Robert E' Lee's Slave

I once wrote, on another blog, a short piece that was slightly critical of Robert E. Lee and his fighting to defend slavery. Turns out even insinuating any flaw in Mr. Lee is almost as dangerous as me writing about black women’s hair.

A comment responding to my blog disturbed me to the point that I did not reply. Not till now at least. The commenter told a story about Robert E. Lee’s manservant who even after the surrender at Appomattox, stayed faithfully by Lee’s side.

The story of Lee’s slave was new to me, but the type of story was not. It is the sort of tale, or detail rather, that has led me to detest “Gone with the Wind” and made me almost incapable of having a reasonable discussion with most armchair historians displaying a southern lean.

If I may, let me respond now.

Tales of faithful slaves or loyal black people dot the landscape of southern histories. Some are true, some are not. One cannot say two words relating the War of Northern Aggression to slavery, or criticize the Confederate flag, without one of these tales, most likely a tale of a black confederate soldier, being immediately thrown back in defense. To this I simply say, “Are you serious?”

Sadly that is completely rhetorical and a bit inflammatory, as I know good and well that they are. These stories, or even historical accounts, of the happy Negro exist and most white people take them at face value as proof that we cannot judge historical values through our modern lenses. The stories are used to show that things weren’t really all that bad, and in some ways were even better. You see, the races, black and white, got along better back then. We even loved and cared for each other. Our children played together, black women nursed white children, and soldiers of each race even fought and died together. Obviously the “peculiar institution” was not as bad as we may think, and historical figures like Lee should not be judged so harshly.

How short sighted.

To read these accounts and come to these conclusions is to make simpletons of all black people and displays a complete ignorance of black realities. These tales do not show that things weren’t as bad as we think but rather display how much worse they really were.

Let’s look at the example of Lee’s manservant, Rev William Mack Lee. A short history of his life was published in 1918.

Rev Lee, who was by this time quite old, was touring the countryside to raise money to fund the building of his church. In his story he tells how he was born on the General’s plantation and stayed loyally by his side throughout the war. He told how all the slaves on Lee’s plantation were freed ten years before the war but all stayed put till after the fighting ended. The autobiography goes on to tell how the Rev. stayed by Lee’s side till the old General passed away, at which time Lee left $360 for the Rev. to “educate himself.”

William wrote: “At the close of the war I did not know A from B…I went to school. I studied hard at the letter, but my greatest learning came from Jesus Christ”.

So, at face value we have a former slave who was freed by his master but stayed with him. Years after his old masters death he is still singing his praises. Not only singing, but thanks to the generosity of the old master he is also writing and preaching. What a great man this master must have been.

Or maybe he was just great in comparison to all the other white people William knew. An oft ignored aspect of life in the mid 1800’s and earlier, is that just because a state, or a group, opposed slavery, one cannot assume those states or groups actually liked or accepted black people. In fact the popular proposal of those who opposed slavery was that black people should all be shipped back to Africa. Some even did just that, founding the country of Liberia.
A black person, who somehow attained freedom, was in no way guaranteed rest and peace. More likely a freed slave was now tossed into an open market that did not want and often would not allow, black participation. An appreciation for the difficulty and outright persecution faced by free black people would lead us to look closer at the choices historical black characters made.
Some chose to stay put, like those on Lee’s plantation. A benevolent master, who didn’t beat you, at least not that much, may have been a safer bet than the rabble beyond the plantation gates. More telling yet, was that knowing the scorn the outside society held in store, many, many, chose to risk life and try for freedom.

General Lee appreciated William's education so much that he financed it. How nice. But then again, if it was truly important, why didn't he educate Mr. William Lee himself rather than through a gift in his will? It seems many a gracious slave owner was mostly only gracious after his death.

The Civil War, with its Northern Armies marching through the heart of the south gave the biggest opportunity for slaves to flee the farm for freedom. Rev. William Lee did not. It may have been his loyalty to that great man, or could it also have possibly been that to stand next to Robert E. Lee was also to stand next to the very military might of the confederacy. There is a famous tale, the one retold to me by the commenter, of how directly following the surrender at Appomattox, Gen. Lee retired to his tent and did not reemerge for the space of a day. All the while William Lee sat loyal watch outside the tent without moving.

Might I inquire where he would have gone?

If I were a black man standing in the middle of 8,000 armed soldiers who had just been in the business of killing others to defend their right to own a black person, many of their closest friends having died in the process, and who have just received notice that they lost the war; I might just sit still on a stool counting the seconds till one of these men finds a convenient target on whom to express his frustration. I could either run out into the midst of these heart broken sharp shooters, or I could stick close to the side of the one who may protect me or at least someone who appreciated my services. One may think I could run to the Union troops, they aren’t so far away; but then again how am I to know that those Union soldiers like black people? Truth is many union soldiers resented black people due to the fact that they saw themselves fighting and dying for a whole race of people they saw as inferior and best kept away from themselves and their women. To automatically assume that I would stay put simply out of devotion is to ignore everyone else and everything around me.

Of course I was not there. I did not know either of the Lees in question. Maybe we should just stick with what was in Rev. Lee’s book.

Like the following:
“Still limping from a Yankee bullet, an old darkey, with a grizzled beard and an honest face, hobbled into the office of the World-News at a busy hour yesterday.
"Kin you white folks gimme a little money fur my church?" he asked, doffing his tattered hat as he bowed.
Typewriters tickled their hurried denial.
The aged negro cocked his head on one side. "What, I ain't gwine ter turn away Ole Marse Robert's nigger is yer? You didn't know dat I was Gen. Robert Lee's cook all through de wah, did yer?" Every reporter in the office considered that introduction sufficient, and listened for half an hour to William Mack Lee, who followed General Robert E. Lee as body guard and cook throughout the Civil War. When the Negro lifted his bent and broken figure from a chair to take his leave every man in the office reached into his pocket, for a contribution.”


Before you send me more stories of the happy slave, do me a big favor and go look up the term “shuck-n-jive” first.

Are They Called Negroes?

She was by far the oldest person at the family reunion. She shuffled around and everyone stooped down to explain, help, and give reverence to the reigning matriarch of the occasion. I’m not really sure how we are related, great aunt, great cousin in-law, I have never been all that close with this side of the family.

I found myself sitting next to her at a banquet table one evening. “what nationality is she?” she asked me, referring to my daughter, who was sitting near us.

“Her Mom is African-American.”

“Afro what? African? Amrination?” she struggled.

“Her Mom, my wife, is black,” I simplified.

“Oh. Well ya never know. Sometimes they adopt ya know. Now where exactly is Philadelphia? What is it near?”

I thought about how to answer her question and took the easy way out. “Its near New York.” I was not prepared for what she asked next.

“Now, there’s lots of Negroes in New York right?”

I don’t recall exactly how I answered. I think I stammered some sort of affirmation trying to be respectful to both an old lady and a whole race of people.

“Nancy says I’m not supposed to say Negro. Is it Colored? I just don’t know what to say. What was it you said earlier? AfreeMerin?”

She doesn’t hear all that well, so I thought it best to just stay simple, “just say black.”

“They used to be really mean to them I think. Wouldn’t let them sit on the busses, go to school. I just don’t know, but I think that wasn’t right. I just think it was mean. But it’s better now, right? That’s all done now isn’t it.”

I could have answered her a million ways. I could have been upset, could have just dismissed her entirely, or climbed high up on my horse and lectured my senior. I imagined what my wife’s face would have looked like had she been here to hear the whole exchange; mouth open, one eyebrow arched higher than the other, head slightly to the side.

“It was worse than mean. It was more than wrong. Things can still get better.” Is all I said.

I should explain something about this woman.
Earlier that same day the whole family had taken a trip to not only where this woman grew up, but where she has spent nearly all her life; Lyman Wyoming. I stood in front of a small wood home, looked right, looked left, turned all the way around and saw nothing but that house. Not a tree, not a building, nothing. Nothing all the way to the horizon in all directions. For most of her life she had to travel just to see another person. I think she may have met a total of 2.5 black people in her whole life. It has been a long life. Lest one think this isolation would amplify the affects of media, I should mention that for most of this woman’s life, they had no power. They had no power, as in influence, but mostly just in that they had no electricity. They lived “off the grid” as the hipsters would say today, but they did it in the 60’s.

What should I expect from a woman who lived in Wyoming with no TV during the 60’s? She is the equivalent of the average American today and our awareness of the state of indigenous tribes in Central America.

She is the generation of my grandmother. What should I expect her to have taught her children about race? Should I have expected her to address such an abstract in her world at all? We learn what we know through teaching and experience. On this subject she neither had, nor could give either.

Bishop William Henderson

See this post with pictures at http://www.brohammas.com

The door to the Michigan Street Baptist Church was closed, but it wasn’t locked. As I stepped inside I heard a voice from downstairs call, “hello?”

The voice belonged to a middle aged black man who introduced himself as Bishop Montgomery. I chuckled a little and introduced myself the same way. “Well aren’t we something? That over there is Bishop Henderson,” Bishop Montgomery said, pointing to a grey bearded man seated at the table.

Bishop Montgomery showed me around the small chapel. The pulpit is original. It is where Montgomery speaks on Sundays, and where Dubois spoke long ago. He showed me the progress of current renovations to the stained glass windows, and directed my attention to a small door leading to the attic. “That up there used to hide runaway slaves.” I was told about how hiding runaways was risky, even in a free state. If caught, the church would be shut down. But the church hid them still the same. We talked for a bit as we, walked back downstairs.

“This old guy here is the one to answer your history questions,” Montgomery said as Bishop Henderson slowly pulled himself up to his feet.

I haven’t met anyone quite like Bishop Henderson.

He took me to the back of the basement and into the bathroom. Here he pulled aside a curtain to show a small compartment, smaller than coat closet. He told me that people being ushered along the Underground Railroad would crouch here, hiding from slave catchers. He told me the place was special and he wouldn’t let the workers patch up the hole in the wall when they modernized the building. He told me how no one ever liked slave catchers, even people who didn’t like black people still didn’t like slave catchers. These holders of negative opinion included the city judge, the one the slave catchers would have to go to get warrants. This judge would start proceedings, excuse himself to use the restroom, and never come back, abandoning the court while in session. He told of how those running away had to rely completely on the goodness of others, others meaning white people, to usher them to freedom. Black people could only conduct at night. It was up to whites to open houses, drive wagons, row boats, as black people would all be targets of capture themselves. He told the stories with energy, conviction, and surprising detail.

I let him talk, he likes to talk, but one question started to distract me from all the rest. Finally I asked, “You are a Baptist Bishop, you were the pastor of this very church, why do you wear a star of David?”

He smiled as his hand moved up to the pendant around his neck. You see, my mother was African-American, but my Dad was a Jew. I used to hate my Dad, but as time has gone along, I have grown to appreciate him and the culture he came from. “So it’s an ethnic rather than religious symbol for you?” I continued. “Yes.”

Now I had a whole new set of questions.
“You are, shall we say from a generation before my own,” I began; “More like two,” he interrupted. “Was it difficult being raised the product of mixed parentage?”

He told me the following story:
“I wasn’t raised mixed. I wasn’t raised by my parents. A black family adopted me when I was very little and black was all I ever knew. My family was black, everyone at school was black, and everyone in church was black. I never knew of anything like prejudice till high school when I became best friends with a boy, six foot three and dark skinned… looked just like me. Wherever we went, people would say, there go salt n’ pepper. As I got older I would occasionally guest pastor at some other churches, black churches. I would stand up in front of them and watch as they started whispering around to each other, who is this guy and what does he have to say to US? I would just smile and say, my mom was black and my dad was a Jew. I’m not black or white, I’m a whole new creature created by God to preach of Christ! He said this always went over well.

I knew my Dad growing up; I just didn’t know he was my Dad. Our neighborhood was mixed back then, we had some of everybody. We used to watch the Jewish people walk to church on Saturdays. They wouldn’t drive, that was work, and they observed the Sabbath.
I had a dog, I loved that dog like little boys do; he was my best friend. One day the dog was hit in the road and I remember sitting there in the street holding my dog as it died, tears flowing as I cried. People were all gathered round, just watching, not doing anything. Then, through the crowd, came this man. He bent down and put his arms around me and held me, comforted me. No one else moved, just this white, Jewish man, and I felt a special bond with him from that day on. We all used to play in the streets and I would see him from time to time, watching from a distance. I didn’t know till much later that he was my Dad, just as I didn’t appreciate till much later that my father had no choice.
I was a child born out of wedlock and as such had to be cast out. It didn’t matter my race, I wasn’t allowed.”

He showed me a picture of his mother, who died while he was a child. He showed me a picture of his wife and grown daughter. I told him about my daughters. I told him about how my six year old was confused when told about segregation, with special places for white and black. She wanted to know where the tan kids sat. He smiled; he does that easily.

“Talk to your kids. You don’t have to tell them more than they are ready for, they learn bit by bit, but answer the questions as they come.”
“I warned you he liked to talk,” Bishop Montgomery interjected as he walked through the room. It was time for me to go.

I think Bishop Henderson would have sat and talked with me all day had I kept asking questions. I would have liked that. But the parking meter was still running, I had a schedule to keep, and wisdom does no good if we never step back into the real world.
I shook his hand, took his card, and he showed me to the door.

Al Allen

One Easter season Al Allen, a man from a previous generation, took pity on a young couple with no family in town, and invited us over for an Easter dinner. As we made our way down his stairs to where a larger than normal table was set up to accommodate us, we stepped into what could have been a Greenville County black history museum.

Every inch of wall space in the finished basement was covered with photographs, certificates, and various nostalgic paraphernalia. There was a young Al with a football team, with some man in a suit, with a group of men in suits, pictures of buildings I had never seen, and some pictures of buildings I had seen. The images were all in black and white, but the people were all black. He told me tales of when he met with so and so, or worked on a commission with you know who, none of who's names I knew then or can remember now; except Sterling Field.

I played rugby on Sterling Field three times a week. It was in the less attractive part of town, we had to share the field with local little league football teams, but it was the cheapest field around for a low budget sports club. "Used to be a great field," Mr. Allen told me matter of factly. "Yeah? What happened to it?" I asked, not really caring as I was more interested in the images on the wall than his list of unrecognized names. His answer to my half hearted question got my full attention.

He told me how Sterling High school used to have the best football team around. It was the county's black school and the pride of all who went there. The kids got a top notch education, the community loved the place, and to top it all off, they won football games. Then came integration.

Integration didn't happen all at once. Like most things, first rumors started, then meetings were held, and finally maybe a couple years later, something would happen. It was the late 60's and the writing was on the wall, the whole state knew it was coming. Word came that Sterling would not be closed, sending their students off to other schools, but rather white kids were to be sent there. This was a top performing school both in academics and on the field; it was going to be a great example and the Sterling community was guardedly excited. Then, the year before it was to integrate...

It burned to the ground.

It caught fire the night of prom and burned down to stubble. The school was never rebuilt, and in 1970 all the kids were bussed off to other schools.

As he told the story there was no anger or resentment in his voice. He was just an older guy telling a "back in the day" story. He moved right from that story to showing me his collection of R&B records. The rest of the night consisted of great food, his wife chiding him for trying to smoke in doors when a baby was in the house, and him later giving that baby a stuffed rabbit the size of a live horse. I've never been the best at keeping in touch and I have no idea how Al Allen is today. I wonder how he is, but I never do anything.

Travelers and visitors to Greenville would never know stories like this, and that is just fine. Everywhere has its ghosts; they need not be put on constant display. So if you ever find yourself half way between Atlanta and Charlotte, enjoy it. Visit the Reedy River with its stunning bridge, get some jewelry at the Beaded Frog, and as you look at the confederate flags. know that Sterling field used to be nice.

Tuskegee Airmen

An oft ignored or unknown aspect of post emancipation America is the systematic crushing of black dreams. Those of my generation have always known, or been taught, of the first black this, or first black that. The initial astronaut, millionaire, Oscar winner, or president, have been praised. They have been praised to such an extent that the significance and relevance of such achievements have been lost, rendering the names trivial. Those cynical, young, or simply white, oft find it difficult to not drift towards the all encompassing, “so what.”

I turned off my prescribed path to follow a sign announcing a Tuskegee Airmen Memorial. I was nowhere near Alabama, North Africa, or even a military base. I was intrigued. I found myself at an isolated South Carolina field that had at one time, just a short time, served as an airstrip servicing the squadron of black airmen while in training. There was a small statue under a tree, a couple of plaques explaining some history, and an old searchlight.
The plaques explained that in an effort to squelch the new squadron, officials required all applicants to have a college degree and flight experience. Those same officials were astounded at the number of men who qualified. To that surprise is where my thoughts wandered.

We have been taught, indoctrinated, with the ideal of the American dream. We have been raised with the expectation that in America if you work hard, if you try, you will achieve. I was told by my teachers, my parents, my politics, by my very culture, that I must learn, work, and try. If I did, my goals would be realized. All these African-American firsts helped to prove this. A memorial to the Airmen helped me realize otherwise.

Those surprised officials believed the dream. These Americans had misjudged their culture’s ability to elevate the able. They saw the lack of black doctors, professors, lawyers, and black professionals as proof that black people lacked qualifications. In the land of meritocracy it was assumed that the disparity in achievement was a direct result of who had, or did not have, merit. They were proved wrong. How did they get it so wrong?

Slaves were not allowed to read or write, yet there was still a Frederick Douglass. After Emancipation schools were opened and quickly flooded with students. Most of our books or lessons plot this point on the timeline and chart a vertical trajectory in dramatic fashion. The subsequent glossing over of all that transpired between then and the civil rights movement has left us blind to things we still don’t want to see. All those firsts were not the first qualified, they were the first allowed.

For every one who achieved there were many who had previously learned and worked hard only to be thwarted. They were not held back by inadequacy but by America. W.E.B. Dubois, the first black man to graduate with a PhD from Harvard, a man now considered one of the United States greatest sociologists, was commissioned by the University of Pennsylvania to do research and teach their students, but was denied a seat as professor. He could teach the students, but not be recognized as a teacher. Fisk, Howard, Morehouse, and even Harvard and Yale, produced black graduates long before the greater society produced black professionals. It seems the speed of work, education, and legislation, were outpaced by locked doors, hard heads, and burnt crosses.

America is the land of dreams, the land of opportunity? Yes, but it is, and has also been, a land littered with the remnants of crushed dreams and dashed aspirations. Our country has created for itself a dual past and a checkered present. Some were elevated and rewarded, others filled full of hope only to have it pushed back into the ground from which it sprung. Things were not fair. Things were never meant to be completely fair. That is true no matter one's race just as it is true that any man or woman stands a better chance of progress in America than any other land. We can hold our heads high but should never do so with eyes closed. If America is to pride herself in all the firsts she helped create, she must also admit that she is the one who stopped many other firsts from happening.

But the firsts have come. As I looked at the bronze bust of a brown pilot looking up at the sky, I smiled cynically. I smiled because it made perfect sense why these pilots showed no fear of German planes. It was obvious why they proved so adept at avoiding enemy flak. These were men who had a lifetime of having their dreams being shot down. They had previously been trained under ‘friendly fire.’ That is the real triumph of these airmen. I cannot, nor do I know anyone who can, tell me the name of any of these heroes. I can find no real record of any of them later reaching some notable milestone. They weren’t remarkable for any one event or battle. What made them special is that they existed and despite the anti-aircraft fire from home, they still had wings and flew.

Black People Are More Racist; Part 1 of Many

My wife and I were once asked to describe ourselves in five words or less. Mine went something like Mormon, husband, artist, blah, blah, blah, hers went black, woman, something, something, something.
If this would have been a few years earlier her answer would have worried me. It may have even upset me.

Race was not just on her list but at the top. Race? Black? Really? I had not even thought to list my color. In my own mind color had absolutely nothing to do with who I was as a person. Race shouldn't’t even matter right? Listing that as the top thing on your list is a problem right? Was it wrong?

I should back up a bit.

Growing up I felt I had absolutely no culture. I looked at my Hawaiian friend with envy as his family performed traditional dances and sang songs in another language. I spent considerable time with a group of American Indian dancers and always secretly, or not so secretly, wished I would one day be adopted into one of their tribes. My family name is Scottish and with little to no real knowledge of the foggy isle, I developed an appreciation for bagpipes that I maintain to the present day. I loved and appreciated everyone’s culture mostly because I felt I didn’t have one of my own.

Then I left Utah.

I went to a place where I looked like everyone else, but I was nothing like them. We spoke the same language but the accent was new. The people were every bit as religious as I, we even worshiped using the same words, but the meanings were no where near the same. I knew songs these new people did not. I even celebrated a holiday in July they knew nothing about. I discovered something. I discovered I had a culture all along, I simply did not recognize it when I was in that culture’s cradle. I hadn’t recognized my culture because it helped me blend in with everyone else rather than making me stand out.

As I spent more time outside my native place I became more comfortable. I learned my way and place with new groups, still I found myself more comfortable more quickly, with those who came from the same place I did. I found I could relate quicker to those who went snowboarding not out of some X Games adrenaline quest, but simply because it was what we always did. It was what everyone did. I am very in tune with my own mortality, so much so that while I snowboard, I avoid the half pipe at all costs. Those who only know of snowboarding from the movies or ESPN2 have trouble understanding this, or even believing it. I related to people who went camping for fun, because it was what we all did for fun. I was, and still am to some point, comfortable around others with this shared culture because they are more likely to understand little things about me. They are more likely to get past what I am to understand who I am.

At work I quickly became “the Mormon guy”, and rarely became anything more than that. I paint, read, write, travel, love to talk politics, love football, and love movies, but if my work associates ever tried to talk with me one on one, they never got much past “so you don’t drink at all? How many wives do you really have?”

Sometimes my culture brings me in direct conflict with the culture I live in. I will not eat at Hooters, I will not go to your bachelor party if it includes certain activities or locations, and sports or parties are not part of my Sunday. I find most people are respectful of who I am and what I believe, but they don’t understand it.

I have a deep and all encompassing culture and all throughout my youth I didn’t know it. I never saw it because it blended with everyone else. No one had to point out my culture because it was theirs as well.

That’s why it did not, nor does it upset me, that my wife wrote black on her list.

We white people don’t think our whiteness is part of who we are.

It is.

We don’t see it because largely, every one else we see is white too. Try going somewhere whites don’t go. A club, a neighborhood, an island, or even continent and see how long your whiteness remains a non-factor. It’s O.K., its part of who you are. Do it your whole life and see if it doesn’t begin to shape you.
See if you don’t begin to feel comfortable with those who also relate to being white when no one else is. See if you don’t enjoy the comfort of being with those who don’t need you to explain yourself. See if your color makes it’s way onto your list.

I know this now. Because I know this I am not upset or offended, nor am I afraid of or alienated by, a black person declaring they are black. I do not mind black kids sitting together at lunch, or mind that there is a channel or a caucus where race matters. I do not mind it and it is not inherently racist.

It’s O.K. To some point, I get it.

Robert E. Lee

(post with photographs can be viewed at http://www.brohammas.com)
I once had a small handbook titled “How to Speak Southern.” Under the heading Robert E. Lee, the book had the definition, “The finest gentlemen to ever walk the face of the earth and greatest example of what it means to be Southern.” I believe it was the only part of the book not written in jest.

Robert E. Lee was born in 1807 at Stratford Hall, only a few miles from where George Washington was born, on the Chesapeake Bay. Lee was the product of Colonial gentry and his father was a revolutionary hero (Light horse Harry). Built in the 1730’s, the home remains enviable to this day. It is everything you would expect for the original Governor of Virginia and the very definition of “landed gentry.”

There is a fee to enter the grounds and when you do so they take some general information for their visitor’s log. When I told the man in the little booth my zip code he paused, “that’s Philadelphia isn’t it?”
Turns out he grew up 3 blocks from where I now live. He asked if the area has gotten any better to which I had to reply, “not really.” He knocked ten dollars off my admission.

The place is closed for winter renovations and I could see carpenters at work through the frosted windows. The brochures talk of how the estate was a self sustained village and center for colonial life. That looked as if it was true, with the palace in the center and village shacks surrounding it. Upon closer inspection all the small shacks were labeled “slave quarters.” The larger shacks or buildings were the stables and barn, or the detached, large, kitchen that served the main house.

I have often read of the struggle Lee had at the outbreak of the war, as to which side he would join. He was invited to lead the Union forces but declined in order to serve Virginia and become the most storied General in the Civil War. Looking at the grandeur of his childhood I wonder how much of an internal struggle he may have really had. Here, before me was a level of comfort I would never aspire to gain, but it was his heritage. Here I saw a way of life that anyone would hope to one day gain, but he had it before he entered this world. It was who he was.

It would have taken a remarkable person to join and fight for a side in which victory meant the destruction of the world from which he came. If the North prevailed, places like Stratford Hall would be unsustainable.

Then again, Lee would have had a front row seat to the horrors of slavery. Lee would have seen what it looked like to degrade another person for your own benefit. He would have sat at the table being served by people who were good enough to raise your children, but then beaten when displaying independent thought. How could someone who saw this first hand pick up the sword in order to defend the right to kill and maim another person without punishment?

Many will think me unfair in my thought process and wondering here. Many will say I cannot judge a man in history by present standards. Many will tell me to relax and temper my zeal.

None of those leveling that criticism will be black people. The ones descended from those who truly had the most at stake in Lee’s decision.