THE FORGOTTEN
By Graham
While our class was in the Deep South, we visited the National Memorial for Peace and Justice. This memorial was to commemorate all the lynched black people whose deaths had been recorded. Walking through the lynching memorial, I felt extremely guilty. Being a white person in America, I felt guilty because I have had privileges longer than black people have, and it is possible that my ancestors have mistreated black people. This memorial gave me an immense understanding of what every African American had to go through for over 300 years.
The memorial was focused around metal plaques that had counties’ names written on them. Under each county name were the names of the victims of lynchings that occurred in that area. The plaques were lined up so that you could see every name. At first, visitors see quite a few plaques at eye level, and then the floor dips down and the plaques start to hang from the ceiling. I felt like they did this to symbolize how so many black people that were hanged.
After about one hundred plaques, you turn a corner and see a wall with an inscription: “Thousands of African Americans are unknown victims to racial terror lynchings, whose deaths cannot be documented. Many names will never be known. They are all honored here.” Once I read this quote, I realized that there is a lot we don't know about. So many black people were lynched and their deaths never recorded because of the color of their skin.
After the wall, there was this doorway. You walk through the doorway, and you see the rest of the plaques lined up in three lines. The number of names I saw haunted me. I even saw a name in Pueblo, CO. I walked through every row of plaques and looked at every name; I estimated about over 2,000 names and 400 plaques. While looking through the plaques, I noticed an older black woman on the same path as me. While I was walking, she stop and waited for me to catch up to her. At first, my feeling of guilt made me worried that she was going to call me out for being white. So it surprised when she didn’t. Instead, she asked me, “How is it walking through this, being young?” I responded by saying that it was hard to wrap my head around, especially being white and knowing that people my age fifty years ago were burnt, hanged, and tortured. I didn’t catch her name, but I looked back at her and knew that I impacted her even though I was a white kid who knew nothing of what her ancestors had to go through. I could sense a feeling of guilt, but also a feeling of comfort from talking to her about and recognizing members of my race did to her ancestors.
The memorial was focused around metal plaques that had counties’ names written on them. Under each county name were the names of the victims of lynchings that occurred in that area. The plaques were lined up so that you could see every name. At first, visitors see quite a few plaques at eye level, and then the floor dips down and the plaques start to hang from the ceiling. I felt like they did this to symbolize how so many black people that were hanged.
After about one hundred plaques, you turn a corner and see a wall with an inscription: “Thousands of African Americans are unknown victims to racial terror lynchings, whose deaths cannot be documented. Many names will never be known. They are all honored here.” Once I read this quote, I realized that there is a lot we don't know about. So many black people were lynched and their deaths never recorded because of the color of their skin.
After the wall, there was this doorway. You walk through the doorway, and you see the rest of the plaques lined up in three lines. The number of names I saw haunted me. I even saw a name in Pueblo, CO. I walked through every row of plaques and looked at every name; I estimated about over 2,000 names and 400 plaques. While looking through the plaques, I noticed an older black woman on the same path as me. While I was walking, she stop and waited for me to catch up to her. At first, my feeling of guilt made me worried that she was going to call me out for being white. So it surprised when she didn’t. Instead, she asked me, “How is it walking through this, being young?” I responded by saying that it was hard to wrap my head around, especially being white and knowing that people my age fifty years ago were burnt, hanged, and tortured. I didn’t catch her name, but I looked back at her and knew that I impacted her even though I was a white kid who knew nothing of what her ancestors had to go through. I could sense a feeling of guilt, but also a feeling of comfort from talking to her about and recognizing members of my race did to her ancestors.