The Necessity of Hope

    My trip last week to Montgomery, Alabama, with my 13-year-old son brought some much-needed clarity. Juxtaposed, as it was, with the latest attack on the Smithsonian's historical interpretation, the narrative contrast between the administration's reactionary accusations and the resilient pride of Montgomery's civil rights infrastructure was just the balm I needed in this season of oppressive heat. 

Interpretive installation in the EJI's newest Legacy Site, Montgomery Square


A central complaint in the Smithsonian report that I have seen in screed after screed against 21st century American public history is that it seeks to "divide, dispirit, and discourage our citizens."  The notion that learning about individuals' and groups' efforts to realize an inclusive version of liberty would be discouraging is baffling to me. There is much about the current moment in American (and world) history that could lead a person to feel discouraged. The United States has abandoned humanitarian commitments at home and abroad, embraced cruelty against immigrants for the sake of political expediency, and reversed decades of progress in the collective struggle to prepare for and possibly reverse the effects of climate change. And yet, powerful voices from the past implore us to keep hope alive. 

John Lewis spoke about the need to believe that change was possible as the foot soldiers of the civil rights movement faced massive resistance in Montgomery. The decade-long campaign of nonviolent direct action that radiated outward from Montgomery helped the nation leap forward in its promise of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, a promise allowed to stagnate for a century after the end of the Civil War. Faced with so many potential sources for despair and discouragement, my visit to Montgomery with my son was just the shot in the arm that I needed. The kind of history that "doesn't hold anything back," as my son put it when I asked him what he liked about the legacy sites we visited in Montgomery, is the only history that can truly inspire. If we never saw evidence of any progress then, yes, this history would be depressing and demoralizing. But that evidence abounds. A city whose leaders promised nothing but "white rule" as far as the eye can see moments before the defeat of bus segregation now draws its economic and cultural resilience from the power of its Black history. And, appropriately, its leaders call for a commitment to continue to improve the lives of its Black citizens. 

The view of the ghostly Alabama Capitol from the Elevation Hotel and Convening Center, a Legacy Sites affiliate, captures the complexity of the city's relationship with its segregated past and intertwined future.

The Smithsonian's approach to the 250th anniversary, an exhibition of 250 objects called "In Pursuit of Life, Liberty, and Happiness," sounds like it couldn't be more thematically on point. I am hopeful that any "warning labels" placed outside the Museum of American History will only encourage people to go in and see it for themselves. After my visit to the mix of publicly and privately funded museums of Montgomery, I feel like I owe it to my Smithsonian colleagues, and to the generations of storytellers who laid the foundation for this interpretive moment, to swallow my discomfort with the current occupants of our nation's capital and bear witness to their attempts to inspire us. That's all a bunch of curators could hope for. 







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