Off Their Pedestals at Last

There they were, set high on pedestals, in front of schools, in the middle of town squares, and by the front doors of state capital buildings. They held their heads high and gazed boldly into the distance, their noble brows furrowed, their swords drawn.

Robert E. Lee. Nathan Bedford Forrest. Stonewall Jackson. Jefferson Davis. Leaders of the Confederate Army, all of them slave owners who led the fight to protect the system of slavery in the South.

What would it feel like, I wonder, if I were black, to walk by one of those statues every day, knowing that that man bought and sold my people, perhaps even my own family's ancestors?

There he is, up on that pedestal - a man who signed the bills of sale for human beings. Oversaw their whippings. Ordered families to be separated and torn apart.

It's an interesting thing, a pedestal. It elevates a person above us, so we have to look up to them, even if they stand for things we despise. "See this man? He is a hero!" it says. "He stood for a great cause! We admire him, and so should you!"

We have about 700 monuments to Confederate leaders, in 31 states. Twenty of those states never even seceded from the Union during the war. Most of those statues weren't put up in a graveyard by some grieving family to honor their loss. The vast majority of them were put up fifty years later, during the years of Jim Crow segregation, to glorify the 'cause' of the Civil War. They were put in public places - city squares and state buildings - to make a statement, loud and clear. It isn't hard to figure out what they were saying to the black people passing by them every day, is it?

So there they stood, year after year, as a reminder: keep in your place. Their presence still, today, is an outrage: a declaration of thoughtless contempt. Those pedestals sit on racist ground, like a festering wound. "Remember," the statues say with a sneer. "Remember: you don't really matter."

For 42 million Americans, life in this country as a black person means always, always to be aware that the ground beneath your feet is not truly safe. To be black means to always know there's a chance that you, or someone you know, will be singled out for their color. A sneering word, a tweet, an offhand remark in a job interview, the flashing lights of a police car, and that voice will whisper again: you don't matter.

We've seen, in these past weeks, the protests in towns and cities across the country and around the world, demanding an end to police brutality. But the frustration goes much further, for in our country millions of black Americans still struggle to succeed and even to survive. Stress and poverty, poorer health, higher rates of incarceration and now the pandemic and its crushing loss of jobs - and, again and again, brutal cases of police brutality caught on video - have brought many to the breaking point.

It's no surprise, I think, that those statues, long a source of controversy, have finally met their match.

It was time, and long past time, I'd say, and what a sight it was. Some were quietly lifted off their pedestals by government workers using winches, while others were brought down by the crowds of protesters. No more dignity for them, in their gaudy new coats of spray paint, their heads missing, the people pulling them down with ropes to roars of approval.

It's an extraordinary time, and I think those toppling statues reflect a real change in many people's thinking. There's a growing consensus: these have got to go. They're a blight on our nation. Black lives matter, and what we put on pedestals says volumes about what we value. We want to put something better, something that includes us all, on those pedestals instead.

There's long, hard work ahead, but it's a damn good start.