The Palm Tree

Southern California is famous for its Palm trees. Influencers head to Slauson Ave to take pictures with blue skies and tall, skinny palm tree backdrops. 

We’d drive down that street to get my Grandma’s hair done at LaVone’s. Then we’d drive back home to the top of the hill in Pacoima which was also lined with palm trees. We had top-of-the-hill perks: 4th of July firework views from the driveway, an uncle who was shot and killed down the street, along with the most colorful sunsets. 

We traveled the entire south of the United States and nowhere had palm trees like Southern California.

LA meant water, 

LA meant home, 

LA meant roots,

LA meant surviving any storm. 

When you grow up in Southern California, you have your first Corona on the beach with your older brother while palm trees line the Malibu landscape.

When you grow up in Southern California, the oil rigs blend in with palm trees in Long Beach as you’re driving down the 405 freeway. 

I moved to Florida and the palm trees were different. 

Here,

I ate Venezuelan arepas from food trucks,  

cried under Disney fireworks with friends turned family, 

kissed a Cuban who only ate his momma’s cooking, 

learned the difference between west coast and southern racism, 

drank rum with a curly-haired Jamaican whose first gen family owned a laundry mat. 

These specific palm trees were not home but made this Black girl feel invincible. They made me feel seen and warm and kept the homesickness at bay. 

They reminded me:

To hold my head high, especially because my curly afro made it hard to hide.

To walk tall with my shoulders back and jaw relaxed. To give them something to look at. 

To stay grounded and always keep a warm spirit because even though these palm trees were different, they still knew

how to survive any storm. 

I moved to Georgia and there are no palm trees. 

There are blue mountains that go on as far as the eye can see, sweet water creeks, and singing waterfalls. 

But no palm trees. 

Until what do you know, Ifa found me in Stone Mountain.

In a spacious living room,

teachers and students,

magic and prayers,

feathers and family dinner, 

bloodlines ready for war. 

Ifapelumi - Ifa is with me

Ifa is the palm tree, 

Ifa is the leaves 

Ifa is the palm oil

Ifa is the coconut divination 

Ifa is the math

Ifa is the palm tree and the life force. 

Ifa took me to Osogbo, Nigeria, where I saw more palm trees that were lush, wild, and open. 

These palm trees were different but knew me by my walk. 

They noticed my posture, they noticed my hair. I kneeled in their presence and they showed me their secrets.

I offered them my crown in deep gratitude for allowing me to finally understand the meaning of home.

The palm tree made foreign soil feel like home. 

The palm tree reminded me home was always with me. 

It taught me poise. It made a hard, lonely job across the country and away from family worth it. It taught me death may come, but joy comes with the mourning. The palm tree taught me no matter where I go, whether in spirit or in the soil, I am never alone. I have warriors standing tall with me, ready to survive any storm and weapon that may form. 

I am grateful for the palm tree.

The palm tree is home.