Mississippi

You can read the story of Mississippi in the trees. The twist and turns, from wind and water have pulled them and made them living statues. They stand tall dedicated to a narrative that speaks not only about struggle and triumph but survival. The gashes in the bark read like braille about fallen houses and oil spills; both human's and god's hand writing both cruel and honest stories on the landscape. The stumps read like the fallen souls who bodies perished in storms and the creatures that drowned in black gold that spit up from pipes and swallowed them whole. The story has sweep over the land like the way vines grow along walls that stand alone. And weeds cover what use to be parking lots and driveways for family cars. It's beautiful because it's truth. A raw truth mixed in with happily ever afters and disasters. Even though the twisted trees scream about the pain that pulled their roots and disfigured their bodies, they grow leaves of green like the next chapters in books. Their stories continue. 

Tree at the University of Southern Mississippi.

I wrote the paragraph above the first night I was in Mississippi. I never thought I would ever set foot in the state of Mississippi, but I had a training for my summer internship so I boarded a plane. In my mind Mississippi was both myth and legend. It was a state that held such a dark past for African Americans that just thinking about it brought  a noose or men hiding under white sheets to mind. I had read the stories about Freedom Summer and was sure the soil was so rich in the delta because of the all the black bodies that died there.

I went to Long Beach, Mississippi. On my way from the airport was a long stretch of beach that was breathtaking because of the trees that lined the streets. Those trees where the manifestation of beauty. They seemed to be dancing and their leaves rattled to the wind's song. I didn't stay long. Only three days to be exact but I knew I had to write something about those trees.