I grew up across the street from this Confederate monument. We can’t erase history, and I certainly don’t condone vandalism—but I do believe it’s time to seriously think about symbolism and how we can better acknowledge the past. The following is an excerpt from White Gloves and Collards:
The Monument
Cast in bronze, he stands atop a pedestal at the foot of Broad Street, facing north with defiance, in memoriam to those who fought and died for The Cause—for states’ rights and the land they loved (or so I was told). Each day during the 50’s and 60’s, he whispered to my brother and me on our way to Edenton Elementary, the town’s all-white school. “Be proud,” he’d tell us. “Be proud of your ancestors. Be confident in the future. This is your land.”
But for some other children living nearby, he had a different message. “Be on your guard,” he’d warn as they headed to a separate school on the edge of town. “Know your place. I’m watching you.” As they’d walk past him, eyes toward the ground, he’d whisper, “This is not your land. You’re only here to serve.”
Then one bright morning, those brave, dark children had heard enough. They looked up at the soldier’s musket, his wide-brimmed hat, and the names of Confederate dead inscribed on the pedestal below. “You’re wrong,” they told him. “This land was built by our ancestors brought here against their will. It’s the land of our parents and grandparents. We belong here as much as you.” They stared for a moment at those hard, cold eyes. Then with heads held high, they made there way across the street.
But for some other children living nearby, he had a different message. “Be on your guard,” he’d warn as they headed to a separate school on the edge of town. “Know your place. I’m watching you.” As they’d walk past him, eyes toward the ground, he’d whisper, “This is not your land. You’re only here to serve.”
Then one bright morning, those brave, dark children had heard enough. They looked up at the soldier’s musket, his wide-brimmed hat, and the names of Confederate dead inscribed on the pedestal below. “You’re wrong,” they told him. “This land was built by our ancestors brought here against their will. It’s the land of our parents and grandparents. We belong here as much as you.” They stared for a moment at those hard, cold eyes. Then with heads held high, they made there way across the street.
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