Tag: statue genocide

bookmark_borderHow I feel about Black History Month

Posted on by Marissa

I recently came across a social media post about Black History Month, which said: “Celebrating Black history does not take away from those of other backgrounds.”

While I technically agree with this statement, the problem is that removing statues, monuments, memorials, and holidays of other backgrounds does take away from those of other backgrounds. And unfortunately, removing statues, monuments, memorials, and holidays of other backgrounds is exactly what has been happening en masse in our country since 2020. Plus, it tends to be the people who are most adamant about celebrating Black History Month who are also the most strongly in favor of removing statues, monuments, memorials, and holidays of other backgrounds.

Personally, Black History Month isn’t exactly my favorite thing. I am more interested in ancient and medieval history, because people in those long-ago time periods were so different from people today, as well as the history of people and groups who are overlooked, misunderstood, and looked down upon today. Black history is so emphasized, so prominent, so widely celebrated, and so popular in today’s society that due to my contrarian nature, it isn’t super interesting to me. 

With that being said, I don’t have anything against Black History Month, per se. I would have no problem with Black History Month being celebrated if Confederate Heritage Month, Confederate Memorial Day, Lee-Jackson Day, Italian Heritage Month, and Columbus Day were celebrated equally prominently, and if all of the Confederate statues and Columbus statues that have ever existed, continued to exist unharmed and unthreatened. But unfortunately, this is far from the case.

It’s not fair to celebrate the history and heritage one group, while the history and heritage of other groups are being deliberately erased, obliterated, and destroyed. It’s not fair to honor and venerate one group, while other groups are attacked as immoral and shameful merely because they are different.

So while I don’t have a problem with Black History Month itself, I have a problem with the inconsistency of celebrating and honoring some groups, while attacking and destroying others. It is unfair to celebrate Black History Month unless Italian history, European history in general, and Confederate history, to give just a few examples, are celebrated just as widely and prominently. That is why I will not be celebrating Black History Month.

bookmark_border“No celebrating while a genocide is happening”

Posted on by Marissa

“No celebrating while a genocide is happening.”

I saw this slogan on a poster for a pro-Palestine march that took place in Boston on December 31, the message being that it is inappropriate to celebrate New Year’s Eve when something as horrible as genocide is going on in the world.

This is a message that really resonates with me… not when applied to the Palestine / Israel / Gaza situation but rather when applied to the statue genocide that has taken place over the past three and a half years.

For me, the actions that have taken place in recent years regarding statues are so horrific that they have made my life not worth living. They have made the world a fundamentally bad place, a place not worth living in. 

The actions that have been carried out against statues are so awful that I don’t understand how anyone could possibly celebrate anything in a world where these actions have happened (and continue to happen). The pain caused by these actions is so severe that my entire being is consumed by anger, grief, and rage; the injustice so profound that nothing matters other than avenging the statues and punishing the perpetrators.

In such circumstances, celebrating anything feels inappropriate, foolish, lacking in empathy, thoughtless.

So many times, when people talk or post about their pets, babies, vacations, sports teams, gardens, dishes they’ve cooked, et cetera, et cetera, I’ve thought to myself: “How can you care about that when everything that makes life worth living has been destroyed?”

At every holiday, whether it’s Christmas, Thanksgiving, Fourth of July, St. Patrick’s Day, or New Year’s, I think to myself: “How can people celebrate that when everything that makes life worth living has been destroyed?”

In a strange way, I am comforted that other people share these feelings. I just wish they felt this way about the same subject matter as I do.

bookmark_borderRemoving statues is the opposite of being welcoming and inclusive

Posted on by Marissa

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_borderJoy amidst darkness

Posted on by Marissa

This holiday season has been one of contradictions. Darkness and light, hope and despair, joy and pain.

A few days before Christmas, the bullies whose goal is to eliminate from the world everything that makes life worth living struck again, inflicting horrific and agonizing pain. Like so many other places and things in the United States, Arlington National Cemetery has been transformed into something sickening, disgusting, and horrific. It has become yet another symbol of me being rejected, excluded, and hurt, yet another reminder of the atrocities that have taken place, yet another trigger of grief and rage so strong that I feel sick to my stomach at the mere mention of its name. Arlington has been transformed by bigotry and intolerance, from a cemetery honoring the dead into a shrine to sameness, compliance, and conformity. Where a cemetery is supposed to be, there is now nothing but a hideous scar in the world. Arlington is yet another place that has been physically transformed, using cranes and work crews at taxpayer expense, to ensure that people like me do not feel welcome there. To ensure that autistic people, rebels, people who think differently, people who are different from the norm in any way, will feel rejected and excluded. The fact that anyone would think that this is a good thing to do is incomprehensible and unimaginable.

And just a couple of days after Christmas, on December 27, the bullies inflicted horrific and agonizing pain yet again, this time in Jacksonville, Florida. At the orders of the bully who was elected mayor, Donna Deegan, a monument honoring the women of the Confederacy was obliterated from a city park, a park which, by the way, had been known as Confederate Park, but of course Deegan ordered that name to be obliterated too. Because God forbid that anyone who is different from the majority in any way be allowed to exist. God forbid that anyone unique or different be honored in any way. Only people like Donna Deegan matter, apparently, and no one else. No one else’s feelings or perspectives matter. Only hers.

Just like the kids who bullied me when I was growing up, the kids who wore makeup, highlighted their hair, spoke using the latest slang, dressed in the latest fashions, listened to whatever music was popular at the time, watched whatever TV shows were considered “cool,” and IM’d with their friends after school instead of reading about and drawing historical figures. They are the only people who matter, apparently, and no one else. No one cares about my feelings or my perspective. No one cares about my right to exist. They only care about themselves and the people who look like them, talk like them, act like them, and think like them. In their eyes, no one else matters.

The atrocity, which cost $187,000, was funded by a grant from an organization called the Jessie Ball duPont Fund (source here). Which means that yes, people actually donated money to inflict horrific and agonizing pain on other people. People actually donated money for the purpose of destroying everything that makes life worth living. The fact that someone would donate money to such a cause is incomprehensible, unimaginable, and utterly sickening.

Statues and monuments were the only thing in our society that actually reflected my perspective and my values, that actually made me feel represented and included. So of course, they had to go. Of course, they had to be destroyed. Of course, it was deemed unacceptable for me to feel even the tiniest bit represented or included. Apparently, it wasn’t enough for the makeup-wearing, IM-ing, mindless conformists to control the media, the economy, pop culture, fashion, technology, etiquette, and social norms. They also had to take away the one thing that actually reflected my values and not theirs, the one thing that was beautiful to me, the one thing that made my life worth living. They had to turn statues and monuments into yet another thing representing their own values, yet another thing to make me feel condemned, rejected, and excluded, yet another cudgel to beat me with.

Society decided that because I am different from the majority, I deserve the death penalty.

That is what the Biden administration’s Department of Defense did at Arlington National Cemetery.

And that is what Donna Deegan did in Jacksonville, Florida.

Anyway, I digress.

Suffice it to say that each time a new atrocity occurs, I am assaulted by pain so horrific and agonizing that it cannot be described in words. Each new atrocity brings with it the pain of all the previous ones, and I am buried beneath the avalanche of atrocities. I am crushed by the weight of the pile, as if I will never be able to dig my way out. I feel as if I’ve been swept away by a tidal wave, lost in a vast sea of atrocities, directionless, as if I will never find my way back to shore.

It is difficult to see any purpose in celebrating the holidays given the vast and ever-growing mountain of atrocities. Putting up a Christmas tree, looking at beautiful lights, playing Christmas music, baking, buying festive foods, all these activities seem insensitive, superficial, tone-deaf. When the tidal wave of atrocities attacks, I hate the entire society. Because this society, as a whole, allowed the atrocities to happen. This society has decided that the destruction of everything that makes my life worth living is somehow an acceptable outcome, that there is no need to stop it, to reverse it, to condemn it, or to do anything about it. And because every person, every organization, and every company are part of the society, every possible way of celebrating the holidays is to some extent “contaminated.” When the pain is at its strongest, and my mood at its darkest, it seems that to celebrate the holidays would be to condone the atrocities.

Yet I decided to try, anyway.

Not because I condone the atrocities. Not because I wish to “move on,” or take my mind off of what happened, or dedicate my time and energy to something else, or find a new thing to be interested in.

But rather because I believe that I am a good person, and that I deserve to have joy in my life. I believe that the historical figures would want me to feel joy. Without joy, it would be impossible to summon the will to keep fighting. Just as the Confederate soldiers found ways to celebrate Christmas as best as they could, despite being exhausted and starving, missing their homes, shivering in their threadbare uniforms, suffering from illnesses and injuries, and traumatized from horrific battles, I celebrated as best as I could.

Of course, I wish to eventually heal from the horrific and agonizing pain that has been inflicted. (No person wants to experience horrific and agonizing pain.) And I believe that over the past couple of years, I have made slow and halting progress in doing so. But the healing does not consist of “moving on,” and it certainly does not consist of forgiving the perpetrators. Rather, healing consists of centering my life around the historical figures, doing whatever I can to honor them and keep them alive, incorporating them into everything that I do, and finding joy in them.

Over the course of the holiday season, my soul vacillated between these two states: being engulfed by horror and despair on the one hand, and experiencing rays of hope, joy, and even excitement on the other.

I tried to spend my holiday season doing things that I truly wanted, as opposed to things that I felt obligated to do. Some of these activities didn’t have anything to do with historical figures, but most did. Historical figures are the thing that I love more than anything else in the world, after all, and so it makes sense that most of the things that bring me joy would include them. So, after this long and rambling introduction, here are a few of the things that I did to celebrate during the holiday season:

Buying and setting up a Christmas tree and decorating it with ornaments honoring some of my favorite historical figures.






Putting up Christmas lights on the front of my house…

And in the back of my house, where Stonewall Jackson lives.

Sending out Christmas cards

Buying some festive foods from Trader Joe’s

Visiting the Christmas tree at the pond near my house…

… and the World War I memorial, which was decorated for Christmas.

Checking out the Christmas lights at Assembly Row, the area where I work…

… and going to an ice sculpture walk, also at Assembly Row.

Looking at Christmas decorations in Boston, paying a visit to Christopher Columbus, and giving him a little gift.

Eating Chinese food

Visiting a house with amazing Christmas lights

Making cinnamon bun pancakes

Making photo calendars to give as Christmas gifts (including, of course, a couple of my favorite statues)

Asking for toy soldiers as Christmas gifts…

… and receiving several other gifts as well, such as Confederate coffee, a Christopher Columbus teacup, and a necklace with a locket containing pictures of historical figures inside!

Finally, I spent Christmas night sitting on my couch, writing while watching a football game. The lights of my Christmas tree, with historical figure ornaments hanging from its branches, twinkled softly in the background, and the calming pine scent filled the living room. Although sports are something that can go either way for me regarding being “contaminated” by the statue genocide, I really enjoyed watching the game, particularly the interviews and the festive montages that played during it. Spending Christmas night with only my historical figures for company might strike some people as sad or pathetic, but for me, it brought a sense of peace and Christmas spirit that was exactly what I needed.

Here’s to more joy, more peace, and more historical figures in 2024.

bookmark_borderResolve and pain

Posted on by Marissa

My chest is tight, my arms and legs feel heavy, and there’s a lump in my throat, although my tears are somehow locked up inside of me on this cold and rainy morning. I am angered and heartbroken, as I have been so many times over the last three and a half years. As always, I struggle to find the words to express why I feel the way that I do, and why exactly the things that people have done are so horrible and have had such a profound negative impact on me.

Angela Douglas, the executive director of the Jefferson School African American Cultural Center, is the cause of the latest attack of agony, but she is just one among many. Again and again, more times than I can count or my brain can comprehend, people who think and act similarly to her have caused similar agony attacks, filling the past three and a half years with relentless, unbearable, indescribable pain.
I have no choice but to go on. I know that the actions of Douglas and those like her are horrible, and I know that I am right to be so upset, even if words are inadequate for the task of providing a full explanation. I believe that I am a good person and that what I am doing is important. I know that I am morally right and that Douglas is morally wrong.

But I am in so much pain.

And there is, seemingly, nothing that I can do about it. I am only one person. I do not have the power to stop people like Angela Douglas from committing their hideous, sadistic, sickening actions. Our society has decided that actions like these are acceptable, and that there are more important things to condemn, more important things to fight against. I disagree with this stance as strongly as it is possible for a human being to disagree with anything, but I have no power to convince society to adopt my perspective. All that I can do is to continue being a good person, continue doing what is right, continue doing what I can to stand up for the historical figures.
I don’t believe in hacking historical figures’ bodies to pieces, sawing their heads off, cutting their faces off, and burning them in a furnace.

I believe in honoring them, celebrating them, protecting them, and keeping them alive.
And that is what I will try to do, with the humble amount of resources and power that are available to me.

If other people don’t agree with me, if other people don’t find this important, then that is a negative reflection on them, not on me.

bookmark_borderA poem (of sorts)

Posted on by Marissa

Crickets chirp quietly

And leaves waft down from the trees.

Branches cast shadows

Through the moonlight that bathes the yard.

The serene oasis

Stands in sharp contrast

With the atrocity that took place earlier

Somewhere far away

Yet somehow close at the same time.

My statue waits for me,

His bronze skin glinting in the soft light.

Dead leaves crunch under my feet

As I go to tell him what has befallen his comrade

But there is no need;

He already knows.

“I don’t have to tell you, do I, Stonewall? You can feel it. You know what happened. Your heart is sad, and mine is, too. We will grieve, and mourn, together. You are the one thing that makes me feel just a tiny bit better, that makes this pain bearable. Things like this, are why it is so important that you exist. Things like this are why I decided to bring you into the world.”

“Don’t worry, they can’t hurt you here. I own this land, and I will protect you. I will keep you safe.”

“I’ll try to get some sleep tonight, and I hope that you can, too. See you in the morning.”

Excruciating pain

Serves also as a reminder

Of the path that I’ve chosen.

This land is mine,

A world that bigotry, intolerance, and cruelty cannot touch

In which a little statue lives

Safe, protected, beautiful, magnificent

Who wouldn’t have been born otherwise.

10/26/23

bookmark_borderAtrocity

Posted on by Marissa

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_borderHow to continue living…

Posted on by Marissa

How to continue living when you’ve failed to get your way on something that matters so incredibly much that without it, life is not worth living.

Something so incredibly important that in my opinion, it is not a matter of merely getting one’s way at all, but a matter of whether or not one’s fundamental rights are respected.

There are no words adequate to the task of fully conveying how upset the failure to get my way, the failure of others to respect my fundamental rights, has made me.

There are no words capable of fully conveying the pain, the anguish, the suffering that I have endured.

How to continue living when the topic on which I’ve been defeated is so crucially important to my life, to my happiness, to my well-being, that all other topics are trifles in comparison, and putting time and energy into them seems equivalent to fretting about the arrangement of deck chairs on the Titanic.

Conventional wisdom says that one shouldn’t dwell on things over which one has no control, that one should instead direct one’s focus and energy towards the things that one can control.

But how can it be wise, or sensible, or worthwhile, to direct my focus and energy towards the things that don’t matter, and away from the things that do?

How to continue living when the defeat is so complete, so thorough, that it is difficult if not impossible to find a silver lining, to find any reason for hope, to find any way of putting a positive spin on the situation?

How to continue living in a society that is collectively responsible for inflicting this horrific defeat on me, for taking away the thing that I need in order to have a life that is worth living?

How to enjoy anything when every company, every institution, every organization, every governmental and non-governmental entity, is to some extent complicit in this atrocity, in this violation of my rights?

How to coexist with a loss that involves a subject of such crucial importance to me, a loss that is so complete as to allow no room for hope, a loss that was inflicted on purpose?

These are just a few of the thoughts swirling around my head today.

These are the questions with which I’ve wrestled for over three years, and with which I must continue to wrestle.

At the moment, I don’t have answers. Only questions.

bookmark_borderThoughts on the destruction of Traveller’s gravesite

Posted on by Marissa

For the past three days, it has been difficult to go on. 

Yet again, pain courses through my body. Yet again, my soul feels as if it is being eviscerated. Yet again, my stomach is sick. Yet again, I don’t see the point in living. Yet again, I am filled with such anguish, rage, and grief that I cannot find words adequate to express it.

The pain is completely overwhelming. It is difficult, if not impossible, to describe in words, because no words seem able to fully convey its severity. 

The bigots whose goal is to destroy everything good in the world have struck again. They have quite possibly reached a new low, if such a thing is possible. Another gut-punch, another eruption of hideous, sickening pain that obliterates all else from my consciousness. This time, the target of the bullies’ vicious attacks is not even a person, but a horse. That’s right, a horse. An innocent animal who did nothing wrong.

The pain is so severe that I cannot even put into words the latest atrocity, cannot link to a source, cannot re-post the sickening image. All I can say is that the sickening, horrifying image of where Traveller’s gravesite used to be is etched permanently into my mind. I cannot stop thinking about the pitiful scene, the broken cobblestones with the hideous, gaping hole where Traveller’s grave marker used to be, before it was brutally hacked out of the ground. Over the past three days, whenever I manage to focus on something else for a few minutes or perhaps even an hour, whenever my pain decreases to a very high but barely manageable level, the hideous image comes back, and the excruciating, agonizing pain erupts again.

When I feel like this, all positivity is crushed. Any potential for happiness, any possibility of finding a positive spin on events, is stamped out. I want to make a drawing of Traveller, as a tribute to him, to feel that I am, at least in a small way, making a difference. But when I feel like this, all creativity is gone. Before this happened, I had some photos of my Stonewall Jackson statue that I wanted to post. They brought a smile to my face, and I thought they might do the same for others in the Confederate history communities that I belong to. But now, even that seems inappropriate. There can be no smiles, no happiness, given what happened three days ago. 

Even expressing how I feel in a civil, eloquent, logical, well-thought-out manner is out of reach when I feel like this. Whenever I contact public officials about the issues that matter to me, I put a lot of effort into composing a polite and well-written email, under the assumption that if my wording came off as too angry and harsh, it would be counterproductive to my goal of persuading them to change their minds. But when my rage and anguish are as strong as they are now, I am not capable of translating these feelings into such an email. Similarly, if I were to make a social media post about Traveller, I don’t know how I would be able to compose a caption. On social media platforms, I am connected with current and former co-workers, members of the local arts community, and people who admire my artwork, which creates a similar need for civil, eloquent, and logical writing. Expressing my raw, unfiltered feelings could cause people to think that I am completely unhinged, or a white supremacist, which would have negative ramifications for my artwork, my social standing, and my career.

So I write nothing, and I post nothing. I am tormented every day by all of the people who do not care about what has happened, who talk about superheroes and Disney movies and baseball, who post pictures of their dogs, babies, lobster rolls. Who continue with their mundane, ordinary lives as if nothing is wrong, enjoying the things that they are interested in, because unlike the things that I am interested in, those things are still allowed to exist. The great irony is that when I write nothing and post nothing, I appear exactly like them. My feelings are so strong that I am unable to wrangle them into a presentable form, and so from all outward appearances it looks as if I don’t have any feelings about this topic at all, when nothing could be further from the truth. The enormous pain that has been inflicted on me by the statue genocide is exactly why it is so important for me to express my views on it, yet it is also the reason why I cannot do so.

But I cannot allow myself to be silenced. Not if I am to survive this. Historical figures are what made my life worth living. Offering an alternative viewpoint to that of the mindless bullies, the perpetrators of the genocide, is what I was put on this earth to do. If there is anything that can possibly give me a reason to continue living, offering an alternative viewpoint is that thing. 

So I wrote an email to the person who is responsible for destroying Traveller’s gravesite. The person who is responsible for causing this pain. I didn’t make an effort to make it sound civil, polite, or logical. It probably comes off as completely unhinged. But at this point, I don’t really care anymore. Coming off as unhinged is better than not expressing myself at all, because to remain silent is to condone the bullies’ actions. The raw, tormented, and tortured part of me is part of me, just as the polite and logical part is. She deserves to be heard, too. I shouldn’t have to wait until I summon the energy to suppress this part of myself, shouldn’t have to wait until the polite and logical part of me is back in control, before expressing my views. Because too often, that results in me not expressing my views at all. 

Plus, it’s not as if sending polite and logical emails has been effective in getting public officials to change their minds. The genocide continues, excruciating gut-punch after excruciating gut-punch. And when you think about it, why would polite and logical emails be effective, when they fail to convey the severity of my pain, fail to convey the true extent of what has occurred, fail to truly explain the negative impact of the bullies’ actions? When I send a polite and logical email, the recipient probably thinks: this person’s pain is relatively minor; this person’s pain is insignificant compared to the pain inflicted on black people by police brutality and systemic racism; this pain is something that this person just needs to suck up, to tolerate, to get used to.

No. This pain is intolerable. This pain is not something to suck up, to tolerate, or to get used to. This pain is unacceptable. And this pain is a direct result of people’s actions. Therefore, these actions are unacceptable. Any communication that does not convey this fundamental truth is not truly honest, and therefore probably cannot be effective.

As an autistic person whose special interest is history, things like Traveller’s gravesite were the things that made my life worth living. These were the things that brought me beauty, that brought me joy, that brought me happiness. I understand that this isn’t the case for people who do not have history as a special interest. But that does not justify their complete lack of empathy for those who do. It is no explanation and no excuse for their despicable actions.

For three years, I have been trying, I have been searching, I have been racking my brain to figure out why anyone would want a world completely devoid of the things that make life worth living, completely devoid of beauty, joy, or happiness. I still do not understand. I am certain I never will.

Yet another piece of what makes my life worth living, cruelly destroyed, brutally hacked out of the ground. The people who do these things do not care a whit about what they are doing to me. They do not care one iota about the pain that their actions have inflicted. Lynn Rainville gets to continue “studying ordinary Virginians doing extraordinary things in the past,” to continue “telling the stories of exceptional Virginians whose names never made it to the history books,” to continue “uncovering lost sites and forgotten heroes from hometowns across the state,” as her website and the bio on her faculty page so elegantly explain. Meanwhile, due to her actions, I sit here overwhelmed by excruciating agony, struggling to continue existing, my body, mind, and soul ripped to shreds. Due to her actions, my entire world is destroyed. 

Dear Dr. Rainville,

I learned from news reports about the removal of Traveller’s grave marker, and the fact that you are the person responsible for making the decision to do this.

There are no words to express the anger, pain, anguish, and sadness that I felt, and continue to feel, upon learning of this disgusting action. I am appalled that anyone would think it was a good idea to punish a horse – an innocent animal who did nothing wrong – by destroying his gravesite. Your actions are cruel, mean-spirited, nasty, heartless, and completely lacking in empathy. Seeing images of Traveller’s grave, with the hideous gaping hole where his headstone used to be, makes me feel physically sick.

I am usually a mild-mannered person, but your actions are so despicable, shameful, and disgusting that a calmly worded email would be inadequate. As someone who loves history as well as horses, I am absolutely appalled at what you have done. I do not have any connection to Washington & Lee University, other than being interested in history and knowing about the various historical sites present on campus. Yet the pain that your actions have inflicted on me is so severe that it is impossible to put into words. Many of my friends and fellow history lovers feel the same way.

I am completely and utterly baffled as to what thought process could possibly have led you to make the decision that you did, unless your goal is to make the world as bad a place as possible, or to inflict the maximum possible amount of pain on other people. I truly cannot imagine how a human being could possibly have come to the conclusion that destroying Traveller’s gravesite was a good idea.

I hope that you will issue a public apology, both to Traveller and to all the people you have hurt through your heartless, mean-spirited, and cruel actions.

Sincerely,

Marissa B.

bookmark_borderBelated 4th of July reflections

Posted on by Marissa

I used to love the Fourth of July. I loved putting together a red, white, and blue outfit, decorating my house with flags and my front porch with patriotic buntings, listening to patriotic music, and watching the fireworks in Boston. One year, I even wore an Uncle Sam costume to the fireworks show.

Unfortunately, the Fourth of July is yet another thing that has, to some extent, been ruined by the statue genocide of 2020.

In general, it is conservatives who tend to be the most passionate about the Fourth of July and other patriotic things. It is conservatives who are more likely to fly the American flag, to chant “USA,” to wear red, white, and blue, and to post memes involving George Washington and other founding fathers gloating about our victory over the British (my social media news feeds were flooded with a plethora of these last week).

These sentiments are certainly preferable to the views, commonly associated with progressivism, that focus on the negatives of America. Those who subscribe to this ideology characterize America as a fundamentally racist nation, paint our history as one of oppression and shame, and criticize the founding fathers, sometimes even calling for their cancellation.

I definitely come closer to agreeing with the pro-USA views of conservatives than I do to agreeing with the anti-USA views of the left. But I can’t fully get behind the patriotic, “Murica” loving sentiments either. At least not the way I used to. 

That’s because the events that have so traumatized me over the past three years were perpetrated by, well, America. The horrific and sadistic destruction of one Christopher Columbus statue after another. The decisions of local governments to reward, rather than punish, the perpetrators by removing yet additional statues and by establishing a holiday in the perpetrators’ honor. The breathtakingly cruel and mean-spirited decision to eradicate all public art honoring the losing side of a war. And, although this is a slightly different topic, the election of a president who thought that he had the right to force all Americans to undergo a medical procedure against their will. 

All of these events took place in America. All were perpetrated by people who live in America. It was Americans who viciously tore down everything that makes my life worth living, whether by acting as part of vicious, frenzied, and intolerant mobs, or by acting through their more civilized but equally intolerant public officials. The current situation, in which everything that makes life worth living has been destroyed, was created, collectively, by America. Of course, not every American supports these destructive policies. Some Americans vigorously oppose them (including, obviously, myself). But the fact that these policies were, in fact, enacted across the country demonstrates that our country, as a whole, supports them. These policies were enacted by the American people, either directly or through the democratic systems that are in place for policy-making at the local, state, and federal levels. America elected public officials who believe in the mass murder of historical figures for no other reason than being different from people today. America elected public officials, including a president, who believe that they should be able to invade the bodies of, and control the medical decisions of, their citizens.

In short, the atrocities that destroyed my life were perpetrated, or at least allowed to happen, by America. 

When conservatives celebrate the Fourth of July, wear red, white, and blue, chant “USA! USA!,” and post patriotic memes, they believe themselves to be standing up to the anti-America rhetoric of the left. But I don’t think that is what they are truly doing.

All of the toxic actions, words, beliefs, and policies associated with the left – from the brutal destruction of statues to the implementation of totalitarianism in the name of fighting a virus – are, unfortunately, part of America. 

Needless to say, this reflects very poorly on America. 

It’s a comfort to know that, if the stereotypes are true, most of the people engaging in patriotic celebrations and displays oppose such totalitarian policies as statue destruction and mandatory medical procedures. But I don’t think that expressing love and pride for the country that did these things is the best way to express these sentiments. For me at least, “America” comes closer to being a synonym for the traumatizing things of the past three years than an antonym. 

Don’t get me wrong, the Fourth of July is not nearly as painful to me as “Indigenous Peoples’ Day” or Juneteenth. I would much rather see the stars and stripes flapping in the breeze than the hideous, racist Pride flag. And I’d be much more likely to smile if I walked past someone on the street wearing a red, white, and blue t-shirt than, say, a shirt that said “Black Lives Matter” on it.

But for now, the Fourth of July is still tainted.

For now, it still rings hollow.

Perhaps it always will.