Driving along the Trail of Tears feels different when you know what you’re following. The road itself is just pavement, worn by tires and time, but the air seems heavier when you connect it to the silent procession that once passed along the same path. The markers appear quietly — small signs tucked along the roadside, sometimes half-hidden in brush, yet unmistakable once you start to notice them.
I found myself noticing those markers more and more today, each one a reminder that this was not just a road but a scar, carved across the land by suffering and injustice. Growing up in southwest Missouri, I’ve spent plenty of time wandering these roads, drifting through the hills and hollers of Missouri, Arkansas, and Oklahoma without always giving much thought to their deeper stories. But paying attention changes things.
The Trail of Tears isn’t a distant event locked in a textbook; it’s part of the landscape, winding through familiar towns and forgotten corners alike. In a way, it’s easy to forget — the way tragedy can sometimes be buried beneath convenience and progress — but the reminders are there if you’re willing to see them. A mile marker. A signpost. A quiet memorial standing alone in a field.
It’s important to remember, to honor, and to explore that history — not just because it happened, but because it’s still happening in the lives of those descended from those who walked this trail. The grief, the resilience, and the strength of the Cherokee, the Muscogee, the Chickasaw, the Choctaw, and the Seminole are woven into the fabric of this land. Forgetting that would be a second injustice.
Today’s drive reminded me that history isn’t always confined to museums and textbooks. Sometimes, it’s waiting just past the curve in the road — all you have to do is look.