTO VIA MSGENWEB ARCHIVES

It took 20 years for the darkness to lift. In 1950 a couple built a home next to me on the former site of the hotel. I spent the next two decades in cycles of bloom and growth.

But it was all short-lived. In the mid-1960’s the storms returned and I noticed a change in my surroundings. Anxiety filled the air as Lexington entered into a period of racial tension and Jim Crow segregation. The sweet, fresh scent of my blooms were now a nauseating reminder of my hidden roots, bathed in a soil of hatred.  The dirt that fed my soul was soaked in sin. The struggle for Civil Rights cut deep wounds in my smooth gray trunk and limbs; wounds that to this day have never healed. 

Luckily in 1969, my old neighbors were replaced with newlyweds when Mr. and Mrs. Harmon purchased the house next to me. They soon had their first child, a daughter they named Hannah, and I finally had the family I longed for. Young Hannah would spend hours climbing my limbs and building forts with the neighborhood kids. She was fearless of the snakes and critters that loomed in the shady brush underneath me. Her mere presence made me feel so tall.

Soon after, the Harmon’s hired Eleanor, a young, African-American woman to help raise their daughter. Eleanor worked in the Harmon’s home every day from sunrise to sundown. I watched in awe as Eleanor quickly became part of the Harmon family.

Together, we’ve weathered many storms. I’ve grown up with this family and every year we bloom as one. I’ve learned that even in an inhospitable womb new life is discovered, in death joy is found, and even in times of pain and suffering, my buds return. For instance, when Mrs. Harmon went to the hospital to deliver her baby and returned with an empty car seat, my canopy leaned in to console her. My canopy has stayed over the driveway to comfort each passerby ever since.

After several years of heartbreak, the Harmon’s added two more children, Danielle and Tanner, to their family. Eleanor went on to have her own child, Eddie, and the Harmon’s took it upon themselves to take care of them. One particular Christmas, Mr. Harmon surprised Eleanor and Eddie with a car. Tears streamed down their faces and mine as I saw the love this family had for one another.

It did not take long for Hannah to outgrow me. Soon, it was time for her to head to college. My fallen petals served to envelope Mr. Harmon’s broken heart as he waved goodbye to his first-born daughter as she drove off to Ole Miss.

The end of the 1990s was a time of transition in the Harmon household. In Hannah’s absence, the Harmon’s hired Caroline, another young, African-American woman to help raise Danielle and Tanner. Eleanor and Caroline would alternate working days during the week.

In 1994, I witnessed my first wedding on the front patio, and every family member was in attendance—including Eleanor and Caroline. They would attend every family wedding to come for the next twenty years.

Hannah gave birth to her first child, Kendall, a little less than a year after the wedding. It wasn’t long until Kendall found her way to me. Eleanor would run outside to warn her of the snakes, but like her mother, Kendall was bold and unafraid. Every time Kendall came to visit, I was thrust back into the spotlight again. Her imagination ran wild as she pretended my curving limbs were the branches of the trees in Tarzan.

Kendall has since graduated college and the Harmon family has grown exponentially in size. For a while, Eleanor would travel to Jackson to help raise Tanner’s children. She has since gone on disability due to problems with her knees from years of service to this family.

Like Eleanor, my limbs and petals are strained by the passage of time. However, the love that this family has for one another encourages me to bloom every spring. My trunk remains rooted well into the earth and deep into the South. The neighboring trees from my childhood have been reduced to stumps. The dead-end stone pathway that winds around me serves as a reminder of the neighbors and family members we have lost in my lifetime. A patch of green grass lies next to me, like a round traffic light inviting others to come and play in the historic wonderland of my limbs.

I am a magnificent Magnolia, rooted in a heritage of hate, surrounded by love.