Root Of The Problem

They’d come.1

We’d watched them devastate others, and hoped for the best, that they would disregard us, that our small plot of land wasn’t worth anything to them, but they’d come. 2

Deep in my heart, revulsion welled up for the invaders that had destroyed everything I knew. I was angry at myself- why didn’t I do anything to stop them? – but I wasn’t naïve enough to fault myself for their actions. After all, they could’ve left us in peace. They could’ve kept their business elsewhere.3

But no. It did no good to think of what they could’ve done. It’s what they did do- execute almost everyone that I knew and leave their bodies on the ground to be hauled away later, leaving me standing more or less alone, with only a few neighbors standing nearby, looking lost by the churned-up earth and stickiness coating parts of the ground from the massacre. 4

Why here? Hadn’t they already leeched up enough land from all around my people? Hadn’t they already come and walked among us, amusing themselves? Were they suddenly tired of our presence, the amusement they may’ve gathered from us, and decided they wanted our land more than us? Were we already dead to them, before they even came with their knives and axes? We had always been 5

peaceable people, not acting out even as nearby clusters of our sister people were slaughtered. We’d hoped, as they fell, that if we stayed tranquil, neutral, nothing would happen. 6

As I stare at my mother, her noble magnificence wasted on a corpse, I remember one afternoon, years back at this very spot. A squirrel was trying to find more nuts in preparation for winter. It was sad to watch because it was obvious that its companions had taken all of his because he was weaker than them and didn’t have a mate to help him. My mother had winked at me and dropped a bunch of nuts, at least twenty, right in front of him. After he got over the shock of seeing them seemingly fall from no where, he’d gathered them all up happily and squirreled them away. That was the kind of person my mother had been- gentle, and kind, always finding a way to save some for him, every year. The squirrel had sort of become a family friend. And now, he wouldn’t ever come back, scared off by these evil ones’ loud, violent ways and cacophonous voices that were nothing like the slow, stately customs and elegant, subtle language of my people.7

I was getting cold. That never used to happen before- all of my people had held our arms around each other, intertwining so that no one was chilled. Sometimes, the closeness of everyone had annoyed me, but now, thinking of them, I want to weep. But instead, I stand here, rooted to the spot, everything seeming a nightmare as I watch, crying inside. 8

Their machines are here, puffing an evil reek into our clean air. The other survivors are too bewildered to do anything as the bodies of our beloved are gathered up to be chopped into bits and burned. Not one of our conquerors sheds a tear, several laughing and joking as they expertly feed the corpses in, the machine hungrily snatching them. I find myself wishing that they would all fall in and meet the same fate before I feel the chagrin that always accompanies such thoughts. My mother wouldn’t want that- she’d wanted me to love all, and forgive. But how do you forgive this, this violation, this desecration of everything you love, everything you care about? How do you forgive the murderers staring you in the face when they show no remorse and defile the remains of your family members?9

Soon, they’ll go back to their camps for the day, dust themselves off, and come back tomorrow and begin to build their own buildings, their statues, semi-permanently scarring everything, altering the landscape, obliterating any sign of our existence. The poor animals that we lived in harmony with will have no place to make dens now. Everything will be filled in, and soon enough there will be their women and children here as well, running about, squealing, completely oblivious to the actions of the people who built the place. And the whole time, I will stand here, unable to stop any of it. Useless. Worthless.10

The ribbon that they tied around me- the only thing that saved me from being slaughtered with the others- is itching and uncomfortable, but I do nothing to remove it. Why bother? My people suffered so much more than minor discomfort, so anything that they throw at me I can surely bear. 11

I hear one of their men curse as he slips on the stickiness on the ground, all that’s left of so many who were so kind, and I laugh to myself, sounding insane. I wish so much more on them. The man shivers a bit and looks spooked, but collects himself and heads back to his companions, mumbling about how slick the leaves on the ground are getting. Soon afterwards, they pack up and go, leaving their disturbingly bright machines behind, overly confident that we will not act against them as they sleep. As the sun diffidently rests its head, visiting the other lands and plunging us into darkness, I just as hesitantly sink into some sort of doze…12

~~~13

The next morning, they are back early, loud, with steaming containers of the meal they take in the morning. I collect my food from the ground and watch as they pull out plans, checking to see if everything they are planning to build will work with the diminutive amount of land they’ve stolen. I close my eyes and hum to myself as they pace everything out, measuring. I force myself to ignore them and sink, sink, sink again into oblivion.14

~~~15

Weeks pass, and they begin to build. I can’t stand it. Foundation is laid. 16

Months pass, and a skeleton of the structure rises from the foundation. It looks barren, and I cannot help but try to calculate how many of my kinsmen died to make it.17

Walls begin to appear, and the process seems to be speeding up now. It’s only a matter of time…18

I spend all of my free time amusing myself now, humming softly, and getting louder whenever one of them is within hearing to frighten them. They’ve taken to giving me uneasy glances. Just the other day I heard them speaking in furtive tones, saying that something is wrong with me and I should’ve been taken with the others. I welcome the opportunity. I would rather be dead than watch them any longer.19

~~~20

It’s nearly finished now. I see no point in its existence. Mine, either.21

~~~22

Something is wrong. A new man came today, pacing out the perimeter of the building, spending a lot of time looking at seemingly insignificant details. At one point, he gestures sharply over at me, barking something. The other men murmur something to him, and he laughs, shaking his head. He tells them something, and then stalks away. 23

The men watch him go, shaking their heads, and one of them goes to rummage in a machine. He brings out another machine, one with many knives attached to it… like the one that murdered my mother. 24

“It’s ridiculous,” he says to some of his friends, revving the thing up. “We’ve already taken so many down- why another? That idiot can give up one parking space for a tree, can’t he?”25

“That’s what H-E-B does, and they have a bird problem,” says another over the noise. “Do you want grackles roosting above your car?” others snicker.26

The first man shakes his head and comes over to me, sighing. I tremble, fear seizing me. I want to die, don’t I? Am I ready?27

“Sorry,” the man apologizes as the knives bite into me, spewing my flesh everywhere. I’m possessed by fear, but I can’t help myself, no matter how much I suddenly want to live. After all, I’m only a pointless, worthless tree.28