Stonewall Jackson’s 200th birthday was yesterday, and this is how I celebrated!
Category: history
bookmark_borderPhotos and videos from Lee-Jackson Day
This past weekend was Lee-Jackson Day, the holiday honoring Generals Robert E. Lee and Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson!
One day, I would love to go to the celebrations in Lexington, Virginia honoring these two amazing heroes. But because I live too far away for that to be practical, I enjoyed looking at the photos and videos on social media. The celebration of Lee-Jackson Day confirms to me that there are still some people who believe in honoring heroes and doing what is right.
I also thought this would be a good time to introduce my new project: The Historical Heroes Blog.
There, you can check out photos and videos from the ceremony at Stonewall Jackson Cemetery, parade, and flag ceremony at Lee-Jackson Park, to give just a few examples.
This new blog will be dedicated to sharing content that I find around the internet about my favorite historical figures – art, quotes, statues, birthdays, holidays, events, news, and more. Unlike the content on this blog, the content on the new blog will focus solely on the positive. Given the horrific events of the past few years, positivity is a concept that often seems elusive. For the first two years of the statue genocide, it was almost entirely absent. But gradually, I have become able, through various avenues, to find small glimmers of hope that make me smile. Not by moving on from the historical figures whom I love, but by celebrating them and honoring them and incorporating them into my life as much as I can. (I wrote more about this concept in my post about Christmas and New Year’s). It is the desire to collect these glimmers of hope, of beauty, of goodness, that gave rise to the creation of the new blog. In the darkest days of the statue genocide, the idea of creating such a blog didn’t occur to me, because I assumed it would be impossible to find suitable content for one. Everything relating to historical figures was dark, sickening, horrifying, and negative. But the idea for the new blog began to take shape in my mind last year, and shortly after the new year I finally launched it. I am hopeful that the new blog will be a place for hope, beauty, and goodness, and a place to celebrate and honor historical figures, for years to come.
I will continue this blog as well, as a place to share my opinions, thoughts, and experiences about the things going on in the world. Over the years, this blog has undergone many transformations. At first, I pretty much stuck to sharing my opinions about current events, with a little bit of sports stuff and a little bit of history stuff thrown in. When I became interested in watching high-profile trials, my first-hand reports from the trials that I attended became the primary focus of the blog. Then the blog went relatively dormant for a while, when I lacked the time, energy, and inspiration to update it. Over the past few years, the horrible things happening to historical figures affected me so deeply that my writings became centered around this subject and the personal impact that it had on me. Recently, I’ve spent more time thinking about my identity as a person on the autism spectrum and how this is intertwined with the statues. I feel that my autism, my imaginary world, and my love of historical figures are strongly connected. Given that the majority of autistic voices seem to express political beliefs that are the opposite of mine, I feel that I have a perspective that is unique and different and therefore important to share. In the future, I plan to write more about my personal experiences with autism and mental health, as well as statues, historical figures, individual rights, and anything else that I have a strong opinion on.
As always, thank you for reading.
bookmark_borderRemoving statues is the opposite of being welcoming and inclusive
I was sitting and drinking coffee when I learned something that made my brain explode. Just a second earlier, I had been talking with my parents about a mini snowman that someone had made on top of a mailbox, which I had spotted during my walk and found really cute and funny. But now their innocuous questions – Do you know who made it? Did you post the picture on Instagram? – made my brain physically hurt. Filled to capacity by the horrific news, it simply could not accept any more input.
I covered my ears. I could not process, let alone answer, the simple questions. The sounds of silverware and plates clattering at nearby tables were like bombs exploding in my cranium. A group of people walked behind me; to my tortured brain their chatter sounded like shrill screaming.
“What was this horrible news?” you might be wondering.
Good question.
The answer: the fact that the National Park Service reportedly planned to remove a statue of William Penn from Independence National Historic Park in Philadelphia, the historic site dedicated to the Declaration of Independence. The obliteration of Penn as a historical figure was planned in order, in the NPS’s words, to make the park more “welcoming” and “inclusive” (source here).
Nothing could be further from the truth.
I like historical figures. I like historical figures because I have been bullied and excluded all my life. I have never fit in with the people around me, and I have never been able to relate to them. I only relate to historical figures. By removing historical figures from public spaces, our society is ensuring that I cannot feel welcome or included in those spaces. This makes those spaces less, not more, welcoming and inclusive.
All of the people who wear the latest fashions, speak using the latest slang, listen to the latest music, watch the latest shows, and spend their time texting and face timing with their friends… they don’t need to feel more welcomed or included. They’ve felt welcome and included their entire lives, because they are the majority. It’s people like me, who wore plaid dresses and skirts, did their hair in pigtails, collected dolls and toy soldiers, listened to show tunes and Disney music, and spent their time making paper dolls and reading about historical figures… it’s people like me who have faced a lifetime of exclusion because of how we dress, how we talk, what we like, and how we spend our time. It’s people like me who need, and deserve, to feel more welcomed and included.
But instead, our society has decided to make people like me feel less welcomed and included. Removing statues, removing the names of historical figures from buildings and streets, replacing Columbus Day with Indigenous Peoples’ Day… these actions create a less, not more, welcoming and inclusive world. After spending a lifetime feeling excluded at school, in extracurricular activities, online, and in social groups, I have now, for the past three and a half years, been forced to witness the public spaces of our country being reconfigured using cranes and work crews to ensure that I feel excluded there, too.
Historical figures are me. Historical figures are the only people I can relate to. By eliminating them from public spaces, our society has also eliminated any possibility for me to exist in those spaces without being filled with grief, anger, and pain. Society has actively transformed public space to ensure that people like me do not feel welcomed or included there.
So, no. Removing a statue of William Penn does not make a park more welcoming or inclusive. It does the opposite.
And then there is the obvious fact that removing something is, by its very nature, the opposite of being inclusive. Think about it: removing something from a space necessarily means that fewer things are now being included in that space. Removing a statue necessarily means that fewer historical figures are now being depicted, fewer stories being told, fewer perspectives being represented. That’s the antithesis of being inclusive.
As a commenter on the post linked above astutely wrote, “Not inclusive of white people… If they want ‘inclusive’ history why not just add it?”
Exactly.
I began this blog post by describing my experience in the coffee shop in order to demonstrate that the National Park Service, by coming up with the plan to remove the William Penn statue, actively inflicted harm on me as an autistic person. The NPS’s actions directly caused me emotional distress and directly caused my brain to explode in agonizing pain. Yet another way in which the NPS’s decision is the opposite of being welcoming and inclusive.
There is, however, a nugget of good news in this story. According to more recent reports (see comments section of source linked above) the NPS has changed their mind and now does not intend to do anything to the statue of William Penn. Fingers crossed that this is correct.
bookmark_borderAtrocity
Disgusting.
Cruel.
Vicious.
Intolerant.
Immoral.
Heartbreaking.
Again and again I’ve tried to find words adequate to describe actions like the ones that took place in Charlottesville today, and again and again the English language comes up short.
Acts like these have taken place so many times over the past three and a half hellish years that I cannot keep track, my brain cannot comprehend the overwhelming magnitude of what has happened.
Yet again, the winning side of the war decides, for some inexplicable reason, to beat up on the losing side.
Yet again, the strong, powerful establishment decides to torment the rebels, the dissenters, the underdogs, all while preposterously claiming that they are somehow disadvantaged and oppressed.
One meager statue representing human diversity, representing dissent, representing being different from the norm, amidst a sea of essentially identical statues all representing mindless conformity, deemed unacceptable in their eyes.
Having relentlessly criticized my clothes, my hair, my shoes, my socks, ridiculed the way that I speak, bullied me because I like different music and movies and books than they do, none of that was enough for them. My special interest – the one thing that makes my life worth living – had to be destroyed too, the public spaces of our country redesigned to ensure that I receive the message that I am hated, that I am unacceptable, that I am sick and deviant, that I am not welcome to exist.
I am deemed unworthy of even a single work of public art making me feel accepted, making me feel included.
Yet again my body, mind, and soul are consumed by agonizing, unbearable pain.
There are no words that can fully convey how much I hate the people – and I use that word loosely – who did this.
They do not hold the moral high ground.
They forfeited any claim to it a long time ago.
They deserve the most severe punishment possible.
But even that would not be enough, because no punishment could possibly be as severe as the punishment that they have inflicted on me – an innocent person who has done nothing wrong – through their actions.
bookmark_borderColumbus Day 2023
For the past four years, for reasons that I probably don’t need to elaborate on, Columbus Day has been an occasion for turmoil and emotional upheaval.
The day started out with the promise of more of the same. The never-ending list of atrocities, of heartless attacks against the thing that makes my life worth living, was weighing on me as it so often does. The horrific images and vicious words made it difficult to sleep, as they so often do, and I woke up later than I planned, with my brain feeling foggy and my limbs feeling like lead. I missed the bus, and after walking to the train station, with ice cold wind ripping at my clothing and sunlight shining directly into my eyes, I missed the train and had to wait a long time for the next one.
Finally, I arrived in Boston with flowers and a note. My plan was to visit Christopher Columbus, say hello, and take a few photos of him. Then, if I couldn’t physically go up to him to leave the flowers and note, which I figured would probably be the case because he is located at the Knights of Columbus building which is enclosed by a fence, I would head to his former location, where a heartbreaking empty pedestal still stands, and leave the flowers and note atop the pedestal. I wasn’t certain whether I even wanted to go through with this plan, because I was running so far behind schedule, and because seeing the empty pedestal and the people happily going about their business around it, is just so painful.
To my surprise, the gate was open. There were a bunch of men standing around in the parking lot, who I assumed to be members of the Knights of Columbus. So I summoned the courage to walk through it and go up to them.
“Sorry to interrupt,” I began, “but I’m a big fan of your statue, and I was wondering if I could leave some flowers for him.”
One of the Knights responded in the affirmative and even offered to take my picture with Christopher.
I left the note and the flowers, and wished them all a happy Columbus Day.
I am glad that the Knights were so kind and welcoming, and also that I happened to stop by while they were there, giving me an opportunity to leave my gift for Chris.
Chris means so much to me, that it is strange to think that I had never actually gotten this close to him before, or had my picture taken with him.
At this moment, my heart is full.
Happy Columbus Day.
bookmark_borderWhy I celebrate Columbus Day
I celebrate individuals who are remarkable, not mundane and ordinary.
I celebrate courage, not cowardice.
I celebrate independence of thought, not mindless conformity to the dictates of social norms and political correctness.
I celebrate things that are meaningful, not meaningless.
I celebrate things that are interesting, not bland, dull, and gray.
I celebrate people who stand up to bullies. I don’t celebrate bullies.
I celebrate a beautiful man – in body, mind, and spirit – not those who cruelly smash and rip and tear his body to pieces.
I don’t celebrate people who strangle, drown, burn, and lynch others for being quirky and eccentric and different and thinking for themselves.
I don’t celebrate people who inflict horrific and excruciating pain.
I don’t celebrate the deliberate infliction of harm for no other reason than thinking you are superior to other people because you are part of the majority and they are part of the minority.
I don’t celebrate contemptuous, self-righteous intolerance.
I don’t celebrate people who seek to obliterate the cultures, perspectives, viewpoints, and stories of others.
I side with people who have actually been harmed, oppressed, discriminated against, wronged, traumatized. Not with people who just pretend that they have.
Therefore, I celebrate Columbus Day, not Indigenous Peoples’ Day.
If that makes me a white supremacist, so be it.
bookmark_borderThere’s nothing “bold” about mindless conformity
The above is a social media post made by an organization called the Red Hawk Native American Council, urging people to contact New York City Mayor Eric Adams to ask to him to inflict harm and pain on autistic people by abolishing Columbus Day.
Let’s rebut the points made in this post one by one:
Columbus Day does not perpetuate a narrative that erases anything. Abolishing it and replacing it with Indigenous Peoples’ Day, on the other hand, erases the existence of people like me – an autistic person whose special interest is historical figures. Abolishing Columbus Day sends the message that my interests are shameful and that my thoughts, feelings, experiences, and perspectives do not matter. This erases my existence.
Additionally, contrary to what is stated in the post, Columbus Day honors the existence of people who are different, are non-conformist, and think for themselves, a category that includes autistic people like me. But yes, the existence of autistic people is totally the same thing as “colonization, exploitation, and violence”…. NOT.
To officially recognize Indigenous Peoples’ Day instead of Columbus Day is to obliterate a day honoring people who are different, non-conformist, and think for themselves. This is by its very nature the exact opposite of taking a “bold stance” and the exact opposite of demonstrating “commitment to inclusivity.”
To take a stance against the honoring of people who are different, non-conformist, and think for themselves, is to take a stance in favor of sameness and mindless conformity. And such a stance is the antithesis of a bold one.
Additionally, to determine that people who are different, non-conformist, and think for themselves no longer deserve to be honored in a society is the antithesis of a commitment to inclusivity. It is actually a commitment to discrimination and exclusion.
Given that Columbus is being attacked, destroyed, and obliterated across the entire country and much of the world, joining these attacks is the exact opposite of being bold and the exact opposite of being inclusive. Joining in with a politically favored, bullying majority against an unpopular minority is not bold, but cowardly. It is not inclusive, but intolerant and discriminatory. It is the epitome of mindless conformity.
Other than that, their argument makes perfect sense.
Replacing Columbus Day with Indigenous Peoples’ Day sets an example for future generations all right… a bad example. It sets an example of trampling on the rights of autistic and otherwise “different” people, hurting us merely for being different, and telling us that our thoughts, feelings, and perspectives do not matter and that we shouldn’t be allowed to exist. In other words, it sets an example of cowardice, mindless conformity, discrimination, bullying, exclusion, intolerance, cruelty, meanness, and actively inflicting harm and pain on innocent people who have done nothing wrong.
I’m not sure why anyone would consider this a good thing.
bookmark_borderStonewall Jackson’s 1 year anniversary
Today, I am not going to focus on all of the horrible things that horrible people are doing and saying. That is because today marks one year that Stonewall Jackson has been living with me in Malden. In a world filled with beyond infuriating and beyond awful happenings, Stonewall’s existence is one thing that is 100% beautiful, magnificent, magical, and good.
I hope that you enjoy these photos of Stonewall over the past year as much as I enjoyed gathering them.
bookmark_borderChristopher Columbus update
Another visit to Christopher Columbus…
I weaved my way through the streets of the North End, both too hot and too cold at the same time. In front of the Old North Church, a gaggle of tourists waited in line for tickets. A street sweeper came rumbling down the street. From somewhere nearby, the hammering and banging of some sort of construction project rang out. I was approaching Chris’s home from a different angle than I had before, so I had to look closely at the street signs and storefronts to figure out which way to go. Dodging cars, delivery trucks, a US Foods employee maneuvering a two-wheeler stacked with boxes, and several people pushing carts of books down the sidewalk, I knew that I was getting close. And it was about time, too. I had stopped at Revere Beach before going to Boston, and passed through the park, now haunted, where his pitiful empty pedestal still stands, surrounded by people walking to and fro and enjoying their day, oblivious to its significance. Plus, both the orange and blue lines were operating under speed restrictions, meaning that for the majority of my journey, the train crawled painfully along at a snail’s pace.
The hot sun was beating down, punctuated by biting cold wind. This, combined with noise of various sorts, people walking every which way, and the mental overload of having to concentrate simultaneously on avoiding bumping into said people and figuring out which direction to go, almost made me regret making the trip. I felt irritated and annoyed, my brain overloaded.
But then I saw Chris.
Watching over the parking lot from his new pedestal, there he was.
I noticed a couple of changes: he had finally lost the plastic wrap that had been clinging to his torso, and the asphalt expanse around him was divided into parking spaces, complete with pristine new white lines and numbers.
Another change: unlike during my earlier visit, I was not able to be alone with Chris. Just as I got there, an elderly gentleman drove up to the gate, got out of his car to open it, and drove into the parking lot before closing and locking the gate again. Presumably he was one of the residents of the building, which houses both the headquarters of the Knights of Columbus Ausonia Council, as well as apartments for low-income seniors.
Hello, Chris. I’ve braved a lot of things in order to come see you. The train was ridiculously slow, and people are walking in all different directions, and honking their horns, and blocking my way, and driving down the street just as I’m about to cross it, and hammering and banging, and squealing and laughing, and talking really loud on their cell phones, and just overall driving me crazy. It is hot and cold at the same time, and my feet are starting to hurt. But you make it all worthwhile.
I felt self-conscious in front of the old man, figuring he would think me a weirdo for standing there staring at a statue. It was his home, after all, and not mine. I didn’t feel free to spend as much time with Chris as I wanted to. So I stood at the fence for a few moments, and then bid him farewell. I left feeling unsettled, my mind swirling with mixed emotions about the fact that the man I love, the marble figure who holds such profound significance, is essentially owned by a bunch of old people.
Bye, Chris. Sorry this is such a short visit. But I’ll be back.
8/1/2023
bookmark_borderChristopher Columbus in his new home
It had been a difficult week, with many things weighing on my mind that are hard to put into words. When I woke up in the morning, something made me decide to visit Christopher Columbus. Something told me that he would understand, even though he is not technically alive.
So I took the train to Boston. Upon getting out at Haymarket, I noticed that many things were different from the last time I was there. The Government Center garage was almost completely dismantled, with a huge yellow crane towering over the scene. A glass skyscraper emblazoned with the words “State Street” loomed nearby. There was also a new row of buildings, containing a Gordon Ramsay burger restaurant, in the area where fruit vendors set up their stands on Fridays and Saturdays.
All of these changes, combined with the constant stream of foot traffic flowing around me, caused me to start feeling overstimulated. It was hot and sunny, and I felt dizzy and tired.
I also began to get nervous about Chris himself. He had not officially been unveiled in his new location, and the finishing touches were still being put on the space, so I didn’t know what the setup would be. I didn’t know how publicly visible (if at all) he would be, or how the courtyard would be configured around him. I expected that I would have to do a bit of searching in order to find him, and I was concerned that I might attract curious stares or (God forbid) questions from passerby. I figured there was also a possibility he wouldn’t be publicly visible at all, and I would have made the trip into Boston for nothing.
Despite this, I crossed over the Rose Kennedy Greenway and into the North End. The narrow streets were filled with people going about their business: tourists taking selfies, kids in matching t-shirts who appeared to be on some sort of field trip, businesspeople rushing to work, young people in trendy activewear returning home from their workouts, employees wheeling boxes of various food products into restaurants. While making my way through the bustling streets, I looked to my left in search of the correct side street to turn onto. To my surprise, there he was, his familiar white marble form unmistakable.
The sight of him took my breath away.
I was not expecting Chris to be so easy to find.
In fact, the sighting of my beloved statue was so unexpected that instead of turning onto that side street, I continued with the flow of foot traffic, not wanting to abruptly change direction and cut people off. I decided to first check out the view of Chris from the opposite direction, and then to circle back. So I ended up on a shady, somewhat secluded street, where an old man sat on some porch steps, chatting on his cell phone. He looked up briefly when he saw me, but quickly turned his attention back to his conversation. Down a short alley and behind a black, metal fence was Chris. Only his back was visible from this view. He stood beside a brick building, presumably the new headquarters for the Knights of Columbus Ausonia Council, which also contains apartments for low-income seniors. I snapped a few shots, then headed back to see my friend from the front.
I returned to the main drag, and then turned onto the side street down which I had glimpsed Chris before. In stark contrast to the bustling streets surrounding it, the little lane was deserted, with the exception of several parked construction vehicles and a lone pedestrian who soon disappeared through the door of an apartment building.
In almost eerie silence, and beneath the baking sun, I was alone with Chris.
His face had the same pensive look that I remembered, his arms still crossed sternly across his chest. He stood atop a simple granite pedestal, anchored to the ground with concrete. The area around him was bare and stark, the vacant asphalt expanse devoid of any flowers or landscaping. There was no noise other than a county song playing faintly in the distance. A piece of clear plastic wrap, still clinging to his torso, stirred briefly in a faint breeze.
I was struck by the contrast between Chris’s quiet, seemingly deserted new home and the crowded, noisy streets surrounding it. I was also struck by the seeming indifference of those crowds of people: sightseeing, laughing, chatting, strolling, and working, none of them displaying any outward indication that they cared one iota whether Chris existed or not. No acknowledgement that standing tall in their midst was the marble embodiment of the pain that has tormented me for three years, changed my life completely, and on more than one occasion nearly ended it.
Thanks to a black metal fence, adorned with “no trespassing” signs, I could get no more than about 30 feet from Chris. Hopefully that fence, along with several security cameras nearby, will keep him safe. But the fence did not block him from view. I took pictures from various angles and simply stood and looked at him for a while.
Do you remember me? I thought. I remember you. You haven’t changed at all. This city has changed, though. This city hates you. It hates me too. So we’re the same.
Are you happy here? I wondered. Are you in pain? Are you angry at what happened to you? Are you sad that you’re not in the park anymore? Do you miss it?
It was nearly noon, the sun almost directly overhead and the pavement baking beneath my feet.
What do you think about this weather? I wondered Do you like the sun beating down like this? I thought about my Stonewall Jackson statue, and how beautifully he shines when the sun warms his bronze surface. I bet you do. Statues like the hotness. Yeah, you do.
It’s been nice to see you, I thought, as if Chris could somehow hear me (and as if it’s perfectly normal to try to telepathically send your thoughts to a statue). Stonewall Jackson sends his regards. I think you’d like him, if you could meet him.
All right, I’ll be back.
I glanced back at him one more time, sending a silent farewell, before making my way down the deserted side street and rejoining the crowds teeming down the main thoroughfare.
Don’t get me wrong: I am still angry at what happened to Chris. It is an injustice, and always will be. I was upset when I first saw photos of Chris, with his head once more attached to him, at his new location. Upset because the images confirmed his eviction from his rightful place, and because others had learned the news before I did (I saw the photos on social media two days after they were posted).
But spending a few moments with Chris lifted my spirits and was good for my soul. I was glad to see him after three years of not being able to do so.
7/18/2023