As an American, I watched the run-up to the 2008 presidential election with great interest. Either of the front runners for the Democratic ticket promised to make history if elected: Hillary Rodham Clinton would be our first female president, and Barack Obama would be our first African-American one. Of course, we all know how the election went, and with it, America seemed to step into a whole new phase of its existence: Sitting in the White House was a man who, were he an adult at the time of his birth, would have been under the subjugation of the cruel, unjust and categorically un-American “Jim Crow” laws. But it wasn’t 1961, it was 2008, and a Black man was President.
Mr. Obama didn’t get my vote. (I was and remain a fan of John McCain, his running mate notwithstanding. If there was ever a person I wanted deciding if young Americans should have to go to war, you couldn’t get much better than a man who suffered for a half a decade in the so-called Hanoi Hilton — the Hỏa Lò Prison — in North Vietnam). Nevertheless, I felt immense respect for our new President. He was young, energetic, hip, funny, and extremely intelligent. I believe he carried himself with a dignity that matched the task before him: being the physical embodiment of the wildest hopes and dreams of millions of Black Americans going back to before they were even acknowledged as Americans at all.
Obama made me, as a middle-aged white male, feel that a page had been turned in my country. We had a Black President! We’ve done it! We’ve moved beyond our ugly past and closer to the idealized egalitarian future depicted in Star Trek. To quote the legendary coach George Allen when he came out of retirement and took over the football program at my alma mater, California State University, Long Beach, “The future is now!”
Only it wasn’t. What so many people who, well, looked like me didn’t realize was that the national feeling of bonhomie covered over an ugliness that was very much present. There is a remarkable documentary that originally aired on the History Channel about 20 years ago, back when the History Channel showed, well, history. (I’m lookin’ at you, Ancient Aliens.) I chose to use the documentary as part of a class activity one year into the Obama administration. To the Finish: The Unfinished Civil War started out as a rather lighthearted look at a peculiar subculture: Civil War reenactors, those folks who go to great lengths to recreate in minute detail the darkest days of the American Republic.
The idea of camping out and playing soldier for a weekend is deeply appealing to the 12-year-old boy who still has a commanding grip on my personal psyche, and the historian in me finds the attention to detail nothing short of exhilarating.
Granted, there’s a good deal of fun involved here — the idea of camping out and playing soldier for a weekend is deeply appealing to the 12-year-old boy who still has a commanding grip on my personal psyche, while the historian in me finds the attention to detail nothing short of exhilarating. (I can recall attending a reenactment in Oregon some years ago. As I traveled around from tent to tent, speaking with the reenactors, they all had the same reaction when they heard I taught US history: a resounding and nearly irresistible call to join them. My only saving grace was my certainty that if I were to dive into such a hobby it would absolutely consume me. A person must have limits, don’tcha know).
The filmmakers focused on two particular subjects: a white reenactor from Maryland who portrayed a Confederate marksman, and a Black reenactor from Florida who portrayed a member of the famed Massachusetts 54th Volunteer Infantry, the first all-black unit in the Union Army and the one featured in the movie Glory. They followed both men around from battlefield reenactments to post-battle gatherings and even to their own homes, where each displayed the depths of their hobby.
However, something happened while this documentary was being filmed. In the summer of 1999, a brouhaha was gathering over the fact that the Confederate Battle Flag was being flown atop the state capitol building in Columbia, SC. Protesters demanded the flag be taken down, while supporters demanded it remain in place.
The documentary does a remarkable job of explaining the two points of view regarding the Confederate icon. On one side, supporters described it as a benign part of “Southern culture,” featured on the roof of the car on the TV show “The Dukes of Hazzard” and on album covers by bands like Lynyrd Skynyrd. Detractors brought up its literal meaning as a symbol of the rebellious 11 states that tried and failed to secede from the United States in the name of preserving the institution of slavery. The most compelling argument in favor of the flag was made by a gentleman who pointed out that it was not the Confederate flag that flew from slave vessels, but the American one; his point was that, to the average soldier, the Confederate banner was more about hearth and home than about any greater ideology like slavery or abolitionism. Opponents noted that the flag only appeared on the state capitol building starting in 1961, ostensibly to commemorate the 100th anniversary of the start of the War Between the States, with the fact that this was during the height of the Civil Rights movement being lost on all but the most willfully recalcitrant.
Both men featured in the documentary expressed strong emotions about the rebel banner, both in its historic context and in contemporary society. Not surprisingly, the Confederate reenactor believed the flag was an integral part of his heritage, and that to take it down would be dishonoring the hundreds of thousands of Johnny Rebs who, rightly or wrongly, stood their ground against the encroachment of Billy Yank. Likewise, the Union reenactor felt that while the flag had an important role to play within the historical context, it in no way should be displayed on public property.
In a strange twist of fate, both men were present at a ceremony marking a compromise between the two sides in 2000: The flag was removed from the capitol dome, but remained on the capitol grounds flying from its own flagpole some distance away. (The flag was ultimately removed from the grounds in 2015 in the aftermath of the murder of nine parishioners by a white supremacist at Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Charleston). The Confederate reenactor wore stage blood on his face as the rebel banner was taken down, and the Union reenactor said a prayer of thanks. The filmmakers brought these two men together minutes after the removal of the flag. Their first reaction to each other, both dressed in the uniforms of their respective sides, was to embrace. Several minutes of film depicted the two men calmly expressing their opinions, and ultimately agreeing to disagree, with the final scene being an image of the two walking off, White Johnny Reb and Black Billy Yank, arm in arm, as the scene faded to black.
The filmmakers brought these two men together minutes after the removal of the flag. Their first reaction to each other, both dressed in the uniforms of their respective sides, was to embrace.
It was, without question, a poignant moment, and, at least in my own mind, representative of where we finally were as a country. Black and white, arm in arm, at long last joining together (figuratively, at least) to sing the age-old Gullah spiritual “Kumbaya” — the long-standing anthem of the Civil Rights movement. My (white) heart filled with pride. We’d made it, Black president and all.
One of my classes that year was a particularly sharp bunch of kids, a group I could engage in true Socratic dialogue at a level usually reserved for upper-level high school classes. These kids could discuss and debate with the best of them. Now, to say that the school and community within which I teach is rather homogeneous racially is something of an understatement. Looking at the demographics of the community at large from http://www.censusreporter.org, Washougal is 6% Hispanic, 3% two or more races, 2% Asian, 1% Native, 1% Black, and 87% White. Translated into an average classroom of 30 students, I typically have one or two Black students in any given year. The year I showed this documentary, I had exactly one black student: Hailey (I have chosen to change her and her brother’s names for their privacy).
We finished the film, and started talking about what we had seen. Leading the discussion, I asked the students what their thoughts were. Overwhelmingly, the response to the documentary was positive — that same “Kumbaya” feeling I experienced myself. Students spoke about a country that was post-racism: naturally, there were still racist people around (and would always be — racism is not a uniquely American problem, and has existed since the start of recorded history). But we as a country were transforming. Oprah Winfrey was one of the richest people on the planet. Black scholars of all political stripes, from Ta-Nahesi Coates to Thomas Sowell, commanded vast audiences of readers. Black entertainers and sports figures loomed large in society, not for their Blackness, but for their talent. We had arrived.
And then Hailey raised her hand. Her solitary, Black hand.
Hailey was, by nature, a quiet girl. Very attentive in class, a straight-A student, she generally played her cards close. I was excited to hear what my solitary Black student felt about have finally arrived in the Promised Land.
Looking around the room, Hailey asked, “Have any of you guys ever been followed around in a store? Like, you’re just shopping, looking around, and a store employee starts watching you?” The class sat in silence. “Because that’s my experience almost every single time I go to the mall, or to Target, or Wal-Mart. I get followed around. My little brother who’s 9 gets followed around.” She glanced around the room at her classmates. “Does anyone follow you?”
“You can’t just, like, sing ‘Kumbaya’ and think it’s going to make up for everything and make everything better, because it won’t.”
The silence that followed answered her question. “You don’t know what that’s like. But I do. And Aaron does. Do you know what it’s like to have people assume you’re going to do something just because of the way you look?” Several students were looking down at their desks. “Because that’s what happens to me. All the time. Every time. So, it’s great that these two guys can become friends, but it doesn’t mean everything is okay. Because it’s not. Everything is not okay. Not if you look like me and my brother. You can’t just, like, sing ‘Kumbaya’ and think it’s going to make up for everything and make everything better, because it won’t.”
With that powerful declaration, the illusion was shattered for me. And for that, I owe Hailey a debt of gratitude. I’ve often said that I learn as much from my students, and perhaps even more, than they learn from me. Everything is not okay, Hailey said in a strong, clear voice. She was right. And the vitriol of political rhetoric in the years since have only reinforced the truth she was stating.
We have much work to do.
Scott Rainey is a National Board-certified teacher who teaches 8th grade US history at Jemtegaard Middle School in Washougal, WA, where he has been on the staff since 1998. He received the Veterans of Foreign Wars Department of Washington’s Citizenship Education Middle School Teacher of the Year award for 2021-2022. He is married to his best friend, his wife Katrina, and is the father of three adopted daughters. He loves the Beatles, 80’s alternative rock, Shakespeare, geocaching and traveling.
Leave a Reply