Caution: This story is involves explicit violence, cruelty, torture, blood and suicide. I originaly quit writing it because it was too much. Time and the times have revived it but if those things are triggering for you do not read this.

The lynching tree is the oldest living thing on our farm. It was here when the first white men came and it’s still here and growing. I guess the black folks around here have always called it that. Back when I was in elementary school Reverend Amos James began calling for the tree to be destroyed as “a symbol of white oppression.” That’s when everyone started calling it the lynching tree. Before that we just called it the big oak.

That’s when my dad did a smart thing. He invited some other black preachers and the county historical society officers to the farm. Mom served iced tea and little sandwiches to them on the picnic table under the old oak tree. The tree guy from the university talked about how old it was and how much longer it could live.

Then dad talked. He talked about how a farmer has a duty to the land; to preserve it for future generations while taking a living from it. he said that he wouldn’t allow anyone to cut down the tree because that would be a dereliction of his duty. Then he said that He didn’t think grandpa ever knew about this part of the history of the land he bought in nineteen-seventy two, that he would have been as saddened and angry about it as he was, even if that probably wasn’t as saddened and angry as the descendants of the hanged men.

Then he turned toward the historical society people and said that he would like a historical marker like the ones at other places in the county at the road where it passed the oak to commemorate the lynching victims. you could tell they didn’t like the idea. They said that it would make the county look bad; that it would just stir up old resentments. Dad offered the first one hundred dollars for the marker and those preachers fell over one another pledging support from their churches. In the end the historical society people decided that it was better to have a plain official marker rather than one dedicated by the black citizens of the county as a couple of the preachers proposed.

It took a while but eventually a granite post with a bronze plaque appeared on the edge of the road right of way. It said:

In memory of the black men lynched on this tree
in 1831 Jonas for attempted escape and striking an overseer
In 1840 brothers Servius and Publius for possessing abolitionist tracts
In 1931 James Rupert Willers for trying to organize a tenant farmers union

The historical society people didn’t want the word black included but dad and the preachers were paying and they won.

Before that we used to sit in the shade at that table for lunch when we were picking peaches and the big oak was a favorite place for us kids to play. Now that just doesn’t seem right. The table is on the other side of the orchard. The younger kids dare each other to touch the tree but no one plays there. My friend Gary, who’s mostly Cherokee, says that his Grandfather always called it the spirit tree. He thinks we’ve all just become more sensitive to what was always there.

I think I was more aware of it myself because I almost died at the base of the tree when I was five. I snuck away from my big brother Zack who was supposed to be watching me because I wanted to climb all the way to the top of the tree. Mom wouldn’t let me climb very high at all. When I fell, I got stabbed by a lower branch before it broke off. I lost a lot of blood before Zack found me and ran to the house for help. We have a picture that shows my blood all over the base of tree and the roots.

Last week I learned just how connected I am to the tree by that blood. I was awakened by that connection when the tree was once again a place of death. I was still myself lying in my bed, but also somehow the tree, the four men who had been lynched and a new hanging victim.

As Jonas, I remembered striking down the overseer, Caleb, with my hoe when he was dragging Eliza to his cabin. I remembered running and being caught. I could feel the whip tearing the flesh from my body until I passed out and the rope was moved to my neck. As the tree, I felt the blood and shreds of flesh striking my bark. As myself it felt like they were were hitting my naked face and body. I felt my death as the noose tightened.

As Publius, I watched my brother being beaten with clubs and whipped until I told them where we got the pamphlets. I shouted it out, hoping that someone would hear and warn the underground railroad that that cave was no longer safe. Then it was my turn.

Once again, the blood was dripping down on the tree’s roots. I felt it puddling around my feet. As Servius, I saw my brother stop kicking before they pulled me off my feet. In my bed I felt the slow choking deaths.

As James Willers, I had fought the klansmen in their white robes as best I could but there were too many of them. I took some fleeting satisfaction in bloodying some of those robes, but then they had me down and were ripping off my clothes. The hot tar burned both me and the feathers. I cursed them as they put the noose around my neck until something hard smashed my mouth. Blood and teeth spattered the tree before I was stood up in the back of the truck that suddenly pulled away. In my bed I felt the hard pebbles of enamel striking me amid the spray of blood. At least that death was faster as my neck broke when I dropped.

At the same time; I was Denise, a trans girl who used to be Darius Glowers. I had begun transitioning six months ago but now my doctor has told me that he may no longer be able to prescribe blockers and estrogen. The executive orders that Donald Trump has promised will make it illegal. If I live, I will have a male puberty. Instead I choose to die on the tree where my great-great great grandfather died. I jumped from the tree but didn’t break my neck. I could feel my heels striking the tree. and the tree being struck. As I choked, instinctively I tried to grasp the rope but in the end I felt a final gasping death.

I was suddenly released from the connection with the tree and the dead. It was over. I screamed as I was barely able to get my head over the side of the bed before I vomited for what seemed like forever. I was being racked painfully by dry heaves while trying to wipe the gore that wasn’t there off my face when my parents burst into my room. As soon as I tried to answer their questions, I realized that Denise was still hanging from the lynching tree. I knew it was too late; I had felt her die, but I still grabbed my jeans and was out the door while somehow getting across to dad that he needed to come too. I ran as fast as I could, leaving dad behind until he caught up as I crumpled under the tree and cried.

Eventually, dad fetched one of the ladders we used for fruit picking to let her down. We laid her on the ground. I removed the rope and straightened her dress. I found my comb in my pocket and tried to fix her hair where the noose and her struggles had tangled it. The cops were mad about that but I didn’t care.

Denise’s funeral ended a couple of hours ago. Their Baptist preacher wanted to bury her as a boy but her parents found another preacher. Dad and I have just finished driving a wolmanized post into the ground in front of the lynching tree. I’m screwing on the bronze plate I engraved with a rotary tool.
It says:
In memory of Denise Rose Glowers July 17 2008-- Jan 22 2025 dead on this tree by executive order of Donald Trump.