Starkansas

When we passed the Mississippi River, I started to feel really uneasy, and to put it kindly utterly depressed. I can’t describe how I knew what was coming to me, or what I knew I was going to, but it was filled with overwhelming sadness.

While driving on the highway, we stopped while a train intersected the route, dragging along an endless string of rusted, empty cars. It was spectacularly hideous in the glare of sunlight; its velocity headed directly into the flat line of the horizon. Very suddenly, I felt something terrible. I couldn’t even conceive the magnitude of empathy I was going to feel as we finally made our way into the new state.

Never having been west of the Mississippi, I had zero expectations about middle America. What I did learn though, was that I could never ever imagine living off of that highway. The trees looked mangled, the ground was compartmentalized into shallow pools of water and field. I cried my eyes out at how unnatural it looked. It was as if I could smell the pesticides and manure from the car with my heart. The earth was crying with me. I could feel the pain of a thousand genes. I think it was all of the evil humanity had manifested showing itself, and the affects of raping the agricultural lifestyle were apparent in the poisoned soil. suddenly I was cognizant of my life quality back at home, and all of the lucky things I inherited with it.

Later on, when we finally reached Oklahoma, I learned learned that we had been driving parallel, if not, directly on the real trail of tears; during this historical incident, native Americans were forced to emigrate to the desolate planes of the United States, to inland, landlocked reservations. The government forced the tribe out f their lush, green home lands on the eastern coast, into the barren, landscape of Oklahoma, through this foreign place called Arkansas. Many native Americans suffered and died, or were otherwise unsaved. However, even as the forefathers of America, native Americans were treated unfairly as being unwanted residents in a new white world. Being 1/8th Cherokee American Indian, it doesn’t surprise me that I was so afflicted by the ugly panorama of Arkansas. It represented American abuse on the earths soil through the loving art of agriculture. The ground, even from within the car, felt like a clogged artery of polluted water and soil. It was ready to burst and die.

So far, that hour in Arkansas has truly been the worst experience in my lifetime, aside from the later experience I had in Texas.
The reality of how humanity hurts with something so vital is overwhelming and sad. I can still hardly express myself

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