A Texan’s reckoning with her relationship to the land she once claimed as her own.
Warm humid air rushes through my face and hair as my father drives his pick-up down a winding ranch to market road in central Texas. I admire the gnarly, verdant oaks trees prominent in the area. A strip of land had ripped out all of the cedar trees that strangle the fauna, leaving the tall golden grass and oak trees to tower over the land. My father looks over at me and smiles softly, without teeth like always.
“You know, before all these cedar trees came to North America, Texas looked like that — tall grass, gorgeous oaks. That’s the way it should be.”
Cedar is a pernicious plant. Sharp needles and sticky sap make it an unpleasant neighbor, and it drains more water than its share from the surrounding greenery. In late fall, cedar season begins. Cedar pollen rains through central Texas, causing “cedar fever”, a local term for the incessant coughing, sneezing, and congestion. The inflammation from the immune response even causes genuine fever in some folks. Even as contemporary ecologists attempt to convince residents of the cedar’s merits, locals disdain the tree. I can recall my parents considering putting an offer on a house but reluctant to purchase a property “without any trees, just a few scrawny cedars.”
I sit under the shade of a gorgeous live oak. Wind flutters through the leaves and I ponder my father’s words: That’s the way it should be. Cedar trees came here uninvited, pushed out the locals, and sucked resources straight out of the ground. My ancestors did the same.
As a child my grandmother told us stories about our ancestors — one of the “Original 300” settlers who came with Stephen F. Austin to settle Texas. How brave they must have been. How they must have fought off Comanches and worked the land and believed in a vision for a new world and a new life for their children. I was thrilled to a carry a piece of history with me, and proudly told the story in my seventh grade Texas History class. My ancestors were in our textbook after all.
College came as a time of reckoning for myself and my privileges. I was a the daughter and granddaughter and great granddaughter of old Austin democrats — fiercely protective of the working class, education, and access to health care. How could I have any part of white supremacy? That all seemed so far away.
But white supremacy is so engrained in our culture that just existing allows it to infect your heart and mind. Why shouldn’t I be proud of my ancestors for colonizing this land? Why should I blame them for serving in the confederacy? They weren’t wealthy plantation owners, just men of their time, serving their state.
My stomach twists. I gag on the thought.
The University of Texas — still the shining beacon of the capital city — is covered with tall, strong oak trees, offering shade to students and faculty. Native succulents, shrubs, and flowers wind around campus, but you would be hard pressed to find cedars anywhere near the university. Who would want to sit under the shade of a prickly, sappy, colonizing plant, sucking the life from others.
I am a cedar tree. I smile, softly, without teeth, like my father. My ancestors came here uninvited: stole, fought, killed, raped, and enslaved. We’re still here: unapologetic, refusing to acknowledge the systemic violence and damage we committed to the people and ecosystem.
A wave of anger pushes through me. I want to take my seventh grade history book and rip out the pages one by one. Why did we spend chapter after chapter glorifying my ancestors and men like Austin and Houston when we could have been examining the rich history of diverse indigenous people? Why do I remember the Alamo so clearly but know so few BIPOC activists?
Yet the cedar trees remain intertwined with the oaks, unwilling to leave the land they have inhabited for so long. Self-reflection and education is a crucial part of the learning process for dismantling white supremacy and beginning anti-racist work. This piece isn’t to congratulate myself on the modicum of work I have done to examine my own complacency within systemic racism. I thank every BIPOC for their work both paid and unpaid in educating me — you are the oak trees, the jewels of this land.
