the bare trees
& life goes on & we appreciate the beauty that surrounds us & the elusive american dream
The trees stretch their bare limbs across the sky, while my arms stay motionless and my eyes observe what engulfs my vision. The scene reminds me of the days I would run to the bus stop on below-freezing days in Brooklyn Park, Minnesota, where snow would once lie down and rest for slumber on branches like a winter wonderland.
My senses sharpen as I try to recognize what has changed since I last sought refuge in this town, in my neighborhood next to Highway 252. A forced refuge—a privileged one, nevertheless. I am one who desires to find home somewhere that is not the home I have unwillingly lived in for a little over two decades. But then again, who chooses their home for the first two decades of their life? The trees embrace me, but I don’t cherish this refuge. I’d rather be elsewhere, not the where that is at home with my parents. My footsteps leave marks on the path of missteps as I struggle to connect with them and try to deconstruct our complex relationship: two Togolese parents with a restricted understanding of their “Westernized” daughter—a third-culture kid. A unique positionality that gives me access to certain rooms, rooms that my parents cannot enter, but want me to set foot in as they get to lick the perspiration of the American Dream that is me. A concept that traps many immigrants, thirsting for a better life with limited upward mobility.
Branches and all, trunk and all, bark in all. Throughout the years, I witnessed the trees that once populated my neighborhood fall, through violence, through force, through the teeth of a chainsaw, anatomizing their lifeless limbs into smaller, unrecognizable pieces, like a butcher cutting the flesh from the carcass of an animal. Maybe the trees were dead, or maybe the trees were considered a nuisance as they were stationed in someone’s backyard, a confinement that symbolizes private property—a core component of achieving the American Dream. The trees remind me of the importance of coming back: they stay until their time has come to an end, usually dictated by someone who is not them. They stay rooted, they stay in their community, and they build a network among their fellow trees, nurtured by the soil, or what we improperly call dirt, through the foundations established by their entangled roots.
The trees greet me with a dance as the wind moves through all aspects of them, with their branches swaying to maintain stability through their trunks. I hope for the sensation of stability to ground me while I am at home, as I lift my arms to embrace the air and the memories that flood through my blood, propelling me into a movement that cradles the energy source we call life—to feel the life, to be the life, to embody the life with all of its sorrow and joy, and to experience gratitude for my parents’ sacrifices for me and my sister.
My parents embody the life of trees, committed to rooting themselves in an unfamiliar place. Some might scapegoat them as an invasive species. They planted themselves here, in what they believed to be fertile soil, to bear the fruits of what was echoed to them from afar—from TV screens and radios to magazines and newspapers. All in the hopes of grasping the elusive American Dream, a notion that can’t be plucked from a tree like a saccharine Honeycrisp apple. Native to the distinct terrain of West Africa, they plopped their seedlings first in St. Louis Park, Minnesota, and now in Brooklyn Park, Minnesota. They struggle, but they remind me that they are always growing (even if only by centimeters) and need to be tended to, watered, and given a nice sunbath. Their durable branches reach long and tall to grasp what surrounds them in hopes of empowering their community (especially their community back home in Togo and parts of Ghana) and fostering their individuality. Their branches stretch to touch the motherland of Togo as they wave their mighty twigs in the sky to catch any remnants of the American Dream.
I remember the time I traveled to Stockholm and asked a Chilean immigrant about his experience there. One thing he mentioned was that the winters were difficult for him. The deep, dark, shivering nights of hibernation ached, reminding him of his existence, moving cautiously and slowly through the dormant months. As April approaches (just a door away on March 31st), we emerge from hibernation (even though it snowed on Sunday—wtf Minnesota?!), and this process should be embraced. May we bear the fruit of our plantings in the summer and fall months as we strive to flourish. We are waking from our cold slumber, and I hope my parents grow their branches longer and stronger. The trees during the sleepy months remind me to appreciate the state of bareness, stripping down to be my authentic self before (and as, and after) a growth spurt arrives. I hope the leaves that will bud this spring are a vibrant green. I am excited to blossom with the foliage of the trees that will surround me on my walks and bike rides around my neighborhood.
Now, I ask myself: What do I want from a home? Where do I want home to be? I figure that out one day at a time. Just know that
*quack quack* thanks for reading,
greko feko who is sometimes a bezzeko (or sometimes a bazzeko…depending on how i remember to spell my last name)
Loved this thanks for sharing grace!
This is a lovely metaphor <3