It was an old tree with gnarled branches interconnected like unkept hair that sagged heavy with the green of an abundant spring. It stood majestic-like at the edge of a small town that skirted the mighty Mississippi. You could see its roots from several yards away stretching out from the thick barrel-like trunk digging deep into the rich soil slowly sipping on the nutrients Mother Earth provided.  

It was located atop a hill that was covered in a sea of that red Mississippi soil interspersed with several small islands of grass, the largest of these oasis’ of green stood the tree. It could be seen for miles around. Local folklore had it as the town’s sentinel that had been standing watch and keeping the townspeople safe for the past two hundred years. It was fondly known as The Old Man On The Hill; the Old Man for short, a sentimental moniker that belied a bloody history that most of the townfolk were happy to forget, but not all. Some of the residents suffered from an inherited trauma of a brutal past that was encoded within their DNA that wouldn’t allow them to forget, even if they wanted to. They would remember that it wasn’t always just the green abundant spring that burdened those gnarled branches, but rather there was also a time when the branch snapped from the weight of a name, a body, a family, a history. For them the Old Man wasn’t looked upon with nostalgic fondness, he wasn’t seen as this sentinel on guard to keep them safe from harm. For these folks it was quite the opposite, the Old Man was a symbol of foreboding, he was the guard high up on a tower of dirt always ready to sound the alarm to prevent the escape of those who sought freedom from centuries of enslavement, from those who ran from the lash of tyranny and death. These folks would never forget that the Old Man’s leaves were once soaked and his roots were once nourished with the blood of their ancestors.  

Two of those people were brothers Gerald and Aaron separated by three years and personality. The eldest, Gerald was short, at 5 foot 7 with a smooth face and head. He was the serious one, an introvert who sometimes believed the best kept company was his own. He was a man who was well read and extremely passionate about his beliefs, he rarely smiled and didn’t talk much, but once you got him started on something that he was passionate about, buckle your seat belts. Aaron, on the other hand was the exact opposite of his brother, where Gerald was short and stocky, Aaron was tall, at six foot two with a head full of thick, curly hair and a full beard. An extrovert who was always smiling Aaron enjoyed the company of his loved ones. He was an easy going, nonchalant kind of guy who rarely took things seriously. But this day would turn out to be one of those rare moments.  

They were brothers who had nothing in common but the DNA of the man who owned the distinction of being the last African American lynched on Mississippi soil–Mr. Samson Green. A man who’s blood, the same blood that pumped through the brother’s veins, soaked the soil and splattered the leaves of the Old Man. A man who’s mutilated, burnt body swung from a bough of the Old Man until the bough broke, and who’s offspring, one hundred years later, sat in remembrance of him in the very same spot that his body fell.  

This was their monthly meeting place. A place where their father brought them when they were young boys. A place where they continued to meet every first Sunday afternoon of the month even after they were grown with families of their own. They had an obligation to themselves and to the future of their family to never let them forget. To pass on their time honored tradition of remembrance to their children as their father did for them, and his father did for him. A tradition that stretched back to the day after Grandfather Samson’s battered body was laid to rest.  

On this particular Sunday the brothers had left their families behind, they were alone on this day of remembrance, sitting directley underneath the stump of the broken branch that snapped from the weight of their town’s shame.  

Gerald sat on the dried-out grass leaning against the Old Man next to his brother, the hard bark digging into both of their backs. The tree canopy filtered the sunlight shielding their already sun kissed skin from the intense rays of the sun. The mood was solemn like it was every time they met in front of the Old Man. Gerald stood up, and looked down the hill at his hometown. The place where most of he family and friends were, the town that he loved that had been his home for his entire life. He stared down at the buildings, Mr. Bill’s old barbershop where he had been getting his haircut since the age of five. His eyes moved up and down the small residential streets like Olive Grove Street, the alleyway behind the little red school house where he got his first kiss from Rhonda, he stared at all the wide avenues, and homes where generations of town folk lived and died oblivious to the spilled blood, that some people say, gave that Mississippi dirt its red tinge. Gerald raised his can of Bud to the heavens and began to speak, “this is for our Granddad Samson,” He poured a little of his beer into the red Mississippi soil, ran his hand across the sheen of sweat that covered his bald head, turned his back on the town and continued, “Grandad, me and Aaron are here today like we are every month to honor your memory as well as all the other black folk who were tortured and murdered because of the color of their skin. We stand at the spot where you breathed your last breath. We are the oral record keepers of what was done, we are here to give testimony to the universe, and to never forget what they did to you.  

“It’s been said that this hill was filled to capacity with spectators, women, men and children, all out to enjoy the festivities of a lynching. I can only imagine what went through your mind when you saw that huge crowd gathered to witness the devil’s work. I can only imagine how you felt, the paralyzing fear, the rage.” Gerald paused, sweat running down his hairless chest staining his tank top. He bent over plucked a dandelion, and stood back up twirling the weed in his hand before tossing it back to the ground. He continued, “You would think that out of the hundreds of people gathered someone would have as least an ounce of humanity to spare, that someone’s conscience would have pushed them to intervene in some form, that at the very least they would speak out against the very public spectacle of murder. But, naw, not a man woman or child said a word in your defense. Instead they looked on giddy with excitement when they pulled that noose over your head and hoisted you up like a sack of potatoes. They all just looked on as the rope snapped taut breaking your neck, and then they all just roared their approval as if the home team just scored the winning touchdown. Granddad you will not be forgotten, and what they did to you won’t be either. So every month as long as you have descendants walking this earth we will be here in remembrance of you.” We are you, so a part of you is still here and will continue to be through our children. May your soul rest easy.” Gerald took a sip of his beer before sitting back down in the grass.  

Aaron took a swallow of the beer he was holding and half heartedly repeated Gerald’s last statement. “May your soul rest easy granddad Samson.”  

The brothers sat in silence for a moment one in remembrance, the other trying to figure out the best way to inform his brother that this would be the last time he would be participating in this family tradition. For the past few years Aaron found it harder and harder to make this trip. For him the past was like a pair of cement shoes he was forced to swim in. Aaron had been feeling like he was drowning, swallowed in a whirlpool of the past and as long as he was reminded of it, the longer he would be inhaling water–Aaron needed to breathe. He felt like it was more to life than this rabbit hole of racial angst his family had been stuck in. He remembered fondly of the time when he and Gerald would imagine the day they wouldn’t have to visit the Old Man. But now it seemed as if Gerald had forgotten about those days, now it seemed as if Gerald was all in, that he was good in his role as the maintainer of the family tradition. But, Aaron, was ready to leave the past where it belonged–in the pages of a history book. So today, he decided, would be the last day that he came and stood before the Old Man in remembrance of some long ago dead relative.  

The wheels in Aaron’s mind slowly turned. He stroked his beard, and after a moment he turned to his brother and said, “Yo, I was watching BET, The Roland Martin Show, and they was talking about reparations. You know what’s hard for me to get? Why can’t we see that this whole idea of reparations reinforces the perception that black people are lazy and we’re always looking for a handout.” Aaron figured the best way to break the news was to use a conversation about race as a trojan horse. He took a sip of beer and waited for Gerald to take the bait.  

Gerald turned to his left and looked into his brother’s brown eyes. Deep wrinkles creased his brow. Suddenly his face relaxed and he let out a rare chuckle displaying a small gap between his front two teeth. “As soon as I heard the sound rep… come out of your mouth I knew you was finnin to say some coon shit.” Gerald shifted positions to relieve the feel of the Old Man’s skin digging into his back.  

“Damn, bro, really? I’m a coon now ’cause I see things a little differently? I’ma need you to qualify that.”  

“Qualify? I ain’t got to qualify shit. You know what? Lately you been on some bullshit. I mean, you been questioning a lot of the things that we’ve learned over the years, and this reparations thing is the latest iteration of it. You know what, though, your problem is, you’re letting other people’s perceptions determine your opinion on something.” Gerald’s hand skimmed the dry grass. “Your whole reasoning for being against reparations was that it reinforces a perception that people have. First of all the people who believe those stereotypes about black people will believe them no matter what, so fuck what those people think!” His hand stopped skimming, he snatched a handful of grass and tossed it in the air.  

“Naw, bro, you got it wrong. That was just a reaction to the show, I got other reasons why I don’t think reparations are a good idea. Namely, we just don’t need no more handouts. Bro, this is the greatest country in the world, with hard work you can achieve anything, name another place on the planet where white folks are in power and someone who looks like you or I can still become a president. Furthermore whenever people talk about slavery they always act as if it started and ended with America’s participation in it. It’s like there’s this massive historical amnesia. Bro, the European trade in slavery began right at the start of European relations with Africa. The Islamic traders and civilizations of Northern and Western Africa had a booming traffic in slavery as they marched slaves across the Sahara to regions east. When the Portuguese forged contacts with the Islamic…”  

“Yo,” Gerald interrupted his brother. His hands on both sides of his head as if it was about to blow up and his hands were the only thing keeping his head from exploding. “Is you gonna let me respond, you starting to lecture. I’ma have to take notes to respond to all this shit.”  

“Alright, alright, let me finish this thought, though, where was I?”  

“You was talking about the Portuguese forging contacts with the Islamic countries.”  

“Oh, yeah, that’s right, so when the Portuguese forged these contacts with the North African traders and the Islamic countries they were then able to extend their trade in human flesh in a southern direction down the west coast of Africa. I’m saying this to say that it was the Muslims who began and were knee deep in the enslavement of our people way before the European.  

“The Declaration Of Independence was signed in 1776 to establish the United States Of America. The Thirteenth Amendment was ratified in 1865, it took America 89 years to abolish the slave trade that had been thriving in Africa by the Africans and Arabs for centuries. In less than one hundred years slavery was abolished and it cost this country 135,000 battle deaths to secure it. I would say, that was reparations enough.”  

“Bro, are you serious right now? or are you just trying to get me in a fucking debate. Alright, you know what, let’s get it, you wanna debate now you gonna get one.” Gerald stood, kicking up a cloud of dust. He brushed the dust from his blue jeans. He began to pace under the shade of the Old Man. He paused and looked at Aaron. “So are you making the argument that European slavery was minor in comparison to Arab enslavement of our ancestors? Are you seriously making a comparison? Does it even matter? Are you saying because the Arabs were at it longer that should somehow negate a demand by the descendants of the enslaved Africans in America for reparations? One has absolutely nothing to do with the other.  

“Furthermore the European hand in the slave trade was more than just negligible, they were just as guilty if not even more so than any Arab or misguided African. You are so wrong in your understanding of history, you ain’t the only one though, first of all you said that slavery in the United States lasted for 89 years. Yeah, you right in a slick way, but I’m hip bro, you can’t trick me with semantics. The United States as a recognized sovereign nation was 89 years old when the 13th amendment was ratified, true. But, what we both know also to be true is that the colonies before their independence were active participants in the kidnapping of our ancestors since the 16th century when the those first European arrived in the so called “new world” it was then that the accountability clock began to tick not some hundred years later in 1776. Then, you go on to mention the battle deaths of Union Soldiers as payment enough, that could be true in a world where the Civil war was a fought for moral reasons, but it wasn’t. But you know what lot of people have this bullshit version of American history and how it relates to black people. What we were taught in school about the Civil War was a white washed version. The most common distortion is the one that paints the Civil War as this moral crusade to end slavery.”  

“So, wait are you getting ready to say that it wasn’t?”  

“No doubt. See, its important to know that the Civil War was not a moral crusade to end slavery, but rather it was a war between two economic systems; a war for power and control of the United States between two factions of the ruling class one being the rich white northern industrialist, the other, rich white southern slave owners. The war was about a plantation slave economy vs. an industrial manufacturing one. The difference between these two factions were economical not moral. You know what, though, at the end of the day it’s entirely appropriate for the Federal Government to apologize and grant reparations to the descendants of enslaved Africans.”  

“But, how? How is that the case? The Feds ain’t own no slaves.” “  

“Yeah, but, the Feds were intimately involved in establishing and perpetuating slavery. It passed laws that furthered slavery like the Fugitive Slave Act, and the Missouri Compromise of 1850. There was also those United States Supreme Court rulings that bolstered slavery, Dred Scott, where one of the justices, I think his name was Hainey infamously said, ‘the Negro had no rights that the white man was bound to respect.’ The court also had that Plessy VS Ferguson ruling that established the Jim Crow South where separate and extremely unequal segregation laws ruled the South. “Bro, I think that we all suffer from this like…inherited trauma, it’s what I like to call a plantation psychosis.”  

“A plantation what?”  

“You heard me motherfucker. Plantation psychosis. Aaron, man, we fucked up as a people and its a direct result of slavery.”  

“Come on bro, not the slavery shit. That was hundreds of years ago. We got to stop using slavery as an excuse. I mean, Gee, it seem like, as a people we be so focused on the past that it turns to quicksand and we become stuck in it. Its time for us to move on, to leave all that slavery shit in the past. We got to stop blaming the white man for our issues. Its time for us to forge a path based on where we are in the 21st century and not on some centuries old fucked-up past.”  

“Yo, really, an excuse? leave the past behind? Are you serious, man? What the fuck is wrong with you? Where is all this weird shit coming from? Don’t you know ever since our ancestors left the plantation that’s what we’ve been doing, running from our past. Bro, they’ve lied to us about our history, they told us we were godless savages living in jungles eating one another. They told us we were worthless, that we never contributed anything to humanity. They told us that slavery/Christianity saved us from our savagery, and I think on some levels we believe ’em. Bro, we been ashamed of the lie that’s been our truth, and that shame has us avoiding the past like its the plague. We’ve compartmentalized the past, present, and the future which has caused us to become disconnected from the past. So we run around this motherfucker like an abused spouse blaming themselves for the foot in their ass.”  

“Come on, man, that shit don’t make no sense.”  

“But it do, bro, think about it…when we look at our issues as a people we never look at it with a proper historical context. We always looking at problems in the moments they occur, and as a result of that we always just scratching the surface of shit, we never get to the root of anything and so we always stop at ourselves, as if we’re the source of what’s wrong–its my fault, I shouldn’t have provoked the ass whupping–the abused blaming themselves for their abuse. But we ain’t the source man. The source is in our past. You see, history is tied to us like an invisible umbilical cord. Its the blood that pumps through the artery of life. History ain’t static, once it passes, that’s that, and we’re then forever separate from it. Our past remains an active part of our lives dictating the choices we make in the present which in turn shapes our future. You know how brutal life was for our ancestors on those plantations, but now you act like you don’t know. Both of us learned how the least little thing on the plantation could lead to a brutal beating or even death. So I really can’t understand why you would say some shit like, ‘we got to stop blaming white folks for our shit.’ Bro, you got to know that it ain’t about blaming nobody, its just that the root of most of our dysfunction is from a past chained and shackled to a system of race based chattel slavery.  

“You know what, though, I just finished memorizing this passage from Frederick Douglass’s Autobiography where he describes the very slim margin of error our ancestors had to live with.”  

“I take it you getting ready to recite it now.” Aaron said rolling his eyes.” As if whatever Frederick Douglass had to say a hundred years ago gonna have any bearing on this conversation.”  

“Shit, I feel like I got to recite it listening to all this crazy shit you talking. Maybe some words from Frederick Douglas can help you climb out of that fog of confusion that you in. So, according to Mr. Douglass, and I quote, ‘the occasions to whip one of the enslaved consisted of: a mere look, word, or motion, a mistake, accident or want of power. Does a slave look dissatisfied? It is said that he has the devil in him and it must whipped out. Does he speak loudly when spoken to by his master? Then it is said that he is high minded, and should be taken down a botton-hole lower. Does he forget to pull off his hat at the approach of a white person? Then he is wanting in reverence, and should be whipped for it. Does he venture to vindicate his conduct when censured for it? Then he is guilty of impudence—one of the greatest crimes in which a slave can be guilty. Does he venture to suggest a different mode of doing things from that pointed out by his master? He is indeed presumptuous and careless, and getting above himself, and nothing less than a flogging will do for him. Does he, while ploughing break a plough—or while hoeing break a hoe? It is owing to his carelessness, and for it a slave must he whipped.’  

“Yo bro, how the fuck do you be remembering all that, and secondly what do any of that got to do with anything, we ain’t slaves no fucking more.”  

“What you mean, how I be remembering, its an obligation for me. Aaron, man, what’s up with you? Are you serious right now?  

” Yeah, I’m serious. I’m just tired of all this slave shit.”  

Gerald chuckled, “You know what’s crazy? You never hear a Jewish person say, they tired of all that Holocaust shit. Why is it so easy to hear a black person say stuff like that? I told you bro, we run from our past like its the plague.  

“Anyway the relevance of what Mr. Douglass described to our conversation is this: imagine living a life where everywhere you stepped there was an eggshell that you were forbidden to break at the cost of either your skin being whipped from your back or your life? Aaron, this shit altered how our ancestors behaved. So they had to develop behaviors that governed everything that they did, from what they ate, to how they acted amongst themselves, and how they interacted with their enslavers. They had to do this shit in order to survive, and more often than not even those measures weren’t enough to keep them safe. I mean, what you think, once slavery ended that our ancestors just put those survival mechanisms to the side. Fuck no, that shit was passed on from generation to the next. All of this brings to mind a movie I just saw, I think it was called, All Day And One Night, one of the characters said something that stuck with me and it just so happens to be germane to this conversation, anyway the character said, ‘slavery taught us how to survive and not how to live.’  

“Problem is we ain’t on the plantation no more, and we still surviving like we are, cause we ain’t learned how to live like we ain’t yet.”  

“But, bro, we the trend setters for the world. Everybody on the planet is copping our swag.”  

“Yeah, bro, everybody want to he black, but don’t nobody want to be black. Aaron none of that shit means we living. We still surviving man. We live in a society divided up into these artificial racial constructs designed to ease the guilt of a cognitive dissonance created by a belief in freedom and the contradictory actions of enslaving people. America got the whole world fooled with this bullshit melting pot fantasy, when we all know that there’s a deep racial divide in this country where the color of your skin determines your place. Where the people who identify with the color of black have been conditioned with this esteem devouring, anti-black inferiority complex and at the same time the folks who identify with the color white are pumped full of this blinding privilege that causes them to see their whiteness as synonymous with humanity.”  

“Goddamn, bro, you got the nerve to say I’m lecturing. You been going hard in the paint for ten minutes now.”  

“Man shut up, You need to listen when I drop these jewels. You see, that’s your problem, all the years Dad was teaching us this stuff, its obvious now, you wasn’t listening. But you know what, you right, let me finish this last train of thought, then I’m done. So, last thing, why you think they snatched Granddad Samson from his home, kidnapped him, beat him senseless in front of his wife and kids, and then dragged him to the edge of town and up this fucking hill.” Gerald paused and pointed down the hill that led to the Old Man. A vision filled his mind of that long ago day. The hill and the land surrounding it was transformed. It became filled with a thousand smiling faces looking up at the Old Man, all of them white. Gerald shook his head clearing the vision away. He continued, “Why do you think they shot him full of holes, and then set him on fire? why do you think they cut his genitals off, put them in pickle jars and sold ’em as souvenirs? They tortured him like that because he committed the capital crime of being black in America, something that they’re still condemning us for, a charge that there is no defense for, it is an accusation and a confession at the same time. Aaron, Granddad Samson didn’t have a chance. He wasn’t white therefore his life had as much value as a roach. His humanity was forfeited by his blackness. We’re standing underneath what’s left of the branch that they used to hang Granddad Samson from, because he dared to look a white man in the eye. The fact that we’ve been meeting beneath the Old Man for our entire lives ain’t just about remembrance, its also about being mindful that we live in a highly flawed society that will continue to chew black folk up and spit us out if the tragic history of this country ain’t properly confronted and addressed. And to bring this conversation full circle, this is what reparations is about. Its about acknowledging and rectifying a terrible crime that all of us, black and white are still affected by.” Gerald stopped pacing beneath the Old Man and looked at his brother.  

Aaron held his gaze for a moment before dropping his head towards the ground. “I’m just tired man, I’m tired of thinking about this shit all the time. It feels like I’m in a prison that there ain’t no escape from. I just want to be free from it. I don’t want to feel the weight of this shit no more.”  

Tears welled up in Aaron’s eyes threatening to break free. Yo, man, I think I’ma chill from coming to the Old Man for awhile.” Gerald simply nodded, he knew the feeling that his brother was describing all to well. It was something that he struggled with. He also knew that his brother needed some time, and if that’s what Aaron needed that’s what Gerald would give him.  

“I just need a break from this.”  

“Ay, man, whatever you need, I can hold this down. Yo, is you still gonna let your kids come?”  

“Yeah, if they want to come, I ain’t gonna force ’em though. Look, man, I ain’t saying I ain’t never gonna come back. Its just right now, I can’t.”  

“Yo, its cool man, take all the time you need. Like I said I got it. I’m here every month ’til the day I die. I’m alright with it.” The brothers lapsed into silence. Gerald slid across the dry grass, reached out and put his arm across his brother’s shoulders. “I love you man.”  

“I love you too.”  

As the sun faded into the bleeding tinge of the western horizon the brothers were quiet, both thinking about why they were sitting beneath the Old Man. Aaron thought about what it would feel like to not be burdened by his blackness, he yearned to know what freedom felt like, to wake up everyday without his generous amounts of melanin being something he had to be conscious of. He wanted to wake up and not feel like his skin was the stone walls and iron bars of a perpetual prison. While on the other hand Gerald hoped that Aaron would be back by his side beneath the Old Man. He hoped that his younger brother had within him a reservoir of strength that he could tap into to help him shoulder what Aaron perceived to be, the burden of his blackness. He also hoped that Granddad Samson could see him from the place where the oppressed go when they die so that he could bear witness that there would always be at least one that had not forgotten him, and there would always be at least one that never would.