On Saturday morning, February 14, 2004, ominous clouds hovered over our dedication day as far as the eye could see. Thirty minutes prior to the set time for the unveiling, they opened and the water fell. When Robert Walker stood to welcome over a thousand guests there on that mud soaked battle ground, he said he had been asked if he had not prayed for sunshine, to which he responded, “No, I prayed for this day.” And it had arrived.
I stood there alone under an umbrella watching the people gather closer to the draped monument, unaware of the hundreds of chairs arranged to seat the crowds. I stood under my umbrella there behind the podium and thought back to Shelby Foote’s words - “But the Civil War defined us as what we are and it opened us to being what we became, good and bad things.”
In that moment I realized we were there that day to realize one of the “good thing” the historian was referring to. I looked around and saw there gathered on the grounds of one of the crucial campaigns of this nation’s Civil War, American citizens, black and white together sharing an historic moment some 140 years later. I was reminded how I felt during my research in discovering that history is personal and not always easy, not so much about memorizing dates or places or people’s names, but investigating and struggling through the who, where, when, and why of people. It was no secret that this memorial would be a reminder of a confusing, difficult time in our history as a state and as a nation, but I also knew it could now serve as a reminder of how far we’ve come and where we can still go.
As I saw familiar faces trudging through the water and trying to stay dry, my mind went back to those many nights that I had formed the flesh of these men and I thought about how our time is different from theirs. This had been a time of examining my own heart and wondering about others, pondering human motivation, as we say we want to move beyond race, yet often feel compelled to focus on just that.
Then I heard my friend Robert Walker’s voice and I watched as members of the Mississippi African American Monument Committee gathered, and I realized they had exhibited the courage to select a relatively unknown white Mississippi sculptor to execute this long awaited tribute. In that moment there was personal significance about the power of this memorial in the very fact that these people looked beyond the outside to the heart. Was that not, after all, the very hope that had propelled these men we were honoring to selflessly give of themselves for the dream that one day the world would focus on their human dignity and not just their color.
Vicksburg National Military Park historian Terry Winschel once wrote about the Park monuments and memorials, “More than works of art, the figures of stone and bronze symbolize a legacy of freedom and will remind generations of Americans yet unborn of courage, valor, heroism, and devotion to duty.”
It is my hope and prayer that this work will be another effective step to that end and will remind and challenge each visitor in the coming years to examine his or her own heart. Though anonymous, these men shout to each of us to consider the words of another anonymous black soldier of their era who said, “No matter where I fight, I only wish to spend what I have, and fight as long as I can, if only my boy may stand in the street equal to a white boy when the war is over.”
On that rain soaked overcast morning in the midst of those rolling Vicksburg hills, I thought of that man’s words and I imagined him wandering into the crowd. What would we have said to him? I think I would have told him as I stood there on the street with my friend Robert Walker that the war is over.