A walk through 1921, and what came before, and after.

The caduceus — two snakes, winged staff — belonged to Hermes, messenger of the gods and patron of commerce, travelers, heralds, thieves, and tricksters. It has no ancient association with healing. Its adoption in American medicine is the result of a documented 1902 clerical error that was never corrected.

In Roman military tradition, the caduceus designated noncombatants on a battlefield — its later rationale for military medical use. Merchant vessels flew it to signal peaceful commercial intent. It was patron of eloquence, alchemy, and — notably — lying and deception. Scholar Stuart L. Tyson wrote in 1932 that the caduceus would be more fitting on 'a hearse than on a physician's car' and would better suit 'Congressmen, all medical quacks, book agents and purveyors of vacuum cleaners, rather than the straight-thinking, straight-speaking therapeutist.' (The Scientific Monthly, Vol. 34, No. 6, 1932.)

The Rod of Asclepius — a single serpent coiled around a plain wooden staff — has represented medicine and healing since at least 800 BCE. It is the authentic symbol of the medical arts, used today by the WHO, the AMA, the Air Force Medical Service, and the New England Journal of Medicine.

Asclepius, son of Apollo in Greek mythology, was the god of medicine. According to myth, Zeus killed him by thunderbolt because his healing had become so effective it disrupted the balance between the living and the dead — a mythological acknowledgment that medicine is an act of defiance against mortality. The serpent on his staff symbolized regeneration (skin-shedding), wisdom, and renewal. The Hippocratic Oath begins: 'I swear by Apollo the Healer and by Asclepius...' By the 5th century BCE, the cult of Asclepius had spread throughout Greece. The sanctuary at Epidaurus — constructed around 380 BCE — was the foremost healing center in the ancient world, where patients underwent temple incubation (sleeping overnight for divine healing visions) among live Aesculapian snakes. In 293 BCE, during a Roman epidemic, the Roman Senate transported a sacred snake from Epidaurus to Rome, establishing an Asclepion on Tiber Island. Three large marble inscriptions from Epidaurus (c. 350 BCE) record approximately 70 patients by name, complaint, and treatment — the oldest surviving clinical records in Western history.

At the turn of the 20th century, American medicine had no federal licensing standard and almost no liability for quack treatments — radium baths, cocaine tonics, arsenic pills. This created an environment where a Black physician like A.C. Jackson could build a national reputation on surgical results alone.

The Pure Food and Drug Act was not passed until 1906, and enforcement remained thin for decades. Physicians operated under state boards of wildly variable rigor. For Black doctors locked out of white hospitals and medical associations, this gap between institutional gatekeeping and clinical reality was navigable: A.C. Jackson's skill was acknowledged by the founders of the Mayo Clinic not because of his hospital affiliation, but because they had seen his results. Black physicians built their own peer-reviewed infrastructure — the Journal of the National Medical Association, the NMA's annual conference — as their alternative to AMA journals that largely excluded them. The 1910 Flexner Report, commissioned by the Carnegie Foundation, restructured medical education in ways that shuttered most of the small Black medical schools attempting to fill the gap, leaving only Meharry Medical College and Howard University College of Medicine.

On July 17, 1902, Captain Frederick Reynolds of the U.S. Army Medical Corps proposed the caduceus as the Corps' official insignia — incorrectly referring to it as the Rod of Asclepius. He did not know the difference. Surgeon General William H. Forwood approved it. The error has never been corrected in the Army or Navy.

Reynolds' proposal was initially rejected by Surgeon General G.W. Sternberg. After Sternberg's departure, Forwood approved it. In 1917 — only 15 years later — Lt. Colonel McCulloch, the Surgeon General's own librarian, discovered original documents proving that earlier U.S. Army Medical Department insignia had correctly used the Rod of Asclepius. Despite this documented discovery, the error was never corrected. The scholarly record documenting the mistake is extensive: Garrison (1919, Bulletin of the Medical Library Association), Engle (1929, The Classical Journal), Tyson (1932, The Scientific Monthly), Friedlander (1992, The Golden Wand of Medicine, Praeger), Wilcox & Whitham (2003, Annals of Internal Medicine), and Shah et al. (2024, Postgraduate Medical Journal, finding 88.1% of participants incorrectly identified the caduceus as the medical symbol). The AMA abandoned the caduceus only 10 years after the Army adopted it, in 1912. Today the correct Rod of Asclepius is used by: the WHO, the AMA, the U.S. Air Force Medical Service, the New England Journal of Medicine, the American College of Physicians, and the Star of Life (EMS) symbol. The U.S. Army and Navy Medical Corps still display the wrong symbol — because of a 1902 error no one corrected.

O.W. Gurley, a wealthy Black educator turned landowner, purchases 40 acres on the north side of Tulsa and sells lots exclusively to Black buyers — the founding act of what becomes the Greenwood District.

Gurley was born in Alabama and moved to Tulsa in 1906. His policy of selling and renting only to Black buyers was a deliberate wealth-retention strategy. By 1921 he owned more than 100 properties in Greenwood with an estimated net worth of $500,000–$1 million (roughly $7–14 million in today's dollars). He founded Vernon AME Church and built the Gurley Hotel on Greenwood Avenue. After the massacre, Gurley left Tulsa permanently and never returned — a fact less publicized than his founding role.

Educator Booker T. Washington visits Greenwood and reportedly coins the phrase 'the Negro Wall Street of America' — later shortened to Black Wall Street. By this point the district has churches, schools, hotels, newspapers, a hospital, and professional offices across 35 city blocks.

By the 1910s, Greenwood's 10,000 residents supported an economy estimated to circulate a dollar 36 times within the community before it left — compared to once in the average Black community today. The 1921 Tulsa city directory recorded 191 businesses; other contemporaneous counts cite figures up to 600, reflecting different methodologies. The breakdown included: 41 grocery and meat markets, 30+ restaurants, 15 physicians and surgeons, 11 boarding houses, 9 billiard halls, 6 real-estate agents, 5 hotels, 4 drugstores, 4 pharmacists, 3 lawyers, 2 theaters, 2 newspapers, 2 dentists, 2 hospitals — and a dozen churches, two schools, and a public library.

A.J. Smitherman establishes the Tulsa Star newspaper in Greenwood — one of two Black-owned newspapers in the district, alongside the Oklahoma Sun. Smitherman's editorials urged armed Black self-defense against racial violence.

Smitherman's editorial stance made him a target. After the massacre, a Tulsa grand jury indicted him for inciting a riot — despite being a victim of the violence. He fled to Massachusetts with his wife and five children. His charges were not formally dropped until December 2007, 86 years after the massacre and 56 years after his death.

Mabel Little, who moved to Tulsa from Boley, Oklahoma at age 17, opens the Little Rose Beauty Salon on Greenwood Avenue in 1917. She will lose it in the 1921 massacre, rebuild, and lose it again to urban renewal in 1970 — and rebuild a third time.

Little's story is one of the most documented accounts of the district's triple erasure: by the mob in 1921, by the courts when insurance was denied, and by the government through urban renewal in the 1960s–70s. She ultimately owned two rental homes, a new salon, and a five-room furnished house. Her life was a living proof of the Greenwood principle.

J.B. Stradford opens the 54-room Stradford Hotel at 301 N. Greenwood Avenue on June 1, 1918 — the largest Black-owned hotel in the United States. The building, valued at $75,000, housed a dining room, saloon, pool hall, and gambling hall.

Stradford was the son of a formerly enslaved man, trained as a lawyer in Kentucky, and arrived in Tulsa around 1899. His hotel was a crown jewel of Greenwood. After the massacre, an all-white grand jury indicted him for inciting a riot. He fled to Chicago, where his son Cornelius (also a lawyer) successfully blocked his extradition to Oklahoma. J.B. Stradford died in 1935, never cleared. He was exonerated posthumously by the State of Oklahoma in 2003, 68 years after his death.

John and Loula Williams open a 750-seat movie palace at 127 N. Greenwood Avenue — one of the largest Black-owned theaters in the country, anchoring the cultural heart of Greenwood.

The Williamses also owned an automobile garage and confectionery at the corner of Greenwood Avenue and Archer Street. Loula's family had escaped Mississippi; both had moved up from Memphis. They were among Greenwood's wealthiest residents. Both the theatre and the family's other properties were destroyed in the 1921 massacre.

Simon Berry starts a jitney (informal taxi) service on Greenwood Avenue in 1919 using a topless Model-T Ford, charging a nickel per ride — because Tulsa's official taxi service served white riders only. At his peak he earned as much as $500 a day.

Berry's transit network grew into a full bus line, with 32 of his mechanics becoming the line's first drivers. In 1925, Berry and business partner James Lee Northington became the first Black Tulsans to earn pilot's licenses. They launched an air charter service carrying oil executives to their lease sites across the state. At a time when the entire state of Oklahoma had only two airports, six Black Tulsa families owned private aircraft — an extraordinary concentration of aviation wealth in the Greenwood community.

19-year-old Black shoeshiner Dick Rowland (nicknamed 'Diamond Dick') enters the elevator of the Drexel Building downtown. White elevator operator Sarah Page screams. He is arrested the following day on assault charges.

What happened in that elevator has never been established. The most accepted account: Rowland stumbled on the elevator threshold and grabbed Page's arm to steady himself; Page screamed. A white clerk reported an assault. Police Chief Gustafson later testified that Page bore no scratches, bruises, or disarranged clothing, and that she stated Rowland 'made no bad remark of any kind.' Page sent a letter to the County Attorney declining to prosecute. Charges against Rowland were dismissed in September 1921. The Tulsa Tribune ran the headline 'Nab Negro for Attacking Girl in an Elevator.' A separate Tribune editorial titled 'To Lynch Negro Tonight' is reported by witnesses — but the editorial page was physically removed from the newspaper's archive file before microfilming. A public reward offered in 1997 for a surviving copy has never been claimed.

A first group of approximately 25, then a second group of approximately 75, armed Black men — many of them WWI veterans — arrive at the courthouse to prevent the lynching of Dick Rowland. Outnumbered, they retreat to Greenwood.

During the standoff, an attempt to disarm one of the Black men resulted in a shot being fired — the identity of who fired first remains disputed. The white mob, already several hundred strong and growing, began moving toward Greenwood. Throughout the night, the white mob gathered on the railroad tracks that separated downtown Tulsa from Greenwood — the physical line that had always marked the border between the two worlds.

Tulsa police officials begin arming and deputizing white civilians, authorizing them to enter Greenwood. Some accounts document Tulsa's Police Commissioner J.M. Adkisson instructing white men to 'get a gun and get a n-----.' The deputized civilians participated alongside police in the burning and killing.

This is not a question of mob violence occurring despite law enforcement — law enforcement organized and participated in the attack. The all-white grand jury convened after the massacre indicted Black Tulsans, including A.J. Smitherman, for 'inciting a riot.' Not a single white person was ever imprisoned for murders or arson committed during the massacre. Tulsa police officers who had arrested and interned Black Greenwood residents were never charged. A DOJ Cold Case Unit review in January 2025 confirmed the systemic nature of official participation.

At dawn on June 1, a signal is given and the mob crosses the railroad tracks into Greenwood. Over the next several hours, 35–40 city blocks are looted, burned, and dynamited. American Red Cross records: 1,256 homes burned, 215 more looted but not burned, 191 businesses destroyed.

Mt. Zion Baptist Church — recently completed at a cost of $92,000, built entirely by Black Tulsans — was burned to the ground. The Williams Dreamland Theatre burned. The Stradford Hotel burned. The Greenwood hospital burned. The public library burned. The two newspapers burned. Dr. A.C. Jackson — described at the time as 'the most able Negro surgeon in America' — walked out of his home with his hands raised and was shot dead. The estimated death toll ranges from the 36 originally recorded by Oklahoma's Bureau of Vital Statistics to upward of 300, with the 2001 Commission confirming at minimum 26 Black and 10 white deaths from official records alone. The actual number is unknown — many Black victims were buried in unmarked graves.

Private and police aircraft flew over Greenwood during the massacre. Survivor Viola Fletcher, testifying before Congress in 2021 at age 107, said: 'I still hear airplanes flying overhead.' The 2001 Oklahoma Commission concluded it was 'probable' that shots and incendiary devices were dropped from the aircraft.

Tulsa had two airfields in 1921. The larger, operated by Curtiss-Southwest Airline, contained two steel hangars and 14 airplanes. The 2001 Commission devoted an entire chapter to aircraft involvement. Its conclusion: civilian planes flew over Greenwood; some were used for police reconnaissance. The Commission found it 'probable that shots were fired and that incendiary devices were dropped' from the aircraft, 'which would have contributed to riot-related deaths or destruction.' Fletcher's congressional testimony: 'I still see Black men being shot, Black bodies lying in the street. I still smell smoke and see fire. I still see Black businesses being burned. I still hear airplanes flying overhead.'

John 'Peg Leg' Taylor, a Spanish-American War veteran with a prosthetic leg, reportedly held a defensive position on Standpipe Hill during the attack, firing at the advancing mob. He then fought his way to his 19-year-old daughter Eloise and helped her escape into the woods north of Tulsa.

Taylor's story is one of the documented acts of armed Black resistance during the massacre, preserved in oral history and secondary historical accounts. The Black WWI and Spanish-American War veterans who defended Greenwood did so against overwhelming numbers of armed white civilians — many of them also veterans — and deputized police. Their resistance is part of the history that was suppressed in the massacre's official aftermath, in which the all-white grand jury blamed Black Tulsans for the violence.

Approximately 6,000 Black Tulsans — the majority of Greenwood's population — are arrested and interned at three facilities: Convention Hall (now Tulsa Theater), the County Fairgrounds, and McNulty Park (the baseball stadium). They were released only when vouched for by a white employer or citizen.

The internment system required a white person to vouch for a Black detainee's 'good behavior' before release — a power arrangement that mirrored the antebellum system it claimed to have replaced. Detainees who had no white employer or connection remained held longer. Many survivors spent the winter of 1921–22 in tents — some provided by the American Red Cross — on the lots where their homes had stood. By December 1921, more than half of the 1,256 burned homes were in some phase of reconstruction, built by Black residents with their own resources, without a cent of government aid.

Not a single insurance claim filed by a Black Greenwood resident was paid. Insurers invoked 'riot' exclusion clauses. More than 100 property owners sued. Courts upheld every denial. The official classification of the massacre as a 'riot' — rather than a pogrom organized with government participation — served a specific legal function: it voided every policy.

The 'riot' classification was adopted immediately and deliberately. Tulsa officials, the Oklahoma governor's office, and white-owned insurers coordinated around a legal framework that placed the cause of the destruction on Black residents rather than the white mob and deputized officials who carried it out. No Greenwood resident received insurance compensation. The survivors rebuilt entirely with private resources. The contrast with other American communities whose property losses were compensated — including those destroyed in fires of purely accidental origin — is stark and documented.

Within six days of the massacre, the Tulsa City Council passes an ordinance extending the city's 'fire limits' to include Greenwood, requiring expensive masonry construction for any rebuild. This is a de facto prohibition — Greenwood residents have been wiped out financially and cannot afford the new standard.

White real estate speculators simultaneously moved to purchase lots at far below market value. The rezoning ordinance was the city's attempt to use law to accomplish what the mob had not fully completed — the permanent displacement of Black Tulsans from Greenwood. Black attorney Buck Colbert Franklin, father of historian John Hope Franklin, set up a tent law office in the rubble with partners I.H. Spears and Effie D. Chappelle and immediately filed for an injunction. The Oklahoma Supreme Court ultimately ruled the fire-limits ordinance 'constituted an invalid taking of property without due process of law.' The land stayed Black.

Black attorney Buck Colbert Franklin operates his law office from a tent in the rubble of Greenwood, alongside partners I.H. Spears and Effie D. Chappelle. He wins the legal challenge to the city's rezoning ordinance, making it legally possible for Greenwood to rebuild on the same land.

Franklin wrote a 10-page eyewitness account of the massacre on August 22, 1931 — titled 'The Tulsa Race Riot and Three of Its Victims.' The manuscript was believed lost for decades, surfacing in a private collection in 2015. It was purchased by Tulsans and donated to the Smithsonian's National Museum of African American History and Culture. It provides one of the only surviving firsthand written accounts of the massacre by a Greenwood resident who witnessed the destruction. Franklin's son John Hope Franklin became one of America's foremost historians and chaired the advisory board of President Clinton's Initiative on Race (1997–1998).

The Williams Dreamland Theatre reopens on September 14, 1922 — 15 months after being burned to the ground. Its reopening, covered in Oklahoma City's Black Dispatch, was a cultural declaration that Greenwood was not finished.

The Williams family rebuilt from private resources, without insurance compensation or government assistance. Their reconstruction of the Dreamland was emblematic of the broader Greenwood rebuild: done entirely by Black Tulsans, funded by Black Tulsans, on the same ground that the mob had failed to permanently take.

By 1942 — two decades after the massacre — Greenwood is operating 242 Black-owned businesses, more than existed before the massacre. The district never recovered to its 1921 geographic scale, but economically surpassed it. No government aid. No insurance. Rebuilt entirely by Black Tulsans.

Greenwood's second prosperity proved that what the mob destroyed in 1921 was not the community's capacity but its physical infrastructure. The capacity — the knowledge, the networks, the willingness to reinvest within the community — was not destroyed on June 1, 1921. What destroyed it permanently was not a massacre but a federal highway.

The construction of Interstate 244 is routed directly through the rebuilt Greenwood District. Combined with the City of Tulsa's 'urban renewal' program, more than 1,000 businesses and homes in Greenwood are demolished through eminent domain, with Black property owners compensated far below market value.

The Federal-Aid Highway Acts of 1965 and 1968 authorized the Inner Dispersal Loop project in Tulsa. I-244 was completed in the early 1970s. Black Tulsans began calling the program 'urban removal' rather than urban renewal. The mechanism was bureaucratic rather than violent — eminent domain filings, zoning hearings, below-market condemnation appraisals — but the outcome was the same as 1921: Black wealth in Greenwood was seized without just compensation. Mabel Little, who had rebuilt after 1921, lost her rebuilt businesses and home for a second time in 1970 to these policies. Homeownership among Black families in Tulsa dropped sharply in the years that followed.

A bipartisan group in the Oklahoma Legislature forms the Oklahoma Commission to Study the Tulsa Race Riot of 1921 — the first official state body charged with documenting the massacre. The commission's work takes four years.

The commission was charged with producing a full historical account, assessing the destruction, and making recommendations for action. Its formation came 76 years after the massacre and only after decades of scholars, journalists, and Greenwood survivors publicly documented what official Tulsa had suppressed.

The Oklahoma Commission delivers its final report on February 21, 2001. Findings: 100–300 killed; 1,256 homes burned; 215 more looted; 191 businesses destroyed; total losses exceeding $30 million in today's dollars. Recommendations include direct reparations, scholarships, an economic zone, a memorial, and reburial of victims.

The Commission confirmed white deputies and city officials were directly involved in the destruction, documented mass graves still uninvestigated, and made recommendations for reparations to survivors and descendants. The Oklahoma Legislature funded the scholarships and the memorial but not direct reparations. The John Hope Franklin Reconciliation Park — named for B.C. Franklin's son — opened in 2010.

The State of Oklahoma posthumously exonerates J.B. Stradford in 2003, clearing the riot indictment that had forced him to flee to Chicago in 1921. He had died in 1935, never cleared. His son Cornelius had successfully blocked his extradition from Illinois decades earlier.

Stradford's exoneration is documented by the Clio entry on the Stradford Hotel and secondary historical accounts. His son Cornelius, a Chicago attorney, spent decades preserving his father's name. Both are honored today by the Illinois Supreme Court's Stradford Award for outstanding young Black attorneys — a legacy built on a life the state of Oklahoma tried to destroy.

The riot indictment against Tulsa Star editor A.J. Smitherman is formally dismissed in December 2007, 86 years after he fled Oklahoma to escape prosecution for 'inciting a riot' by reporting accurately on the threat to Dick Rowland.

Smitherman fled to Massachusetts with his wife and five children in 1921. He continued his journalism career from exile. The charges against him — brought by an all-white grand jury that blamed the massacre's victims — were never pursued while he lived. His formal exoneration arrived more than half a century after his death, a quiet administrative correction of a public injustice.

The John Hope Franklin Reconciliation Park opens in Greenwood, featuring the 25-foot Tower of Reconciliation sculpture. Named for the historian John Hope Franklin — son of B.C. Franklin, who practiced law from a tent in Greenwood's ruins in 1921.

The park was designated in June 2020 as part of the African American Civil Rights Network by the U.S. Department of the Interior. It stands near the corner of Greenwood and Archer — blocks from where the Stradford Hotel, Williams Dreamland Theatre, and Dr. Jackson's practice once stood. John Hope Franklin, who chaired President Clinton's Initiative on Race and authored From Slavery to Freedom (1947), died in 2009 at age 94, the year before the park that bears his name opened.

Archaeological investigation of potential mass graves begins in 2019, focusing on Oaklawn Cemetery's Section 20. Multiple rounds of excavation follow through 2025, uncovering hundreds of previously unknown burials — some with evidence of gunshot wounds and postmortem burning.

By late 2025, 273 previously unknown graves had been found in Section 20 alone. A November 2025 excavation found 80 additional previously unknown burials. Burial 27 (2021 excavation) showed a gunshot wound. Burial 42 (second excavation) showed a gunshot wound. Burial 45 showed evidence of postmortem burning — suggesting some victims may have been set on fire after death. The excavations are ongoing.

Viola Fletcher (107), Lessie Benningfield Randle (106), and Hughes Van Ellis (100) testify before the House Judiciary Subcommittee on the Constitution, Civil Rights, and Civil Liberties — the first known Congressional testimony by massacre survivors.

Fletcher's statement: 'I still see Black men being shot, Black bodies lying in the street. I still smell smoke and see fire. I still see Black businesses being burned. I still hear airplanes flying overhead.' Randle, at 110, was the last known living survivor as of 2025. Fletcher died in November 2024 at age 111. Hughes Van Ellis, Fletcher's younger brother, survived the massacre as an infant.

The $20 million Greenwood Rising Black Wall Street History Center opens at the corner of Greenwood Ave. and Archer St. for the massacre's centennial, featuring projection mapping, holographic media, and immersive exhibits. More than 60,000 visitors in its first year.

Greenwood Rising is located at the geographic heart of the original Greenwood District — where the Dreamland Theatre and Williams Building once stood, where the Stradford Hotel was steps away, where Dr. Jackson's practice was within walking distance. The history center's presence at that corner is itself a form of restitution.

In July 2024, Mayor G.T. Bynum announces the first confirmed identity from Tulsa's graves investigation — C.L. Daniel, a World War I veteran. Next-of-kin DNA matched Burial 3 from the 2021 Oaklawn excavation. He is the first named victim identified outside the 2001 Commission's known list.

C.L. Daniel had been buried in an unmarked grave for 103 years. His identification by DNA — matched through living descendants — represents both the scientific progress of the investigation and its human stakes: there are families alive today who descended from people buried without names in Section 20 of Oaklawn Cemetery.

The Oklahoma Supreme Court, in an 8–1 vote, affirms the dismissal of the reparations lawsuit brought by Lessie Benningfield Randle and Viola Fletcher — the last two living survivors. The court ruled that the massacre's lasting economic and social consequences do not constitute a 'public nuisance' under Oklahoma law.

The lawsuit, filed in 2020 by attorney Damario Solomon-Simmons, had sought reparations for 11 plaintiffs. The Oklahoma County District Court dismissed it in July 2023; the Supreme Court affirmed in 2024. The legal path closed. Randle and Fletcher received private philanthropic gifts from individual donors. Randle was 110 years old at the ruling.

The U.S. Department of Justice Civil Rights Division publishes its Review and Evaluation of the Tulsa Race Massacre — the federal government's first comprehensive reckoning, more than a century after the events. The report names Dr. A.C. Jackson by name.

Authored by Barbara Kay Bosserman of the Cold Case Unit under the Emmett Till Unsolved Civil Rights Crime Act, the report documents Dr. Jackson's murder in detail (¶¶ 274–276, 312–315, 2042–2044), acknowledges the role of deputized white civilians, the National Guard, and city officials, and marks the first time the federal government formally named victims and perpetrators. The DOJ report notes that the Hate Crimes Prevention Act — had it existed in 1921 — could have been used to prosecute Dr. Jackson's murder specifically.

On June 1, 2025 — the 104th anniversary of the massacre — Tulsa Mayor Monroe Nichols, the city's first Black mayor, unveils the 'Road to Repair' plan on the first designated Tulsa Race Massacre Observance Day: a private charitable trust with a goal of $105 million in assets by June 1, 2026.

Allocation: $24M for a housing fund; $60M for historic preservation; $21M for land acquisition, small business grants, scholarships, and continued graves identification. The city also committed to releasing 45,000 pages of Greenwood property records and historical documents. The plan does not include direct cash payments to living survivors. Randle (110) and the late Fletcher received only private philanthropic gifts.