Montgomery, Alabama
Site of The Legacy Museum and the six -acre National Memorial for Peace and Justice (aka the Lynching Memorial). These were the main reasons for making the trip and they did not disappoint.
Photos were not allowed inside the museum, so I’ve embedded one of their Instagram posts.
The excitement started before we even entered the exhibits. A hubbub. Early — not even 9:30 am — and ticketed entrants spilled out of the foyer, many more waiting outside. I would’ve loved to know where people had traveled from to be there.
The museum is huge and comprehensive, covering the Transatlantic Slave Trade, Jim Crow, the Civil Rights movement, the prison pipeline, and more. Every inch of the museum is designed to appeal to both emotion and intellect, offering the visitor images, text, and audio. Some exhibits were duplicated on both sides of a small space and entries were timed, so you really could take in the displays (or try to). Other exhibits were cavernous, like the area with replicated runaway slave notices stretching 15 feet up and wrapping around stand-alone display walls.
It’s too much to convey here but let me at least describe the entry and first exhibit.
After passing through security, you enter a small dark room with one wall dedicated to a video of the ocean. It’s probably twenty feet tall. The waves are coming at you. Crashing and swelling. You feel a sense of scale — both the enormity of the ocean and the smallness of your body. And then, projected onto the waves you see a few statistics about the slave trade. Numbers of bodies kidnapped. Numbers of lives lost in transit. The scale of the tragedy is almost impossible to take in.
A powerful way to begin.
Next up, right after the waves, probably my favorite space. Again, it’s small and dark. This time water is projected onto the floor. It’s a luminous blue gridded with white light and it washes over the floor and then recedes. Mirrors amplify the effect. On the floor, as if emerging out of the ground or water: clay heads and busts. They are life-sized. Some are in chains, some wear iron-spike collars or ripped tunics. Others are naked. All express agony or bewilderment. Each is distinct and you cannot stop looking at them. The sparkling water washes over them then recedes, illuminating them and then leaving them in darkness. It’s astonishing.
Scattered throughout the interior are viewing rooms. In one room, there was a video about the artist who made these clay forms. Kwame Akoto-Bamfo. He is from Ghana and you can read about his work here.
The outdoor memorial also uses scale to convey the mind-bending levels of violence perpetrated by white people on Black people. The shed is huge. The down-hanging blocks represent counties, with names of known lynching victims etched upon them. They are not organized by state and so you get this dizzying impression of murder being everywhere — an unavoidable and relentless violence.
D is from Georgia and so photographed her county.
The site is not a static memorial. Each block hanging in the shed has a duplicate version stacked up out on the lawn. If a county is prepared to go through a process of public acknowledgement, they can take their block to their county and post a landmark. The plaques below are copies of such acknowledgments. They are not formulaic. I got the impression each was informed by a thorough and deep community process.
Most of the blocks are unclaimed.
It got crowded. What was six feet became four and then two. It was hot. I started thinking about myself in ways I don’t normally, as old, as immune compromised. So just before it was time to kneel for nine minutes in silence, I left. I said metta all the way home.
May all members of law enforcement be peaceful. May all police be free of inner and outer harm. May they be cared for gently as they walk upon this earth. May they minister to the public gently and for the greater good. May they know joy, wisdom, and compassion.
