https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UPAWAAaeGQw
At the end of the Legacy Museum’s tour, I welcomed the couches in the reflection room. My legs were tired from moving to exhibit after exhibit of history, art, photography, and interactive storytelling, all built into an old cotton warehouse where enslaved people were confined before auction. I needed to sit. Everything in me felt heavy, both body and soul, after tracing our American history from the trans-Atlantic slave trade to segregation, lynchings, and the racial bias of mass incarceration. Stevie Wonder’s “They Won’t Go When I Go” played in the background, its somber, minor-key bassline a pulsing protest, a march beat toward God’s promised rest and freedom.
I’ve followed the work of Legacy Museum founder Bryan Stevenson, and his nonprofit, the Equal Justice Initiative, for years. Touring this museum in Montgomery, Alabama, has always been my goal. As I did, my thoughts kept returning to Jamal.
I keep a photo of Jamal on my desk. His personality radiates from his smile, though he is dressed in prison-issue blue and posed in front of a white cinder-block wall. Jamal’s boyish grin and kind eyes express who I know him to be: a thoughtful man eager to help and bring joy to others. I met him while I was doing volunteer work at an Illinois prison. Like most of the incarcerated men I met, Jamal desires to be known and remembered by those on the outside. Whenever “Unidentified Caller” rings, I try to pick up. I’ve spoken to way too many telemarketers, but I still answer because it might be Jamal, who waits in line for a phone to call family and friends during his few minutes of scheduled free time. I’m honored to be on his calling list.
When the Legacy Museum opened, Bryan Stevenson was quoted in the Cape Gazette saying he hopes the museum will spark a conversation, adding, “We’ve been silent about our history for too long.” The Legacy Museum makes the case that slavery never ended in America; it evolved.
Bathed in amber light, the museum reflection room’s walls are covered with the faces of African American icons. Some famous, others new to me — Martin Luther King, Jr., Rosa Parks, Harriet Tubman, Mahalia Jackson, Enolia McMillan, Thelma Glass, Elijah Marrs. People who struggled and sacrificed for their freedom and the freedom of those who would come after them.
Sitting in the reflection room, listening to Stevie Wonder, I imagined myself a guest at a dinner table with all these conversation partners: the African American icons, Bryan Stevenson and Jamal. Jamal is ecstatic to eat a plate of homemade food and speak about his experiences with people who are eager to listen. Everyone else contributes to the conversation, which centers on the liberation we all need. What could I contribute? How could I contribute? I doubted any effort of mine would alleviate the suffering of those who continue to be enslaved. I doubted my power to free any thread from the massive knot of our country’s racial legacy. To sit at this table and stay silent, to not engage and contribute, would be rude. My parents taught me better. But my questions of “What?” and “How?” are inadequate in this tenacious, courageous company. With all the freedoms I enjoy and all the opportunities I have, I have something to contribute. Of course, we all do. We can support local liberatory actions by attending meetings and showing up for rallies. We can open doors of opportunity to those previously denied, making introductions and serving as references. We can listen and learn from marginalized people and vote for politicians and programs that benefit them.
I don’t have many answers. But I know this much: silence keeps the ball of oppression rolling, growing the knot of injustice and tying it tighter. Evading the truth of our nation’s sinful history of slavery protects those it still benefits. I need – we need – conversation partners who will offer a different perspective, those most impacted by injustice, to help us recognize the contributions we have to make and the liberating work to which God calls us. We’re all welcome to this freedom party. We’ll all celebrate when we arrive.
