What Do We Choose to Memorialize?
Robert E. Lee Monument, Richmond, VA
In Richmond, Virginia it stands, 60 feet high, a white man, atop horse, atop pedestal. Looking down Monument Avenue, the Robert E. Lee Monument marks the center of the Virginia capital, the capital of the former Confederacy. The statue was dedicated in 1890, affirming the Confederate general’s status as an American hero, not only in Richmond but across the nation. But the statue implies more than just a conferral of Lee’s mythic heroism; according to a local black man, watching as those around him celebrated the memorial upon its dedication in 1890, understood the monument as more than just heroic. As he, and the rest of the black community in Richmond saw it, “the Southern white folks is on top.” The symbolism was not subtle. Erected at the height of racial violence and disenfranchisement across the South, the statue reminded black southerners that the white southerner would always, quite literally, look down upon them.
What we choose to memorialize is important. Not because the monuments themselves are necessarily so compelling; historian Jennifer Allen notes that she frequently walked past the Robert E. Lee monument, as well as a much smaller monument marking a former slave auction, and never once took notice of it. Instead, monuments, she argues, “mean things because we make them mean things. … Monuments are not static things that have a single narrative behind them. Monuments are things that we create.” [1] The monument of Lee is significant because it is of a major Confederate general, Robert E. Lee. It is significant because Confederate veterans decided to put tireless efforts into erecting it. It is significant because it has been placed in a location that is central, unmissable, valuable in Richmond, the former Confederate capital. It is significant because in doing all of this, the residents of Richmond, Virginia made it significant. And in rejecting the removal of it, Richmond continues to confer value upon it as a symbol of a nostalgic Confederate past. In turn, the monument thus celebrates the white supremacy and oppression that Lee and the Confederacy stood for and recognizes and centralizes a collective memory of the war that legitimizes this white supremacy and oppression.
I am not writing to argue against Confederate monuments. Plenty of people have done so eloquently and effectively. Rather, I want us to reclaim the monument for those whom the monument has often ignored, erased, dehumanized. Given the power we confer upon monuments in our society, their establishment can serve as a tool to reassert what we recognize, centralize, and legitimize, and ultimately confer our values onto, as a society.
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In Philadelphia, Pennsylvania they stand, several stories high, school buildings, within a neighborhood, within a city. Once full of students going from class to class, these closed schools mark the devastation wrought on Philadelphia students, teachers, and families, the heart and soul of the city. The buildings were sold or repurposed in 2013, erasing the schools’ statuses as community centers, not only for students but families, too. The symbolism is not subtle. Despite being purchased by private companies, many of the school buildings stand deserted, a constant reminder of the city’s abandonment of their educational and communal needs.
In 2013, the city of Philadelphia closed 23 schools for the 2013-2014 school year. Shuttered due to low enrollment and failing test scores, many of these schools played central roles in their communities. According to sociologist Eve Ewing, schools are valuable to their communities in unquantifiable and immeasurable ways. Closing schools that have served historically black neighborhoods for generations represents “the dismantling of African American community and social life,” as these schools often served as a “center of black culture.” Today, the fate of these closed high schools has been mixed; some stand completely abandoned, while others, bought by developers, have been turned into luxury condos or trendy bars. To varying degrees, the current spaces acknowledge and recognize what once occupied their halls. Some even advertise their scholastic history as part of the appeal. Often, the history of the space is remembered as result of a lack of remodeling, in part due to historical preservation laws limiting developers, in part due to the desire to fetishize the ruins of what once had been.
Map of Closed Philadelphia schools, 2013
The state of these closed high schools is at best an insufficient record of their memory, and at worst, an unjust erasure. The state of decay of many of these buildings implies a certain inevitability, that these schools closed because they were destined to fail, rather than because of neglectful and harmful district policies. As the abandoned school buildings are left to decay, so too does their memory, a relic of a distant past. As the rest are quickly developed, the memory of these schools, these community pillars, becomes purely decorative, a factor to enhance the authenticity and trendiness of lofts selling for half a million dollars.
It did not have to be this way, and it does not have to still. What would happen if we memorialized these spaces, rather than letting them fade into obscurity? Is not a school that served generations of Philadelphians more worthy of our recognition and mythologizing than Robert E. Lee? What space is more deserving of our recognition than schools, that despite limited resources and discriminatory policies, did their best to serve their communities? By establishing memorials at these closed high schools, we are not giving the schools new value; the communities these schools served always gave value to these schools. Rather, by establishing a memorial, Philadelphia can affirm this value, and in turn, recognize, centralize, and legitimize the minority communities most deprioritized by the city’s policies.
Of course, a memorial is not a silver bullet; it is not solution to poverty, educational inequality, disparities in health outcomes, institutional racism, and so on and so on. Establishing a memorial must not become a band aid or PR response to the very real conditions faced by so many in Philadelphia. Memorials work to influence our values as a society, more broadly; values that may, in turn, inspire the passage of legislation that will support the needs of all people in this city. Legislation is necessary, but we should not underestimate the importance of public demonstrations of value and power. While not a solution to our city’s problems, establishing monuments at these former schools is the least Philadelphia can do to begin showing that it values its minority communities.
A memorial should not cut into money designated for schools, public transportation, or infrastructure. It is unlikely that Philadelphia has the discretionary funds to spend on an expensive memorial. But that is neither necessary nor preferred. The establishment of a memorial must not allow the city to write off the needs of a living community with a flashy memorial. Rather, it is beholden upon us, citizens of Philadelphia, to raise money or get institutional support for such a memorial. For us, as a community, to support, remember, and honor our neighboring communities. With the support of organizations like Monument Lab,
The next step is to determine how best to memorialize these schools. A historical plaque, as the city of Philadelphia does currently to indicate historical spots, is a good place to start. But more can be done. According to Allen, “Politics is a process of negotiation. So is the conversation over what should be memorialized, what should go in a museum, what should take the form of a monument, what should be a holiday.” As visual representations of our values as a society, monuments should be designed and erected by the community whose values they affirm and represent. And such monuments and memorials can take form in many ways. Perhaps former schools can become community centers, where the community, not developers, decide and control what happens in the space. Maybe the sites host public discussions or forums to confront issues relevant in the community. Old students and teachers may want to dedicate the space, themselves, using their memories as a means of defining how we should remember. However monuments or memorials to these former schools take shape, they should reflect the experiences of and be made by the communities affected, to make sure we memorialize their space and their memories with the respect they deserve.
Kehinde Wiley, Rumors of War, Times Square, New York
In Manhattan, New York it stands, 29 feet high, a black man, atop a horse, atop a pedestal. Looking back on Times Square, the Rumors of War statue marks the center of the New York metropolis, the largest city in the United States. The statue was dedicated on September 27, 2019, challenging the supremacy of the Confederate general’s status as an American hero across the country, still. But the statue implies more than just an opposition to neo-Confederate white supremacy; according to Wiley, “To have the Rumors of War sculpture presented in such a context lays bare the scope and scale of the project in its conceit to expose the beautiful and terrible potentiality of art to sculpt the language of domination.” Unlike Lee, who looks down upon those below him, Wiley’s unnamed figure looks back behind him, suggesting his care to ensure that no one is left behind, no one forgotten. Wiley’s statue is a first step, and Philadelphia can follow suit, by reclaiming the power of memorials and the values they confer on our society.