Confederates, Confrontation, and Columbus

The recent and violent disagreements over what should be done with Confederate statues and monuments has hit Middle America: Columbus, Ohio. The violence was perpetrated in Camp Chase Cemetery. on the city’s West Side, where vandals beheaded the statue of a Confederate soldier and made off with it, leaving behind the headless statue and its hat. This, or course, is nothing compared to the violent altercation that plagued Charlottesville, and the violent talk that erupts whenever the subject of Confederate monuments and statues comes up.

There are at least three possible positions to take on the issue. The first is the one white supremacists and their sympathizers take: that people of color are a threat to Caucasians, that Caucasians are superior to everyone else and that the key figures of the Confederacy are symbols of this supposed supremacy.

The second position is that these statues and monuments are part of history, and the fact that we don’t agree with the ideology of those depicted doesn’t change historical fact. In other words, it’s wrong to do revisionist history and, in effect, pretend that these people, who held positions that we now recognize are wrong, did not have a significant impact on the history of the United States. Those who hold this position don’t think the statues should be dismantled, but for a different reason: This is history, and you can’t dismantle history.

The third position holds that it is morally wrong to maintain the statues of those who held racist views, people like Robert E. Lee and Jefferson Davis. Those holding this position might say that these are not people we want to emulate, so why should we continue to honor them with statues?

For many, the offense is deeper and more personal. They are the descendants of slaves. They may have lived under Jim Crow, endured discrimination in housing, lived through school busing that sometimes led to violence. To see those who perpetrated torment honored? I can’t begin to imagine the wrenching emotions these monuments and statues evoke for those who suffered and continue to suffer racial discrimination.

I think both those who think we can’t change history by dismantling a statue, and those who find those statues so painful, are both correct. This is where context becomes important. Put these statues and monuments in museums, within an historical context. Talk and write about the moral evil of slavery and the role Confederates had in supporting it. Tell their whole story: that they supported slavery, why some people at some point thought they deserved a monument, and how we as a nation came to realize that they do not.

Camp Chase also has an historical and cultural context. Camp Chase was a camp the Union operated to hold Confederate prisoners of war. The men buried there were Confederate soldiers.

Showing respect for Camp Chase doesn’t fall into the same category as respecting the monuments of past Confederate leaders. Burial of the dead is a mark of human culture. Burial honors them not for being Confederates, but for being human beings. To respect a Confederate cemetery is not to say that we agree with Confederate ideology. To respect a Confederate cemetery is, in fact, to take a stand against a Confederate ideology that said some are less human than others.

To maintain and respect a Confederate cemetery is to say that, however morally repugnant their actions may have been, these were human beings.

As are we.

Camino

It started out with all the promise of an early summer day. The sun was bright and already warm. It would be hot, but this was San Sebastian, Spain, on the Bay of Biscay. The breezes off the water would moderate the heat.

Today we would walk a short piece of the Camino de Santiago, the Way of St. James, legendary since the ninth century. It can be walked in a month, they say.

You walk the Camino, not hike it as you hike the Apppalachian Trail. The purpose is different. It’s a physical challenge, yes, but more than that, it’s a spiritual challenge. You walk the Camino because you want some something from it, something intangible, something you might not even be able to name. It’s a different “something” for each of those centuries of pilgrims who has trudged kilometer after weary kilometer.

About six of those kilometers stretched ahead of me. Loomed would be a better word. I’m not an athletic person. I knew this would be a challenge. I had no idea how much of a challenge.

It started out easy enough – about 10 minutes of easy! Then an ascent. It was a paved ascent, past a couple of new urban farms. The horse, the goats and their kids were a distraction from the rapid increase in altitude.

And it kept going up…and up! I was breathing rapidly. It wasn’t the kind of rapid breathing you get when you’re running. It seemed harsher, more forced.

The path would level out, the guide promised. Words he repeated often during the several hours I wrestled with the Camino.

The path did level out…for a few minutes. Then it ascended again. The Camino was speaking…harshly. The large stones that paved the way were round and hard under my feet. Some were just damp enough to make them slippery. And they’d go up. Not always sharply up, but you had to pay attention.

Trees shaded the Way, their roots reaching out to trip up the unwary walker. Watch the rocks! Watch the roots! I learned to plan each step carefully.

Shades of green enveloped us. Birds called. A long fat slug meandered in harm’s way until carefully removed to the side. The only other animals around besides us were the birds, which I heard rather than saw.

There was plenty to see, however. Periodically, a space in the trees opened onto a view of the bay, where blues ranged from deep to pale, white foaming where the water crashed on the rocks. Gulls circled and called.

At first, I stopped to take pictures of these photo-worthy views. Soon, though, I decided to save my attention and energy for the next step.

There were obstacles to that looming “next step.” A tree root would reach out to trip me. I quickly decided that dignity was over-rated when the safest way forward seemed to be to sit down and scoot. And shyness wasn’t even a thought when the only security was found in grabbing the guide’s hand.

But what were the options? Going back? The thought crossed my mind. I’m sure it’s been done before, especially in modern times, when human and animal feet aren’t the only means of transportation. But I had no concept of how far we were from Pasaia San Pedro, our destination. And going back would have meant struggling along the same rocky, rooted ground we’d already covered. Abandoning the Camino didn’t seem any easier than going forward.

The only way was ahead: clambering, scooting, hanging onto the guide. I learned that it didn’t pay to look further than the next step. I’d see an ascent or a descent, and it would be all I could do to keep from crying. The only way was forward. And the way forward was to think no further than the next step.

There was a fountain ahead, the guide said. To the fountain! Just make it to the fountain! How far ahead was the fountain? Like a child on a road trip, I asked, “How much further?” Just ahead. Just ahead.

Finally – the fountain! The rush of cold water over head and face. Gulps of it into a parched mouth. No thought of appearance; just blessed refreshment! The fountain was one of the delights of the walk, the water evaporating on my skin bringing respite. It was only a momentary reprieve. Thirst returned. Descents and ascents. Roots and rocks.

It would end – eventually. Taking one step at a time forward, it would end. That was the only consolation. It would end in at the village, Pasaia San Pedro. Five minutes, the guide kept saying.

My sister and I laughed about it later. It was always just five minutes to the next brief reprieve. Five minutes for him and those who, like him, knew the Camino and took to it like mountain goats!

Finally, the bar! Water, wine or beer to go with the pinxos? Water! Blessed water! Water and the pinxo of tuna and pepper or anchovy; I don’t even remember now. What mattered was that we had finished. And there was water.

It’s tempting to make a metaphor of the Camino, to say there are life lessons to be learned from the process of the walk. That is so for some. For me, that approach would make the Camino less than what it is, as if it needed my motivations, my hopes to make it worthy of being. For me, the Camino is itself. It doesn’t need me, or any other walker, to give it meaning. It is worthy in itself, for itself.

Leave it alone in its rocky, rooted, breath-taking harshness/beauty.

 

This Is Not New York!

Gran Via in Madrid is an elegant avenue. There is no jarring steel-and-glass starkness to introduce a sour note into that elegance. The heavy traffic – the traffic of any contemporary city – contrasts with that timeless elegance.

At one end of Gran Via is El Parque del Buen Retiro, an expansive green oasis that leads you to forget you’re in the middle of a metropolis. Tree-lined walkways, punctuated by fountains and sculptures, invite ambling. The park is populated, but the pace and purpose are peaceful.

It’s tempting to say, “Madrid is like New York City, and El Parque del Buen Retiro is like Central Park.” It seems harmless to say that. Such a statement gives the listener a sense of what Madrid and its park feel like. It’s a point of comparison that makes what is foreign seem familiar.

But it’s a siren-song familiarity. It lures the listener into the sense that he or she understands Madrid better than he or she does. The forces that shaped that city and her park are far different from those that shaped New York City and hers.

That seemingly innocuous statement flattens all that shaped and continues to shape Spain into what she is. The pre-Roman tribes disappear. The Roman presence is no more. The historic kingdoms – Castile, León, Galicia Navarre, and the rest – are felled by a single statement. The wonderfully and terrifyingly independent País Vasco and Cataluña are no more.

And please – do not say el Pais Vasco is like Louisiana, with its Cajun French! According to ethnographers and linguists, there are no people like the Basques in all of Europe. Their language is related to no other existing language. This fiercely independent people, descended from sea-faring whale-hunters, belongs only to herself, as strong as the iron for which she was also famous. Franco, even with Nazi collusion, could not stifle that spirit, although those Fascist forces leveled Guernica and slaughtered its civilians.

Cataluña too resists all attempts to meld it into an amorphous “Spanish culture.”  Street signs and plaques in Catalán are just an indication of the rich history the language symbolizes.  Anecdotal report indicates that her people consider themselves more French than Spanish. History and culture here go far beyond Barcelona and Gaudí.

The whole sweep of Spanish history is emasculated when we compare Spanish cities and cultural artifacts with our own, implying that our own are the norm. The Muslim conquest. The Muslim contributions in art, architecture, medicine. The graceful swirls of vines and flowers on palace walls, with not a trace of the human form. The verdant Generalife gardens. The mosques with their pillars, leading the spirit to transcend time and space. Those who conquered much of the Iberian penninsula in the name of Allah disappear in a swirl of dust.

The visitor to Spain sees only hints and traces of these varied histories and cultures. “Western” fashion, traffic, business – even the disappearance of the once-sacred siesta – can give the illusion that Madrid is not so different, after all, from Rome or Paris or New York. Even their different languages have a common base in Latin.

But do not be deceived! Spain – and Italy and France – those countries that may seem most accessible to North Americans – are not just expressions of a common contemporary culture with a different language. The forces of history and culture that shaped these and all other peoples of the world still seethe beneath the siren song of apparent similarity.

If we overlook them, it is to our peril – and our tragic loss.

Confluence

I’m reading a book called The Wise King, about Alfonso el Sabio, who was king of Castile and Leon in Spain during the 1200’s. This was before Spain was a united country; the Iberian peninsula consisted of independent kingdoms.

There are several reasons why I’m reading a book that might seem esoteric at first glance. First, it’s about a king in Spain and, as a Spanish major and Spanish lover, I’m interested in Spanish and Latin American language and culture. Second, Alfonso was king during a period of Iberian history that I find particularly interesting: Christians, Muslims and Jews were living together. It wasn’t all peaceful co-existence, but there was cultural cross-fertilization. This was especially true in al-Andalus, an area that included southern Spain and parts of what is now Portugal.

The author makes the point that this co-existence was not multi-culturalism; Jews and Muslims were second-class citizens in a world that Christians dominated. He points out that misinterpretations occur when we draw knee-jerk analogies between the present and the past.

Nevertheless, I find continue to find this era of Iberian history fascinating. For me, the cultural mix is best exemplified by the mosque of Cordoba, in which Christians built a church. Why didn’t they simply raze the mosque and replace it with a cathedral? I don’t know the historically correct answer to that question, but what I see, with an outsider’s eyes and through my own contemporary lens, is a respect for beauty that transcends differences of faith and culture.

Alfonso was a man of his time, a warrior-king who fought against Muslims. Nevertheless, he studied and helped to preserve the wisdom he found in Islamic culture.

What can we learn from his example?