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Gen. Robert E. Lee is the only Confederate icon still standing on a Richmond avenue forever changed Gen. Robert E. Lee is the only Confederate icon still standing on a Richmond avenue forever changed
(about 4 hours later)
RICHMOND — Beth Almore played the cello as J.E.B. Stuart fell.RICHMOND — Beth Almore played the cello as J.E.B. Stuart fell.
Sitting on a shady median along Monument Avenue Tuesday morning, Almore refused to look at the bronze Confederate statue as a crane hoisted it from the base where it had stood since 1907. She played Bach, and the haunting “Spiegel im Spiegel” by Arvo Pärt, and afterward wouldn’t even say the name of the man whose bronze likeness now lay on its side on a flatbed truck to be hauled away. Sitting on a shady median along Monument Avenue on Tuesday morning, Almore refused to look at the Confederate statue as a crane hoisted it from the base where it had stood since 1907. She played Bach and the haunting “Spiegel im Spiegel” by Arvo Part and afterward wouldn’t even say the name of the man whose bronze likeness now lay on its side on a flatbed truck to be hauled away.
“That’s a person who deserves to be a footnote in history,” said Almore, 53, a public school music teacher in Richmond. A photo of her great-great grandmother, born into slavery in Mississippi, rested on her music stand. “What concerns me is that if it takes this much effort to get a statue removed, what is it going to take to get systemic racism dismantled in this country?”“That’s a person who deserves to be a footnote in history,” said Almore, 53, a public school music teacher in Richmond. A photo of her great-great grandmother, born into slavery in Mississippi, rested on her music stand. “What concerns me is that if it takes this much effort to get a statue removed, what is it going to take to get systemic racism dismantled in this country?”
After a solid month of day and night protests, all four Confederate statues on city-owned property along Monument Avenue are gone. Only the grandest and oldest monument — to Gen. Robert E. Lee, which towers 60 feet over state-owned land — remains. A judge has so far blocked Gov. Ralph Northam (D) from removing it. After a solid month of day-and-night protests, all four Confederate statues on city-owned property along Monument Avenue are gone. Only the grandest and oldest monument — to Gen. Robert E. Lee, which towers 60 feet over state-owned land — remains. A judge has so far blocked Gov. Ralph Northam (D) from removing it.
It took 155 years, but the symbols of old Dixie may finally have been driven down. Anger about police killings of African Americans has fueled a national reckoning with racism and inequity. In the South, that’s led to a final attack on the icons of the Confederacy, with the battle flag banned by NASCAR and removed from the state flag in Mississippi. A national reckoning with racism and inequity, triggered by police killings of black Americans, has led to a final attack on Southern icons of the Confederacy, with the battle flag banned by NASCAR and removed from the state flag in Mississippi.
In Richmond, a group of well-heeled residents is fighting in court to save Lee, arguing in part that losing the statue will harm property values. “It was mystical, magical to walk down the street any time of year,” said Patrick McSweeney, 77, a lawyer who grew up around the corner from the monuments and now is representing the property owners. In Richmond, a group of well-heeled residents is fighting in court to save Lee, arguing in part that losing the statue will harm property values in an elegant section of the city. “It was mystical, magical to walk down the street any time of year,” said Patrick McSweeney, 77, a lawyer who grew up around the corner from the monuments and now is representing the property owners.
The popular effort to take them down, he said, is “worse than the Bastille.” The popular effort to take them down, he said, is “worse than the Bastille,” the prison stormed by French revolutionaries in 1789.
But the voices that once defined the former capital of the Confederacy have become hard to find in the past month. When Mayor Levar Stoney (D) had a statue of Stonewall Jackson removed last week, one white man carrying a flag that said “respect and protect” rushed the base of the monument, openly crying and begging for the work to stop. He was hustled away by sheriff’s deputies. But the voices that once defined the former capital of the Confederacy have become hard to find in the past month. When Mayor Levar Stoney (D) ordered a statue of Stonewall Jackson removed last week, one white man rushed the base of the monument, openly crying and begging for the work to stop. He was hustled away by sheriff’s deputies.
No one stood to defend Stuart on Tuesday, or Matthew Fontaine Maury when the city took him down the week before. Or Jefferson Davis when protesters hauled him down last month. No one stood to defend Stuart on Tuesday, or Matthew Fontaine Maury when the city dismantled him the week before. Or Jefferson Davis when protesters hauled him down last month.
Instead, people who once felt unwelcome in this part of town have transformed the avenue into a monument of their own. The granite bases of the statues are splashed with colorful graffiti — some profane and angry, some in memory of African Americans killed by police. But it’s the people — all ages, all races — who constitute the biggest transformation of all, flocking to public spaces that once stood grand and empty and filling them with speeches and music and chanting. Instead, people who once felt unwelcome in this part of town have remade the avenue into a monument of their own. The granite bases of the statues are splashed with colorful graffiti — some profane and angry, some in memory of African Americans killed by police. But it’s the people — all ages, all races — who constitute the biggest transformation, filling public spaces that once stood grand and empty with speeches and music and chanting.
“I grew up around here … Any time before the last month, you would not see a soul out here,” said one young man, 25, who declined to give his name as he stood with an assault-style rifle in an encampment near the Lee statue on Monday. He said he feared reprisals from statue defenders, who sometimes show up at night in small groups, or from police. “I grew up around here. . . . Any time before the last month, you would not see a soul out here,” said one man, 25, who declined to give his name as he stood with an assault-style rifle in an encampment near the Lee statue on Monday. He said he feared reprisals from statue defenders, who sometimes appear in small groups at night, or from police.
Meat cooking on a grill, people resting on folding chairs in the shade near small tents, the encampment is an area where protesters can get water, homeless people can get food and Monument Avenue residents can talk with protesters about what’s going on. “This is all love — all community coming together,” said the man, whose shirt read “Legalize Being Black.” Asked how his firearm fit in with a message of love, he replied that protesters have felt threatened and want to show that they have the same right to bear arms as anyone else.
“This is all love — all community coming together,” said the young man, whose shirt read “Legalize Being Black.” Asked how his firearm fit in with a message of love, he replied that protesters have felt threatened at night and want to show that they have the same right to bear arms as anyone else. Depicted kneeling before Lincoln, this man broke his own chains in pursuit of freedom
For an older generation of African Americans, the statues represented a painful past that many had long since given up on reconciling. For an older generation of African Americans, the statues represent a painful past that many had given up on reconciling.
“I think they should make them all mechanical and put quarters in them so the kids can ride them,” said a man who would only give his name as Michael, age 69. He said he grew up in the city’s public housing projects, and as a young man, “we didn’t come over this way, okay? If you were black they would arrest you or call the cops on you if you walked on the grass out here on the traffic circle.” “I think they should make them all mechanical and put quarters in them so the kids can ride them,” said a man who would give his name only as Michael, age 69. He said he grew up in Richmond’s public housing projects, and as a young man, “we didn’t come over this way, okay? If you were black, they would arrest you or call the cops on you if you walked on the grass out here on the traffic circle.”
Wren Vessel, who gave his age as “over 60,” grew up in rural King and Queen County and used to come into town with his father selling tomatoes, green beans and butter beans at the Shockoe Bottom farmers market. Wren Vessel, who gave his age as “over 60,” grew up in rural King and Queen County and used to come to town with his father selling tomatoes, green beans and butter beans at the Shockoe Bottom farmers market. He recalled wanting a hot dog but being turned away from long lines at the “colored” entrance to a Richmond diner when he was too young to understand segregation.
He recalled a time that he and his brother tried to get a hot dog at a diner near the market, but the line was too long at the door marked “colored.” He was so young that he didn’t understand what segregation was. The statues were like that, too, he said. At first, they just seemed like big works of art. Only recently has he grasped the history of racial injustice suggested by their presence. If black people had been given true equality after the Civil War, Vessel said, the statues might never have been built.
The statues were like that, too, he said. At first they just seemed like big works of art. But as Vessel learned more about them, he came to understand the history of racial injustice suggested by their very presence. If blacks had been given true equality after the Civil War, he said, the statues might never have been built. “My vision is for my grandkids and all people — not just my grandkids, but all kids regardless of race — that we have a more fair society,” he said. “And [that] the Constitution’s not just a piece of paper, but it’s something we live by.”
“My vision is for my grandkids and all people — not just my grandkids, but all kids regardless of race — that we have a more fair society. And the Constitution’s not just a piece of paper, but it’s something we live by,” he said. After being toppled in Maryland, a Confederate statue is quietly stored away
Still, Vessel hesitated when asked if he saw removal of the monuments as progress. Keith June, 56, lives in Arlington but has visited Richmond for nearly 30 years, making a hobby of photographing the monuments. “Quite frankly, I never thought they would come down,” he said.
“Well, I see it as a chapter,” he said. “We’ll see what the next chapter is, and we’ll see where it goes.” As an African American, June said, he grew particularly interested in Confederate statues after being stationed in Germany for the Army and watching that nation wrestle with its World War II legacy.
Aaron Wade, 29, flew to Richmond late last month from Los Angeles to see the spectacle in the town where he was born and raised. “It’s almost like the Civil War is finally ending,” he said this week at the Lee statue. “Some of this is generational. Some of this is, you know, Richmond is changing, our nation is changing.”
“I didn’t want to miss a piece of history in my hometown. I couldn’t do it,” Wade, who is African American, said on Thursday as he watched work crews dismantle a statue to Confederate naval figure Matthew Fontaine Maury. “Just being from here, I know what a lot of these monuments meant.” For many of the younger protesters, the statues are just the beginning.
Wade grew up in the east end of Richmond and attended Benedictine, a Catholic boy’s high school then located in the city’s Fan district, just blocks from the monuments. As a member of school’s cross-country team, he ran by them all the time. Mikhail Smith, who is African American, said he grew up in Reston and came to Richmond in March after losing his bartending job to the coronavirus pandemic. The protests have given him a new purpose in life, he said, and sparked interest in a career in politics or the law.
“Monument Avenue was a part of the six miles that we had to run, so going past a lot of these monuments, you know, you become numb to it because it’s so part of the ingrained history,” he said. “This is one of the things we were fighting for, why I’ve been out here for 30 days straight,” said Smith, who turned 26 on Tuesday. Watching Stuart fall, he said, “is like my birthday present to myself.”
His wife — Maria Warith-Wade, 26, a filmmaker — said she had a very different experience with the statues. At the same time, he said, he sees the dismantling of the statues as a superficial change and maybe even a distraction. “They’re making a big deal out of this to kind of take away from other things, like evictions,” Smith said, referring to the notoriously high eviction rate for low-income people in Richmond. “This is like painting an old car; it’s not really like getting a new one.”
“I had parents that were very much into social movements and history,” she said, “and so I never had the privilege of seeing them as, you know, these beautiful things.” Aaron Wade, 29, flew to Richmond late last month from Los Angeles to see the spectacle in the town where he was born and raised. He and his wife, who also grew up in Richmond, have been shooting film for a planned documentary.
Her family took her to historic sites around Virginia, she said, but always made sure she knew the full story. They went to historic Jamestown, but also learned about Gabriel, an enslaved man who led a failed revolt in Richmond in 1800. “I didn’t want to miss a piece of history in my hometown. I couldn’t do it,” Wade, who is African American, said last week as he watched work crews dismantle the Maury statue.
The fall of the Jackson monument the day before was so dramatic — torrential rain, thunder pealing, church bells ringing — that “Spike Lee couldn’t have staged it any better,” said his wife, Maria Warith-Wade, 26.
Wade grew up in the east end of Richmond and attended a Catholic boys high school just blocks from the monuments. As a member of school’s cross country team, he ran down Monument Avenue all the time. “Going past a lot of these monuments, you know, you become numb to it because it’s so part of the ingrained history,” he said.
Warith-Wade said she had a very different experience. “I had parents that were very much into social movements and history,” she said, “and so I never had the privilege of seeing them as, you know, these beautiful things.”
Her family took her to historic sites around Virginia, she said, but always made sure she knew the full story. They went to James­town but also learned about Gabriel, an enslaved man who led a failed revolt in Richmond in 1800.
Warith-Wade said she tried to use those perspectives to see the statues from the point of view of the people who erected them. “The women of the Confederacy, I think that they really wanted to make something beautiful for what they believed in. And if I were in their shoes, maybe I would have thought that way — I don’t know; I’m not a white woman.”Warith-Wade said she tried to use those perspectives to see the statues from the point of view of the people who erected them. “The women of the Confederacy, I think that they really wanted to make something beautiful for what they believed in. And if I were in their shoes, maybe I would have thought that way — I don’t know; I’m not a white woman.”
Now, she hopes, there’s a chance to do something truly beautiful. “I really hope that one day, we’re able to see a lot of these spots on Monument Avenue reclaimed in a way that is welcoming to all the Richmond community,” she said. Now, she said, there’s a chance to do something truly beautiful. “I really hope that one day, we’re able to see a lot of these spots on Monument Avenue reclaimed in a way that is welcoming to all the Richmond community.”
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