Within the Shadow of Monuments

Public debate over memorials tends to belie their complexity. We need to consider them from all angles.

An instant is sufficient to snap the chains; a century is not too much to obliterate all traces of former bondage. —Frederick Douglass

In three respects history belongs to the living person: it belongs to him as an active and striving person; it belongs to him as a person who preserves and reveres; it belongs to him as a suffering person in need of emancipation. —Friedrich Nietzsche

Controversies continue to rage over the uses and abuses of monuments. In the United States, the fight not only concerns Confederate monuments, such as that of the Silent Sam statue at the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill, whose fate may be determined at the May UNC Board of Governors meeting, but also American Revolutionary monuments, such as Boston’s Faneuil Hall, which although nicknamed the “Cradle of Liberty,” derives its name from Peter Faneuil, a wealthy businessman who trafficked in enslaved Africans. But such fights are hardly restricted to this country. In December, faculty and students at the University of Ghana successfully removed a statue of Mahatma Gandhi for his racist views of Africans. And just last month, protesters in Gdansk, Poland, overturned a statue of Solidarity-era priest Monsignor Henryk Jankowksi because of allegations that he sexually abused minors.

At the heart of these controversies are not only issues of racism, colonialism, and abuse, but also debates surrounding the meaning and use of monuments. The etymological root of monument stems from the Latin monere, which means “to remind” or “to warn.” But what we are reminded or warned of collectively by monuments remains an open question. Are monuments guideposts for present and future actions or are they representative of historical truths and nothing more? Such questions are not easy to answer, because monuments have a multitude of purposes.

People tend to seek a particular understanding of the monument in question in light of their experience. The historian sees a recollection of the past; for the artist has an eye for design and style; the individual weighs the ethical weight of whose history is being told; and the activist sees an opportunity to create political change. But, in order to understand the importance of monuments, one must examine the interdependence of their historic, aesthetic, ethical, and political dimensions.

The historic deals with how myths, facts, or events are represented. Accordingly, questions of whether monuments represent true or false histories become paramount. For instance, the Washington Monument commemorates the historic deeds of George Washington, just as the Confederate Memorial Carving at Stone Mountain Park, Georgia, commemorates Confederate President Jefferson Davis, and generals Robert E. Lee and Thomas J. “Stonewall” Jackson. These monuments are, of course, weighed down by their representational failures. Insofar as we look at the former and see only the white obelisk of our first president and commander-in-chief, and avoid looking at the shadows to see Conotocaurius (“Town Destroyer”)—the name that the Seneca gave him—or Oney Judge, a Mount Vernon slave who escaped Washington to New Hampshire, there remains an historical amnesia at odds with the commemorative function of monuments. For those who see monuments as needing to be immemorial—as being beyond the consideration of the present—then such histories must remain closed, completed, and unsullied. However, if we are open to judge monuments, then it is possible that previously forgotten histories can be revived.

The aesthetic deals with material and symbolic meanings. For instance, the actual materials used to construct monuments are important. Is glass chosen as a medium to convey transparency? Is concrete or stone used to show stability? What do designers seek to convey with their design? Moreover, what commemorative practices accompany the monument? Are there speeches, processions, and ceremonies? These questions when taken together reveal that alongside the historic is an accompanying design element. And the community does not always select this element; often those with power and resources are responsible for it. “Political elites use monuments to represent their dominant worldviews in space,” semioticians Federico Bellentani and Mario Panico argue. “Consequently, monuments represent selective historical narratives focusing only on events and identities that are comfortable for political elites.”

The ethical deals with distinguishing proper standards, relations and conduct. In addition, this dimension also deals with unethical practices and representations. Is it right that only certain histories are represented in a monument? Is it right that monuments can be designed to foster one narrative or interpretation over others? Such questions are often raised when dealing with controversial monuments. Yet for those who see Stone Mountain’s Confederate Memorial Carving as representing heritage and not hate, the ethical can be lost in historic considerations. For such an individual, confederate monuments invoke heritage and are thereby not morally offensive (racist). The contestation over whether an ethical wrong has taken place historically or whether a monument is for an unethical cause is filled with ambiguity and animus.

The political deals with disputes over public interest. For monuments, these disputes are often centered on what belongs in public space. Geographers Ian Hay, Andrew Hughes, and Mark Tutton argue that, “Memorials and monuments are political constructions, recalling and representing histories selectively, drawing popular attention to specific events and people and obliterating or obscuring others.” The selective representation of histories within public space does not necessarily result in political disagreement. As Bellentani and Panico suggest, monuments can be both “hot” and “cold.” Hot monuments stimulate fierce political debate and conflict due to a breakdown in socially established meaning, whereas cold monuments do not elicit reactions because their meanings are largely shared. So long as Gandhi represented independence, his statue could remain at the University of Ghana, but once his racist writings became known, shared meanings deteriorated and the statue was removed. A cold monument became politically hot.

Parties to these debates too often consider only one of the four dimensions. However, we must not be disciplinarily decadent. As Lewis Gordon argues, “In more concrete terms, disciplinary decadence takes the form of one discipline assessing all other disciplines from its supposedly complete standpoint.” Thus, the historian only considers the historic, the artist the aesthetic, the ethicists the ethical, and the activist the political. But in considering these four interrelated dimensions together, we can better understand and judge monuments.

For instance, when considering Faneuil Hall, we can approach the issue from many angles. Historic: What histories are present or obliterated at Faneuil Hall? Aesthetic: Do we only see the 13 steps of the interior staircase of the back wall representing the 13 original colonies, or do we also see the “trader’s yard” where enslaved Africans were bought and sold? Would renaming the hall the “Refuge of Slavery” or the “Coffin of Liberty,” as abolitionist William Lloyd Garrison suggested change its aesthetics? Ethical: What ethical weight should we place on Faneuil being a slave-owner and slave trader? Political: What should we do politically with such information? Who is able to make a decision? Activists? The government? The city council?

These questions are not exhaustive, but together they help avoid reduction and disciplinary decadence. Whether monuments are maintained, amended, replaced, or removed, this four-dimensional model allows individuals to gain a clearer picture of the meanings and uses of monuments. It also must be pointed out that monuments remind and warn us of present conditions. If the Washington Memorial is no longer a neutral site—no longer representative of our history—then we can strive to construct not only new monuments, but also new futures. If history belongs to us, then monuments can be used to emancipate the living. You have been warned.

Addendum: The work of understanding monuments is ongoing. Two helpful starting points are the Monument Lab initiative and The Ethics of Public Memory, a Mass Humanities project led by the Applied Ethics Center at University of Massachusetts, Boston.

Photograph: A monument to the 1795 Curaçao slave revolt at the Tula Museum at Landhuis Knip, Curaçao. (Photograph by Charles Hoffman)

Dana Francisco Miranda

Dana Francisco Miranda is an Assistant Professor of Philosophy and Faculty Fellow for the Applied Ethics Center at the University of Massachusetts Boston. His research is in political philosophy, Africana philosophy, phenomenology, and psychosocial studies. His current book manuscript, “The Coloniality of Happiness,” investigates the philosophical significance of suicide, depression, and wellbeing for members of the African Diaspora. His most recent work has been published in The Movement for Black Lives: Philosophical Perspectives, theJournal of World Philosophies, EntreLetras, the Journal of Global Ethics, and Disegno: The Quarterly Journal of Design. He also currently serves as the Secretary of Digital Outreach & Chair of Architectonics for the Caribbean Philosophical Association