In the 12th grade I wrote a short story about a lynching from the perspective of a tree. It wasn’t for a particular class; just one of my musings. This week I’ve been taking a tour of the south, visiting important places in Black History. While visiting the Melrose Estate in Natchez, Mississippi, a big Plantation style home that once held slaves, I saw these big trees. Seeing these trees made me think of other southern trees, and how they once held “Strange Fruit.” It also made me think of the story I wrote. I’ve never shared the story with anyone, but I would like to share it this week as a reflective piece on the Black History I have experienced thus far.
WARNING: This is a deviation from my other posts and may be a bit too dark for some. Feel free to skip it and check in next week 🙂
Until Next Time
–Palooke–
Paralyzed Witness
In the distance I see a light. At least I think it’s a light. It’s so far away that it looks like an orangish-yellow dot flickering against the great blackness of the night sky. Closer and closer it comes toward me; or at least I think it’s toward me. There are many of us here in this big ol’ forest, but I’m the biggest and most sought out for these cowardly nightly acts of terror. Closer and closer the light comes and it begins to multiply as I see other dancing flames following behind it; enlarging the light, yet somehow magnifying the darkness. I wonder who they have tonight, and lament over the possibilities.
Slowly the holders of these dancing flames emerge, a mob of 10 or 20 white men, angry without cause. I know why they’re here, but I can’t see who they have. Finally, as if performing an evil magic trick, they throw his beaten bloodied body on the ground right at my feet. By this time the mob is in front of me in their typical fashion; dirty white shirts, tattered brown pants with suspenders holding them up, and greatly worn black shoes. Their victim was a black man who looked middle age, but in fact was much younger. The fieldwork he did mixed with the stress of being poor, black and in the south belied his youth. Stress has a way of aging one like no other. Despite his progressed aging, his body was a work of art. Never have you seen such a perfect body tone before; his muscles a work of God. His name is Michael.
I’ve seen him before, walking pass me on his way to nowhere in particular, but he seemed far more cheerful and hopeful then. He did not possess the look of fear and terror he now held as his eyes looked piercingly at me. Now he lies bare before me. He throws his half naked body around me and clings for dear life, knowing paradoxically that it will be my very body that will end his life. He tries to pull himself up, but a man they call Ruffins grabs him and pulls him down. “Where you think you going, niggra? Ruffins yells as he kicks Michael’s already bruised body. How I wanted to uproot myself and lash my limbs at this mob, but I stand still, paralyzed by nature and my position.
The mob joined in with Ruffins and continued their assault on Michael. In moments like these I often wonder what Michael could have done to warrant such blind and ferocious hatred, but I already know my question is hopeless. One cannot truly understand the irrational without risk of slipping into the insanity that fuels it. So I don’t trouble my mind with the troubling event unfolding before me and on me. I languish and stand as a witness…paralyzed.
Then he emerges. He always emerged. Every time as though following a script, he came through with the rope in his hand. His name is Jeremiah, and I always find it ironic that such a proprietor of injustice would bare the name of a well-know prophet of justice. The sight of Jeremiah and his rope is so common to me, yet jarring every time. It sinks my soul and I want to scream, “No! No! No!,” but my leaves only move with the wind mustering the only noise I can make. When they have calmed from the moving wind, I stand still, paralyzed.
They grab Michael, too tired to scream, too tired to try, too tired to live, and they wrap the rope around his strong neck. His sad brown eyes look at me perplexed, wondering like I, how can one’s skin offend so? I offer no answer because I have none to give, but even if I did, my nature would prevent me from divulging this mystery. Tighter and tighter they squeeze the rope around his neck sucking the life from his body.
Finally, they do the part I hate the most. Oh how I wish I were blown over in some storm or chopped down by some man’s axe; anything to keep from participating in this gruesome act. But I stand still, paralyzed. They swing the other end of the rope over my limb. It is the one that sticks out boldly and strong. Had this been any other night it would have been a source of pride for me, but on nights like tonight it is merely an appendage I wish would snap and fall to the ground.
Higher and higher they pull his tortured body by his neck. Higher and higher until I hear a snap and his body instantly becomes limp and lifeless swinging against the darkness of the night while I stand still, paralyzed. Their victory is reached and shouts of celebration echo throughout the still of the night. For tonight they have won, what I do not know, but they won it. They take Michael’s body down to throw in the forest, food for the animals, and I still stand, paralyzed. No proper burial, no respect for the life that was, and no care for the loved ones who will want to know where he has gone.
They have done their dirty work and leave. Their departure causes instant depression to overwhelm me. Not only do I mourn for Michael, I mourn because I know they will be back. And I will be here, standing still, paralyzed.
