American Dogwood

It’s hard to notice a tree, especially a relatively small, skinny one, in the dead of winter. With no leaves or flowers, you’re limited to bark, which often takes a more trained eye than mine to recognize. Spring has officially come in New York— first slowly, then all at once. And with it, a treasure unveiled itself in the tangle of bare branches that I had seen out my window for the past few months. The flowers of an American dogwood tree.

I was excited to see this not just because of its beauty, but because of its distinctly American beauty. The dogwood tree is native to the east coast of the U.S., stretching from southern Maine to northern Florida. The tree thrives in shady spots with dappled light. In some settings that is the edge of a forest or along the banks of a creek, evidently in New York it is nestled in the courtyard behind two brownstones.

Surrounded by city now, this same tree (or rather its ancestors) would have been seen on the island of Manhattan thousands of years ago. Its bark was used by Native Americans for medicinal purposes and once its flowers bloomed, it signaled that it was time to begin planting crops.

The dogwood is such an iconic American beauty that it was selected in 1915 to be the U.S.’s reciprocal gift to Japan in a ceremonial exchange of flowers. Three years prior in 1912, Japan had gifted the U.S. 3,000 cherry blossom trees, which were planted in the tidal basin of Washington, D.C. These trees thrived and have since become a symbol of our nation’s capital. The dogwoods, however, did not acclimate so well to the Japanese environment and none of the original trees still stand. In 2012, 100 years after the first cherry blossoms were planted in D.C., the U.S. announced a gift of 3,000 additional American dogwoods to be sent to Japan. These trees still stand in Tokyo and parks throughout Japan.

Just as the cherry blossoms draw in thousands of spectators to Washington, D.C. each spring, I would love to see tree-lined streets of dogwoods and crowds of people celebrating them. Each time I see one, whether in a backyard or along a riverbank, it is a reminder of the inherent beauty of the American forest and how it has adapted in the modern world.