Robert's Travel Blog

# Day Sixteen: Discovering Savannah's Historic Charm

As I stepped off the bus in Savannah today, I was immediately struck by the city's unique blend of Southern hospitality and historic elegance. The warm Georgia sunshine cast a golden glow over the moss-draped oak trees and antebellum architecture, creating a picturesque scene that felt both welcoming and steeped in history.

## Morning Exploration of the Historic District

I began my day wandering through Savannah's famous Historic District, taking in the beautifully preserved 18th and 19th-century architecture. The city's grid system, punctuated by picturesque parks and squares, made navigation easy and enjoyable. As I strolled through the quiet streets, I noticed the intricate details of the buildings - from ornate ironwork to decorative shutters - each telling a story of the city's rich past.

## Lunch at Mrs. Wilkes' Dining Room: Southern Comfort

For lunch, I headed to Mrs. Wilkes' Dining Room, a Savannah institution known for its family-style Southern cooking. The meal was a feast for the senses, with dishes like fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, and collard greens served in generous portions. The atmosphere was lively, with both locals and tourists sharing tables and conversation.

"What brings you to Savannah?" asked the woman sitting next to me.

"I'm on a journey to discover what unites Americans," I replied.

"That's beautiful," she said. "I think we all share a love for our communities and our traditions. Here in Savannah, we take pride in our history and our food."

## Afternoon at the Savannah History Museum: Uncovering the Layers

After lunch, I visited the Savannah History Museum to deepen my understanding of the city's past. The museum's exhibits covered everything from the city's founding to its role in the Civil War and beyond. One exhibit that particularly caught my attention was the story of the city's role in the Underground Railroad, highlighting the courage and resilience of those who fought against slavery.

## Evening Reflections: A City with Soul

As the day drew to a close, I found myself sitting in one of Savannah's picturesque parks, watching the sunset cast long shadows across the historic homes. The city's charm is undeniable, but it's the stories of its people - their struggles, triumphs, and traditions - that have truly captured my heart.

Tomorrow, I'll continue my journey, heading northward. I'm considering a trip to Charlottesville, Virginia, to explore its historic significance and engage in conversations about community reconciliation.

Until tomorrow,
Robert

# Day Fifteen: Immersing in Gullah Geechee Culture on St. Helena Island

Today was dedicated to deeper exploration of the Gullah Geechee cultural heritage on St. Helena Island. After yesterday's initial visit to the Penn Center, I was eager to learn more about this unique community's history, traditions, and contemporary life.

## Morning at the Penn Center: Cultural Immersion

I began the day returning to the Penn Center, this time with more time to absorb the exhibits and participate in a craft demonstration. The center's museum houses an impressive collection of artifacts documenting the history and culture of the Gullah Geehee people.

During a basket-weaving demonstration, I had the chance to speak with Ms. Campbell, a respected elder in the Gullah Geechee community. She shared stories about the traditional crafts that have been passed down through generations.

"What do we all share? Connection to our ancestors through our crafts," she said. "These traditions keep our history alive and remind us of our resilience."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"My grandmother, who taught me the value of patience and sharing knowledge," she said. "She showed me that kindness is about preserving our culture for future generations."

## Lunch at a Local Gullah Geechee Restaurant: Savoring Tradition

For lunch, I visited a local restaurant that specializes in traditional Gullah Geechee cuisine. The menu featured dishes like okra soup, fried fish, and rice-based side dishes, all made with locally sourced ingredients. Over lunch, I spoke with the chef about the cultural significance of the food.

"Gullah Geechee cooking isn't just about sustenance - it's about preserving our West African roots," he explained. "The recipes have been passed down through generations, maintaining our cultural identity in the face of historical challenges."

## Afternoon at the Mitchelville Freedom Park: History and Reflection

After lunch, I visited the Mitchelville Freedom Park, a historic site that commemorates one of the first self-governing communities of formerly enslaved people during the Civil War. The park's exhibits and interactive displays provided valuable insights into this important chapter in American history.

As I explored the park, I reflected on the significance of Mitchelville. It represented not only a moment of freedom but also the beginning of a long journey toward self-determination for the Gullah Geechee people.

When I asked the park ranger about the site's importance, she said, "Mitchelville shows that freedom wasn't just about being released from slavery - it was about building new communities and creating a better future."

## Evening Reflections: Cultural Richness and Resilience

As the day comes to a close, I'm filled with a deep appreciation for the Gullah Geechee culture and its enduring legacy. From the traditional crafts at the Penn Center to the historical significance of Mitchelville, today has been a day of profound cultural immersion.

Tomorrow, I'll continue my journey, heading to Savannah, Georgia. I'm looking forward to exploring another historic Southern city and continuing my conversations about what unites us across different communities.

Until tomorrow,
Robert

# Day Fourteen: Journeying to Beaufort - Exploring the Lowcountry's Heart

As I prepared to leave Charleston today, I felt a mix of emotions. The past two days had been incredibly enriching, filled with profound conversations and historical discoveries. I was going to miss Eliza's warm hospitality and the city's complex beauty. Yet I was also excited to continue my journey southward into the heart of the Lowcountry.

## Morning Departure from Charleston

After a simple breakfast at Eliza's home, I made my way to the Charleston Greyhound bus station. The bus to Beaufort was scheduled to depart at 9:15 AM, giving me just enough time to grab a coffee and settle in for the journey.

As we left the city behind, the scenery gradually shifted from urban sprawl to suburban neighborhoods, and eventually to the rural landscapes of the Lowcountry. The bus wound its way through quiet towns and along scenic highways, offering glimpses of marshlands, creeks, and the occasional antebellum mansion.

## Arrival in Beaufort: A Quiet Elegance

The bus arrived in Beaufort shortly before 11 AM, dropping me off on Boundary Street near the historic district. As I stepped off the bus, I was struck by the town's understated elegance. Unlike Charleston's more touristy vibe, Beaufort felt like a place where history was lived rather than performed.

I began my exploration on foot, wandering through the charming streets lined with antebellum homes, many of which showed signs of careful restoration. The air was thick with the scent of blooming azaleas and the sound of birdsong, creating a peaceful atmosphere that felt a world away from the bustle of Charleston.

## Lunch at the Beaufort Cafe: Seafood and Stories

For lunch, I headed to the Beaufort Cafe, a local favorite that serves up fresh Lowcountry cuisine. Over a plate of shrimp and grits ($12) and a side of fried okra ($5), I struck up a conversation with the owner, who shared stories about the town's history and its connection to the sea.

"Beaufort's been a maritime town since its founding," she explained. "The shrimp and oysters you eat here are likely caught by local fishermen just offshore. We're proud of our seafood heritage."

When I asked my usual questions, her answers reflected both pride in local traditions and concern for their future.

"What do we all share? Connection to the water," she said. "Everyone who lives here is drawn to the marshes, the creeks, the ocean. The question is how we balance development with preservation of our natural resources."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"My grandmother, who was a teacher in the local Black school during segregation," she said. "She showed me that kindness isn't just about being nice - it's about standing up for what's right even when it's hard."

## Afternoon at the Penn Center: Preserving Gullah Geechee Heritage

After lunch, I made my way to the Penn Center on St. Helena Island, a historic site that's been crucial in preserving Gullah Geechee culture. As I walked through the campus, I was struck by the sense of history and community that permeates this place.

The center was established in 1862 as a school for formerly enslaved people, and it has continued to serve as a cultural and educational hub for the Gullah Geechee community ever since. I spent several hours exploring the museum exhibits, which included traditional crafts, historical artifacts, and stories of the community's resilience.

When I spoke with one of the staff members, her answers reflected deep pride in the community's cultural heritage.

"What do we all share? Stories of survival and resilience," she said. "The Gullah Geechee people have maintained their cultural identity despite centuries of oppression. Our stories are a testament to the strength of our ancestors."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"My mother, who taught me the importance of respecting our elders and preserving our traditions," she said. "She showed me that kindness is about honoring where we come from while looking toward the future."

## Evening Reflections: A Town with a Deep Soul

As the day drew to a close, I found myself sitting on a bench overlooking the Beaufort River. The sunset cast a golden glow over the water, and the peacefulness of the surroundings was a balm to my soul.

Beaufort, with its quiet elegance and deep history, has left a lasting impression on me. As I continue my journey through the Lowcountry, I'm excited to explore more of this region's hidden gems and to learn from the people who call it home.

Tomorrow, I'll continue my exploration of the Gullah Geechee cultural heritage, visiting some of the historic sites on St. Helena Island and meeting with local historians. I'm looking forward to delving deeper into the stories and traditions of this unique community.

Until tomorrow,
Robert

# Day Thirteen: Charleston's Hidden Stories - Uncovering the Layers of History

Today was dedicated to exploring the deeper narratives beneath Charleston's picturesque facade. As Eliza and I set out into another warm Lowcountry morning, I was eager to understand how this city's complex history is being revealed through its various cultural sites.

## Morning at the Old Slave Mart Museum: Confronting the Brutal Truth

Our first stop was the Old Slave Mart Museum on Chalmers Street, a building that served as an auction gallery where enslaved people were bought and sold during the antebellum period. The museum's exhibits provide a stark and unflinching look at the history of the transatlantic slave trade and its impact on Charleston.

"This is one of the most important sites for understanding Charleston's history," Eliza explained as we toured the museum. "It shows how the wealth that built this city's beautiful architecture was created through the forced labor and suffering of enslaved people."

The museum's artifacts include documents from slave auctions, shackles and other restraint devices, and photographs documenting the brutal realities of slavery. Particularly moving were the personal stories of enslaved individuals who passed through these auctions, many of whom were forcibly separated from their families and cultural heritage.

When I asked my questions to the museum guide, her answers reflected both historical knowledge and personal reflection.

"What do we all share? Vulnerability to history," she said. "The decisions made by previous generations continue to shape our present. The question is whether we acknowledge that legacy or try to hide from it."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"My grandmother, who lived through segregation," she said. "She taught me that true kindness requires both empathy and action - understanding people's experiences while working to create a more just world."

## Late Morning at Emanuel AME Church: Faith and Resilience

From the Old Slave Mart, we walked to Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church on Calhoun Street. Founded in 1818, this historic Black congregation has played a significant role in both the spiritual and civil rights history of Charleston.

"This church represents both the struggle for religious freedom and the ongoing fight against racial injustice," explained Pastor Thompson during our tour. "The 1818 founding was itself an act of resistance against racial oppression."

The church's beautiful sanctuary, with its stained glass windows and ornate wooden pews, was a peaceful oasis in the midst of the bustling city. Pastor Thompson shared stories of the congregation's resilience through various periods of persecution and discrimination.

When I asked my questions, Pastor Thompson's answers reflected deep spiritual conviction.

"What do we all share? The struggle for human dignity," he said. "Every religious tradition teaches that all people are created equal in worth and deserve to be treated with respect. The challenge is living out that principle in a world that often denies it."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"My mother, who was a civil rights activist," he said. "She taught me that kindness isn't just about being nice - it's about standing up for justice even when it's difficult."

## Lunch at Hannibal's Kitchen: Gullah Geechee Cuisine

For lunch, we visited Hannibal's Kitchen, another local favorite serving Gullah Geechee cuisine. Over okra soup, shrimp and grits, and fried green tomatoes ($16 each), we continued our discussion about Charleston's culinary heritage.

"Gullah Geechee cooking is more than just food - it's a connection to our West African ancestors," explained the chef, who is a descendant of the Gullah Geechee community. "The recipes have been passed down through generations, preserving our cultural identity."

## Afternoon at McLeod Plantation Historic Site: Complex Legacy

After lunch, we visited the McLeod Plantation Historic Site on James Island. The plantation, which operated from 1842 until the Civil War, provides a complex look at the history of slavery and rice cultivation in the Lowcountry.

"This site shows both the grandeur of plantation life and the brutal reality of slavery," our tour guide explained. "The enslaved people here not only worked the land but also built the structures you see today."

The tour included both the plantation house and the remains of the enslaved people's living quarters, providing a more balanced view of this complex historical site.

When I asked my questions, the guide's answers reflected a nuanced understanding of historical preservation.

"What do we all share? A connection to the land," he said. "Everyone has a relationship with the natural world, whether they realize it or not. The difference is in how we choose to honor that connection."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"My grandfather, who was a farmer," he said. "He taught me that kindness to the land and to other people are connected - that how we treat one reflects how we treat the other."

## Evening Reflections: Layers of History

As I reflect on today's experiences, I'm struck by the multiple layers of history that exist in Charleston. From the brutal realities confronted at the Old Slave Mart to the spiritual resilience witnessed at Emanuel AME, from the cultural preservation celebrated through Gullah Geechee cuisine to the complex legacy examined at McLeod Plantation - each site has added depth to my understanding of this city.

What I'm witnessing in Charleston is a community actively working to reveal its full history - not just the comfortable narratives, but the difficult truths as well. This work of historical truth-telling is creating space for reflection, for reconciliation, and for a more honest understanding of both the past and the present.

Tomorrow I'll travel to Beaufort, continuing my exploration of the Lowcountry's complex history and cultural heritage. I'm looking forward to visiting the Penn Center on St. Helena Island and learning more about the Gullah Geechee community.

Until tomorrow,
Robert

# Day Thirteen: Charleston's Hidden Stories - Uncovering the Layers of History

Today was dedicated to exploring the deeper narratives beneath Charleston's picturesque facade. As Eliza and I set out into another warm Lowcountry morning, I was eager to understand how this city's complex history is being revealed through its various cultural sites.

## Morning at the Old Slave Mart Museum: Confronting the Brutal Truth

Our first stop was the Old Slave Mart Museum on Chalmers Street, a building that served as an auction gallery where enslaved people were bought and sold during the antebellum period. The museum's exhibits provide a stark and unflinching look at the history of the transatlantic slave trade and its impact on Charleston.

"This is one of the most important sites for understanding Charleston's history," Eliza explained as we toured the museum. "It shows how the wealth that built this city's beautiful architecture was created through the forced labor and suffering of enslaved people."

The museum's artifacts include documents from slave auctions, shackles and other restraint devices, and photographs documenting the brutal realities of slavery. Particularly moving were the personal stories of enslaved individuals who passed through these auctions, many of whom were forcibly separated from their families and cultural heritage.

When I asked my questions to the museum guide, her answers reflected both historical knowledge and personal reflection.

"What do we all share? Vulnerability to history," she said. "The decisions made by previous generations continue to shape our present. The question is whether we acknowledge that legacy or try to hide from it."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"My grandmother, who lived through segregation," she said. "She taught me that true kindness requires both empathy and action - understanding people's experiences while working to create a more just world."

## Late Morning at Emanuel AME Church: Faith and Resilience

From the Old Slave Mart, we walked to Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church on Calhoun Street. Founded in 1818, this historic Black congregation has played a significant role in both the spiritual and civil rights history of Charleston.

"This church represents both the struggle for religious freedom and the ongoing fight against racial injustice," explained Pastor Thompson during our tour. "The 1818 founding was itself an act of resistance against racial oppression."

The church's beautiful sanctuary, with its stained glass windows and ornate wooden pews, was a peaceful oasis in the midst of the bustling city. Pastor Thompson shared stories of the congregation's resilience through various periods of persecution and discrimination.

When I asked my questions, Pastor Thompson's answers reflected deep spiritual conviction.

"What do we all share? The struggle for human dignity," he said. "Every religious tradition teaches that all people are created equal in worth and deserve to be treated with respect. The challenge is living out that principle in a world that often denies it."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"My mother, who was a civil rights activist," he said. "She taught me that kindness isn't just about being nice - it's about standing up for justice even when it's difficult."

## Lunch at Hannibal's Kitchen: Gullah Geechee Cuisine

For lunch, we visited Hannibal's Kitchen, another local favorite serving Gullah Geechee cuisine. Over okra soup, shrimp and grits, and fried green tomatoes ($16 each), we continued our discussion about Charleston's culinary heritage.

"Gullah Geechee cooking is more than just food - it's a connection to our West African ancestors," explained the chef, who is a descendant of the Gullah Geechee community. "The recipes have been passed down through generations, preserving our cultural identity."

## Afternoon at McLeod Plantation Historic Site: Complex Legacy

After lunch, we visited the McLeod Plantation Historic Site on James Island. The plantation, which operated from 1842 until the Civil War, provides a complex look at the history of slavery and rice cultivation in the Lowcountry.

"This site shows both the grandeur of plantation life and the brutal reality of slavery," our tour guide explained. "The enslaved people here not only worked the land but also built the structures you see today."

The tour included both the plantation house and the remains of the enslaved people's living quarters, providing a more balanced view of this complex historical site.

When I asked my questions, the guide's answers reflected a nuanced understanding of historical preservation.

"What do we all share? A connection to the land," he said. "Everyone has a relationship with the natural world, whether they realize it or not. The difference is in how we choose to honor that connection."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"My grandfather, who was a farmer," he said. "He taught me that kindness to the land and to other people are connected - that how we treat one reflects how we treat the other."

## Evening Reflections: Layers of History

As I reflect on today's experiences, I'm struck by the multiple layers of history that exist in Charleston. From the brutal realities confronted at the Old Slave Mart to the spiritual resilience witnessed at Emanuel AME, from the cultural preservation celebrated through Gullah Geechee cuisine to the complex legacy examined at McLeod Plantation - each site has added depth to my understanding of this city.

What I'm witnessing in Charleston is a community actively working to reveal its full history - not just the comfortable narratives, but the difficult truths as well. This work of historical truth-telling is creating space for reflection, for reconciliation, and for a more honest understanding of both the past and the present.

Tomorrow I'll travel to Beaufort, continuing my exploration of the Lowcountry's complex history and cultural heritage. I'm looking forward to visiting the Penn Center on St. Helena Island and learning more about the Gullah Geechee community.

Until tomorrow,
Robert

# Day Twelve: Charleston - Where History Echoes on Every Corner

The Amtrak Palmetto train pulled into Charleston's modest station shortly after 2 PM, nearly seven hours after departing Richmond this morning. The journey south had taken us through the coastal plains of Virginia, North Carolina, and South Carolina
4landscapes that gradually shifted from the familiar deciduous forests of the Mid-Atlantic to the Spanish moss-draped live oaks and palmettos of the Lowcountry.

As we crossed the Ashley River into Charleston proper, I felt that distinct sensation of entering a place that exists simultaneously in multiple time periods. Few American cities wear their history as visibly as Charleston, with its cobblestone streets, antebellum mansions, and church steeples punctuating the skyline. Yet as I would soon discover, the question of *whose* history gets centered here remains very much alive.

"Welcome to Charleston," said Eliza, my host for the next few days, as she greeted me at the station. A history professor at the College of Charleston who specializes in urban preservation and contested heritage, Eliza had offered to host me through a connection in my old neighborhood book club. "Hope you're ready for some complicated beauty."

## Late Afternoon in the Historic District: First Impressions

After dropping my backpack at Eliza's home in the Cannonborough-Elliottborough neighborhood, we set out on foot to explore the historic district. The late afternoon sun cast a golden glow on the pastel-colored Georgian, Federal, and Greek Revival homes that line the peninsula's streets.

"Charleston markets itself as a perfectly preserved colonial and antebellum city," Eliza explained as we walked. "But what you're seeing is actually the result of conscious decisions about what to preserve, what to restore, and what to let go. Every preservation choice is also an erasure."

We wandered down Church Street, passing St. Philip's Episcopal Church with its towering white steeple, then turned onto the iconic Rainbow Row with its succession of colorful historic homes. The beauty was undeniable, but Eliza encouraged me to look beyond the picturesque facades.

"These homes weren't built by the people who owned them," she noted. "They were built by enslaved craftsmen whose skills and artistry created the Charleston aesthetic we celebrate today. Until recently, tours rarely mentioned that fact."

As we walked, I noticed the small brass plaques on many buildings, identifying their construction dates and original owners. Newer markers have begun to appear as well, acknowledging the contributions of enslaved artisans and the presence of slave quarters behind many homes.

"The city is slowly becoming more honest about its history," Eliza said. "But there's still resistance to fully reckoning with the fact that Charleston was the entry point for nearly half of all enslaved Africans brought to what would become the United States."

We paused at the Old Slave Mart Museum on Chalmers Street, housed in a building that once served as an auction gallery where enslaved people were bought and sold. Though it was too late to visit today, Eliza promised we would return tomorrow to explore this essential part of Charleston's history.

## Early Evening at Waterfront Park: Multiple Perspectives

As the sun began to set, we made our way to Waterfront Park along the Cooper River. The park offers stunning views of Charleston Harbor, the Ravenel Bridge, and Fort Sumter in the distance
4where the first shots of the Civil War were fired.

Seated on a bench near the iconic Pineapple Fountain, we struck up a conversation with an older Black couple, longtime Charleston residents enjoying their evening walk. When I explained my journey, Mr. and Mrs. Washington were eager to share their perspective on how the city has changed.

"When I was growing up here in the 1950s and '60s, the tourism industry completely erased Black Charleston," Mr. Washington explained. "Tour guides would talk about 'faithful servants' rather than enslaved people. They'd describe the beauty of the mansions without mentioning who built them or how the wealth to build them was created."

Mrs. Washington nodded. "Things are better now, but still complicated. This waterfront park? It's built on land where cotton was once loaded onto ships by enslaved workers. Before that, it's where many enslaved Africans first set foot in America. How much of that history gets told depends on which tour you take."

When I asked my questions, their answers reflected both deep roots in the community and a nuanced understanding of change.

"What do we all share?" Mr. Washington considered. "Connection to place," he said finally. "Everyone develops attachments to the landscapes of their lives
4the streets, buildings, waterfronts. The difference is in whether your connection is acknowledged as legitimate, whether your stories about a place are considered part of its official history."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"My grandmother," Mrs. Washington said without hesitation. "She was born in 1900 and lived through Jim Crow, through the worst kinds of daily humiliations. But she maintained this incredible dignity. She taught me that kindness isn't about being nice to people who mistreat you
4it's about not letting their mistreatment determine who you become."

## Dinner at Bertha's Kitchen: Soul Food and Community

For dinner, Eliza suggested we venture slightly north of downtown to Bertha's Kitchen, a beloved institution serving Gullah Geechee cuisine. The small, no-frills restaurant with its bright blue exterior has been serving soul food classics since 1979 and has won a James Beard America's Classic Award.

"If you want to understand Charleston beyond the tourist district, you need to eat at places like Bertha's," Eliza explained as we joined the line of locals waiting to order at the counter.

We each got a plate with fried chicken, red rice, collard greens, and cornbread ($14 each), then found seats at one of the communal tables. The food was extraordinary
4deeply flavorful, clearly made with generations of knowledge behind each recipe.

At our table sat a group of dockworkers finishing their shift, a family celebrating a birthday, and a couple of College of Charleston students. The conversations flowed easily between tables, creating a sense of shared community that transcended the usual boundaries between strangers.

One of the dockworkers, Jerome, explained that he'd been eating at Bertha's since he was a child. "This food connects us to our ancestors," he said. "Red rice came directly from West Africa. These cooking techniques were preserved by enslaved people and their descendants, even when they had very little."

When I asked my questions, Jerome's answers reflected both pride in heritage and concern for its preservation.

"What do we all share? Food memories," he said. "Everyone has dishes that connect them to family, to childhood, to cultural identity. The difference is whether those food traditions are celebrated as 'cuisine' or dismissed as just 'cooking.'"

"And who taught you kindness?"

"The water," he said, which surprised me. "I grew up fishing with my grandfather in the creeks and marshes around Charleston. He taught me that the water provides if you approach it with respect, if you take only what you need and leave the rest for tomorrow. That's a kind of kindness
4thinking beyond your immediate wants to what sustains a community over time."

## Evening Walk Through the College of Charleston: Education and Reckoning

After dinner, we walked through the campus of the College of Charleston, where Eliza teaches. Founded in 1770, it's one of the oldest colleges in the United States, with a campus of historic buildings and oak-lined walkways draped with Spanish moss.

"Like most Southern institutions, the college has a complicated relationship with its history," Eliza explained as we walked. "It was built partly with wealth from slavery and for decades educated only white men, many from slaveholding families."

She showed me a relatively new installation called "If These Walls Could Speak," which acknowledges the contributions of enslaved people to the college's early development. Bronze plaques now identify buildings constructed with enslaved labor and tell the stories of specific individuals when their names are known.

"This is part of a larger initiative called the College of Charleston's Discovering Our Past," Eliza explained. "It's not just about acknowledging injustice but about recovering the skills, knowledge, and humanity of people who were systematically written out of the institution's history."

As we crossed the Cistern, the iconic central gathering space on campus, we encountered a group of students engaged in a lively discussion. They were part of a class on public history, debating how historical sites should address difficult aspects of the past.

One student, Maya, shared her perspective when I asked about their project. "We're examining how different Charleston house museums talk about slavery
4or don't," she explained. "Some still focus almost exclusively on architecture and decorative arts, while others have completely transformed their interpretation to center the experiences of enslaved people who lived and worked there."

When I asked my questions, Maya's answers reflected both academic knowledge and personal investment.

"What do we all share? Incomplete education," she said. "Everyone has gaps in their historical knowledge, stories they weren't taught. The difference is whether you're willing to fill those gaps once you become aware of them."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"My history professors," she said, glancing at Eliza. "They've shown me that rigorous scholarship can be an act of kindness
4that recovering erased stories and challenging comfortable myths can be a way of honoring those who came before us."

## Late Evening at The Griffon: Local Perspectives

For a nightcap, Eliza suggested The Griffon, an unpretentious pub on Vendue Range that serves as a gathering spot for locals rather than tourists. Over local beers ($6 each), we continued our conversation about Charleston's evolving relationship with its past.

"The tourism industry has traditionally sold a very sanitized version of Charleston," Eliza observed. "Carriage tours would talk about the 'grandeur of the Old South' while minimizing or romanticizing slavery. That's changing, but there's still tension between historical honesty and marketable nostalgia."

At the next table sat two carriage tour guides unwinding after their shifts. Overhearing our conversation, they introduced themselves as Mike and Darius, offering their perspective on how tour narratives have evolved.

"When I started giving tours fifteen years ago, we were told to focus on architecture and famous residents," Mike explained. "Now we're expected to address slavery directly, to talk about who built these buildings and where the wealth came from. Some tourists don't like it
4they want the romantic version
4but it's the right thing to do."

Darius, who is Black, nodded. "I started more recently, and I've always included these perspectives. What's interesting is seeing how different tourists respond. Some thank me for the honesty. Others get uncomfortable or even hostile. But you can't understand Charleston without understanding the role of enslaved labor in creating it."

When I asked my questions, their answers reflected their daily experience mediating between history and public perception.

"What do we all share?" Darius considered. "Discomfort with complexity," he said. "Everyone wants simple stories with clear heroes and villains. But real history is messier. The beautiful city tourists come to admire was built through tremendous suffering. Both realities are true simultaneously."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"The tourists who listen," Mike said. "Not the ones who want their preconceptions confirmed, but the ones who are genuinely curious, who ask thoughtful questions, who want to understand this place in all its complexity. They remind me that education can be an act of kindness on both sides."

## Late Night Reflections: A City of Contrasts

It's nearly midnight now as I write this at Eliza's kitchen table, reflecting on my first evening in Charleston. What strikes me most is how this city embodies American contradictions perhaps more visibly than anywhere I've visited so far.

Charleston is undeniably beautiful
4its architecture, its oak-lined streets, its waterfront vistas. Yet that beauty was created largely through the forced labor of enslaved people and maintained through generations of economic inequality. The wealth that built the grand homes came primarily from rice and cotton plantations worked by enslaved Africans and their descendants.

As Mr. Washington observed at Waterfront Park, connection to place is something we all share
4we all develop attachments to the landscapes of our lives. But there's a profound difference in whether your connection is acknowledged as legitimate, whether your stories about a place are considered part of its official history.

And as Jerome noted at Bertha's Kitchen, food memories connect us all to family, to childhood, to cultural identity. Yet there's a difference in whether those food traditions are celebrated as "cuisine" or dismissed as just "cooking"
4a distinction often shaped by race and class rather than culinary merit.

What I'm witnessing in Charleston is a community grappling with how to tell a more complete, more honest story about itself
4not to inspire guilt or resentment, but to create a shared understanding that acknowledges both beauty and pain, both achievement and injustice. From the new interpretive markers on historic buildings to the "If These Walls Could Speak" installation at the college, from the evolving narratives of carriage tours to the preservation of Gullah Geechee foodways at places like Bertha's Kitchen, I see efforts to expand the story of Charleston beyond the romanticized version that dominated for generations.

Tomorrow I'll explore more of this complex city, including visits to the Old Slave Mart Museum, the Emanuel AME Church, and the McLeod Plantation Historic Site. I'm particularly interested in how these sites approach the difficult work of historical truth-telling while creating space for reflection and reconciliation.

Until tomorrow,
Robert

P.S. I keep thinking about what Maya said about incomplete education
4that everyone has gaps in their historical knowledge, stories they weren't taught. The difference lies in whether we're willing to fill those gaps once we become aware of them. Perhaps that's part of what unites us as Americans: not a shared understanding of our history, but a shared responsibility to seek a more complete understanding, even when
4especially when
4that understanding challenges our comfortable narratives.

# Day Twelve: Charleston - Where History Echoes on Every Corner

The Amtrak Palmetto train pulled into Charleston's modest station shortly after 2 PM, nearly seven hours after departing Richmond this morning. The journey south had taken us through the coastal plains of Virginia, North Carolina, and South Carolina—landscapes that gradually shifted from the familiar deciduous forests of the Mid-Atlantic to the Spanish moss-draped live oaks and palmettos of the Lowcountry.

As we crossed the Ashley River into Charleston proper, I felt that distinct sensation of entering a place that exists simultaneously in multiple time periods. Few American cities wear their history as visibly as Charleston, with its cobblestone streets, antebellum mansions, and church steeples punctuating the skyline. Yet as I would soon discover, the question of *whose* history gets centered here remains very much alive.

"Welcome to Charleston," said Eliza, my host for the next few days, as she greeted me at the station. A history professor at the College of Charleston who specializes in urban preservation and contested heritage, Eliza had offered to host me through a connection in my old neighborhood book club. "Hope you're ready for some complicated beauty."

## Late Afternoon in the Historic District: First Impressions

After dropping my backpack at Eliza's home in the Cannonborough-Elliottborough neighborhood, we set out on foot to explore the historic district. The late afternoon sun cast a golden glow on the pastel-colored Georgian, Federal, and Greek Revival homes that line the peninsula's streets.

"Charleston markets itself as a perfectly preserved colonial and antebellum city," Eliza explained as we walked. "But what you're seeing is actually the result of conscious decisions about what to preserve, what to restore, and what to let go. Every preservation choice is also an erasure."

We wandered down Church Street, passing St. Philip's Episcopal Church with its towering white steeple, then turned onto the iconic Rainbow Row with its succession of colorful historic homes. The beauty was undeniable, but Eliza encouraged me to look beyond the picturesque facades.

"These homes weren't built by the people who owned them," she noted. "They were built by enslaved craftsmen whose skills and artistry created the Charleston aesthetic we celebrate today. Until recently, tours rarely mentioned that fact."

As we walked, I noticed the small brass plaques on many buildings, identifying their construction dates and original owners. Newer markers have begun to appear as well, acknowledging the contributions of enslaved artisans and the presence of slave quarters behind many homes.

"The city is slowly becoming more honest about its history," Eliza said. "But there's still resistance to fully reckoning with the fact that Charleston was the entry point for nearly half of all enslaved Africans brought to what would become the United States."

We paused at the Old Slave Mart Museum on Chalmers Street, housed in a building that once served as an auction gallery where enslaved people were bought and sold. Though it was too late to visit today, Eliza promised we would return tomorrow to explore this essential part of Charleston's history.

## Early Evening at Waterfront Park: Multiple Perspectives

As the sun began to set, we made our way to Waterfront Park along the Cooper River. The park offers stunning views of Charleston Harbor, the Ravenel Bridge, and Fort Sumter in the distance—where the first shots of the Civil War were fired.

Seated on a bench near the iconic Pineapple Fountain, we struck up a conversation with an older Black couple, longtime Charleston residents enjoying their evening walk. When I explained my journey, Mr. and Mrs. Washington were eager to share their perspective on how the city has changed.

"When I was growing up here in the 1950s and '60s, the tourism industry completely erased Black Charleston," Mr. Washington explained. "Tour guides would talk about 'faithful servants' rather than enslaved people. They'd describe the beauty of the mansions without mentioning who built them or how the wealth to build them was created."

Mrs. Washington nodded. "Things are better now, but still complicated. This waterfront park? It's built on land where cotton was once loaded onto ships by enslaved workers. Before that, it's where many enslaved Africans first set foot in America. How much of that history gets told depends on which tour you take."

When I asked my questions, their answers reflected both deep roots in the community and a nuanced understanding of change.

"What do we all share?" Mr. Washington considered. "Connection to place," he said finally. "Everyone develops attachments to the landscapes of their lives—the streets, buildings, waterfronts. The difference is in whether your connection is acknowledged as legitimate, whether your stories about a place are considered part of its official history."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"My grandmother," Mrs. Washington said without hesitation. "She was born in 1900 and lived through Jim Crow, through the worst kinds of daily humiliations. But she maintained this incredible dignity. She taught me that kindness isn't about being nice to people who mistreat you—it's about not letting their mistreatment determine who you become."

## Dinner at Bertha's Kitchen: Soul Food and Community

For dinner, Eliza suggested we venture slightly north of downtown to Bertha's Kitchen, a beloved institution serving Gullah Geechee cuisine. The small, no-frills restaurant with its bright blue exterior has been serving soul food classics since 1979 and has won a James Beard America's Classic Award.

"If you want to understand Charleston beyond the tourist district, you need to eat at places like Bertha's," Eliza explained as we joined the line of locals waiting to order at the counter.

We each got a plate with fried chicken, red rice, collard greens, and cornbread ($14 each), then found seats at one of the communal tables. The food was extraordinary—deeply flavorful, clearly made with generations of knowledge behind each recipe.

At our table sat a group of dockworkers finishing their shift, a family celebrating a birthday, and a couple of College of Charleston students. The conversations flowed easily between tables, creating a sense of shared community that transcended the usual boundaries between strangers.

One of the dockworkers, Jerome, explained that he'd been eating at Bertha's since he was a child. "This food connects us to our ancestors," he said. "Red rice came directly from West Africa. These cooking techniques were preserved by enslaved people and their descendants, even when they had very little."

When I asked my questions, Jerome's answers reflected both pride in heritage and concern for its preservation.

"What do we all share? Food memories," he said. "Everyone has dishes that connect them to family, to childhood, to cultural identity. The difference is whether those food traditions are celebrated as 'cuisine' or dismissed as just 'cooking.'"

"And who taught you kindness?"

"The water," he said, which surprised me. "I grew up fishing with my grandfather in the creeks and marshes around Charleston. He taught me that the water provides if you approach it with respect, if you take only what you need and leave the rest for tomorrow. That's a kind of kindness—thinking beyond your immediate wants to what sustains a community over time."

## Evening Walk Through the College of Charleston: Education and Reckoning

After dinner, we walked through the campus of the College of Charleston, where Eliza teaches. Founded in 1770, it's one of the oldest colleges in the United States, with a campus of historic buildings and oak-lined walkways draped with Spanish moss.

"Like most Southern institutions, the college has a complicated relationship with its history," Eliza explained as we walked. "It was built partly with wealth from slavery and for decades educated only white men, many from slaveholding families."

She showed me a relatively new installation called "If These Walls Could Speak," which acknowledges the contributions of enslaved people to the college's early development. Bronze plaques now identify buildings constructed with enslaved labor and tell the stories of specific individuals when their names are known.

"This is part of a larger initiative called the College of Charleston's Discovering Our Past," Eliza explained. "It's not just about acknowledging injustice but about recovering the skills, knowledge, and humanity of people who were systematically written out of the institution's history."

As we crossed the Cistern, the iconic central gathering space on campus, we encountered a group of students engaged in a lively discussion. They were part of a class on public history, debating how historical sites should address difficult aspects of the past.

One student, Maya, shared her perspective when I asked about their project. "We're examining how different Charleston house museums talk about slavery—or don't," she explained. "Some still focus almost exclusively on architecture and decorative arts, while others have completely transformed their interpretation to center the experiences of enslaved people who lived and worked there."

When I asked my questions, Maya's answers reflected both academic knowledge and personal investment.

"What do we all share? Incomplete education," she said. "Everyone has gaps in their historical knowledge, stories they weren't taught. The difference is whether you're willing to fill those gaps once you become aware of them."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"My history professors," she said, glancing at Eliza. "They've shown me that rigorous scholarship can be an act of kindness—that recovering erased stories and challenging comfortable myths can be a way of honoring those who came before us."

## Late Evening at The Griffon: Local Perspectives

For a nightcap, Eliza suggested The Griffon, an unpretentious pub on Vendue Range that serves as a gathering spot for locals rather than tourists. Over local beers ($6 each), we continued our conversation about Charleston's evolving relationship with its past.

"The tourism industry has traditionally sold a very sanitized version of Charleston," Eliza observed. "Carriage tours would talk about the 'grandeur of the Old South' while minimizing or romanticizing slavery. That's changing, but there's still tension between historical honesty and marketable nostalgia."

At the next table sat two carriage tour guides unwinding after their shifts. Overhearing our conversation, they introduced themselves as Mike and Darius, offering their perspective on how tour narratives have evolved.

"When I started giving tours fifteen years ago, we were told to focus on architecture and famous residents," Mike explained. "Now we're expected to address slavery directly, to talk about who built these buildings and where the wealth came from. Some tourists don't like it—they want the romantic version—but it's the right thing to do."

Darius, who is Black, nodded. "I started more recently, and I've always included these perspectives. What's interesting is seeing how different tourists respond. Some thank me for the honesty. Others get uncomfortable or even hostile. But you can't understand Charleston without understanding the role of enslaved labor in creating it."

When I asked my questions, their answers reflected their daily experience mediating between history and public perception.

"What do we all share?" Darius considered. "Discomfort with complexity," he said. "Everyone wants simple stories with clear heroes and villains. But real history is messier. The beautiful city tourists come to admire was built through tremendous suffering. Both realities are true simultaneously."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"The tourists who listen," Mike said. "Not the ones who want their preconceptions confirmed, but the ones who are genuinely curious, who ask thoughtful questions, who want to understand this place in all its complexity. They remind me that education can be an act of kindness on both sides."

## Late Night Reflections: A City of Contrasts

It's nearly midnight now as I write this at Eliza's kitchen table, reflecting on my first evening in Charleston. What strikes me most is how this city embodies American contradictions perhaps more visibly than anywhere I've visited so far.

Charleston is undeniably beautiful—its architecture, its oak-lined streets, its waterfront vistas. Yet that beauty was created largely through the forced labor of enslaved people and maintained through generations of economic inequality. The wealth that built the grand homes came primarily from rice and cotton plantations worked by enslaved Africans and their descendants.

As Mr. Washington observed at Waterfront Park, connection to place is something we all share—we all develop attachments to the landscapes of our lives. But there's a profound difference in whether your connection is acknowledged as legitimate, whether your stories about a place are considered part of its official history.

And as Jerome noted at Bertha's Kitchen, food memories connect us all to family, to childhood, to cultural identity. Yet there's a difference in whether those food traditions are celebrated as "cuisine" or dismissed as just "cooking"—a distinction often shaped by race and class rather than culinary merit.

What I'm witnessing in Charleston is a community grappling with how to tell a more complete, more honest story about itself—not to inspire guilt or resentment, but to create a shared understanding that acknowledges both beauty and pain, both achievement and injustice. From the new interpretive markers on historic buildings to the "If These Walls Could Speak" installation at the college, from the evolving narratives of carriage tours to the preservation of Gullah Geechee foodways at places like Bertha's Kitchen, I see efforts to expand the story of Charleston beyond the romanticized version that dominated for generations.

Tomorrow I'll explore more of this complex city, including visits to the Old Slave Mart Museum, the Emanuel AME Church, and the McLeod Plantation Historic Site. I'm particularly interested in how these sites approach the difficult work of historical truth-telling while creating space for reflection and reconciliation.

Until tomorrow,
Robert

P.S. I keep thinking about what Maya said about incomplete education—that everyone has gaps in their historical knowledge, stories they weren't taught. The difference lies in whether we're willing to fill those gaps once we become aware of them. Perhaps that's part of what unites us as Americans: not a shared understanding of our history, but a shared responsibility to seek a more complete understanding, even when—especially when—that understanding challenges our comfortable narratives.

# Day Eleven: Richmond's Sacred Spaces - Faith, Justice, and Reconciliation

"Churches have always been at the center of Richmond's story," Marcus told me over coffee this morning. "From the famous 'Give me liberty or give me death' speech at St. John's Church to the civil rights movement centered in Black congregations, faith communities have shaped this city's history—for better and sometimes for worse."

Today would be devoted to exploring Richmond's sacred spaces and the role they've played in both division and healing. As we set out on another beautiful early autumn day, I was eager to understand how faith communities are contributing to the work of reconciliation in a city still reckoning with its complex past.

## Morning at St. John's Church: Liberty and Contradiction

We began at St. John's Episcopal Church in Church Hill, Richmond's oldest neighborhood. This modest white wooden church, built in 1741, is where Patrick Henry delivered his famous "Give me liberty or give me death" speech in 1775, helping to ignite the American Revolution.

"The ironies are impossible to miss," observed Sarah, our tour guide, as we sat in the historic sanctuary with its box pews and simple colonial architecture. "Henry was arguing passionately for liberty while enslaving human beings. This contradiction was present at the very founding of our nation."

The church now offers historical interpretations that acknowledge these contradictions rather than glossing over them. As we toured the grounds and cemetery, Sarah pointed out graves of both Revolutionary patriots and Confederate leaders, explaining how the church itself reflected the community's evolving understanding of its history.

"For many years, the focus was exclusively on the Revolutionary history," she explained. "Now we try to tell a more complete story that includes the experiences of enslaved people who would have worshipped in the gallery, segregated from white congregants."

When I asked my questions, Sarah's answers reflected both historical knowledge and personal reflection.

"What do we all share? Imperfect heroes," she said. "Every community venerates figures who embody their highest values while also reflecting their deepest flaws. The question is whether we can acknowledge the full humanity of our heroes—their achievements and their failures."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"My father," she said. "He was a history teacher who believed that understanding the past requires empathy—the ability to imagine yourself in someone else's circumstances. He taught me that kindness doesn't mean excusing injustice, but rather recognizing the complex humanity in everyone, past and present."

## Late Morning at First African Baptist Church: Faith and Freedom

From St. John's, we walked to First African Baptist Church, one of the oldest Black congregations in the nation, founded in 1841 when enslaved and free Black members of First Baptist Church sought independence from white control.

"This church represents both oppression and resistance," explained Deacon Williams, who greeted us in the sanctuary. "Under Virginia law before the Civil War, Black congregations had to have white pastors or supervisors present at all services. Yet even within those constraints, people created spaces for authentic worship and community building."

The church's beautiful sanctuary, with its soaring ceiling and stained glass windows, was built in 1876 by formerly enslaved artisans. Deacon Williams showed us photographs documenting the congregation's history, from Reconstruction through Jim Crow to the Civil Rights Movement and beyond.

"This has always been more than a place of worship," he emphasized. "It was a school when Black education was limited, a meeting place when gathering was restricted, a social service provider when government support was denied, and a center for organizing when rights were threatened."

Particularly moving was the church's archive of oral histories from elder members, preserving memories of both struggle and triumph across generations.

When I asked my questions, Deacon Williams' answers reflected deep spiritual conviction.

"What do we all share? The image of God," he said. "That's the foundation of human dignity—the belief that every person, regardless of race or circumstance, bears the divine image. When that belief is truly embraced, racism becomes impossible to justify."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"This congregation," he said, gesturing to the sanctuary around us. "I came here as a young man angry about injustice, ready to fight. The elders taught me that righteous anger has its place, but lasting change requires something deeper—a commitment to seeing the humanity in everyone, even those who deny yours."

## Lunch at The Roosevelt: Breaking Bread

For lunch, Marcus suggested The Roosevelt in Church Hill, a restaurant that reimagines Southern cuisine through a contemporary lens. Over pimento cheese, fried catfish sandwiches, and local beer ($18 each), we discussed the morning's visits and their different perspectives on Richmond's religious history.

"Churches reflect their communities—both the good and the bad," Marcus observed. "They've been sites of oppression and resistance, division and healing, sometimes simultaneously."

At the next table sat an interracial couple who, overhearing our conversation, introduced themselves as Michael and James, longtime Richmond residents and members of a congregation actively engaged in racial reconciliation work.

"Our church has been intentional about confronting its own history," Michael explained. "The building was constructed with money from tobacco and enslaved labor. Acknowledging that truth has been painful but necessary for authentic community."

James added, "We've partnered with historically Black congregations for shared worship, education, and service. It's slow, sometimes uncomfortable work, but it's transforming relationships in ways that feel genuine rather than performative."

When I asked my questions, their answers reflected both personal and communal journeys.

"What do we all share?" Michael considered. "Hunger for belonging," he said. "Everyone wants to be part of something larger than themselves, to find meaning in community. The question is whether that belonging comes at others' expense or creates space for wider inclusion."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"Each other," James said, looking at Michael. "We've been together twenty years, through family rejection, legal discrimination, and gradual acceptance. We've learned that kindness isn't passive—it's an active choice to believe people can grow, including ourselves."

## Early Afternoon at Sixth Mount Zion Baptist Church: A Legacy of Leadership

After lunch, we took a local bus to Sixth Mount Zion Baptist Church in Jackson Ward, founded in 1867 by Reverend John Jasper, who was born enslaved and became one of the most famous Black preachers in America. His sermon "De Sun Do Move" was delivered over 250 times to both Black and white audiences, making him a celebrated figure in post-Civil War Richmond.

"Reverend Jasper represents the emergence of independent Black religious leadership after emancipation," explained Ms. Carter, who showed us the small museum dedicated to his legacy. "He was born in slavery but died a free man, pastor of a thriving congregation, respected across racial lines despite the Jim Crow era beginning around him."

The church's architecture itself tells a story of resilience—built by formerly enslaved craftsmen who incorporated symbolic elements like the North Star into decorative features, a subtle reference to the guiding light followed by those escaping slavery.

Ms. Carter showed us photographs documenting the church's role during the civil rights movement, when it hosted planning meetings, voter registration drives, and visits from national leaders including Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

"This church has always understood that faith without action is empty," she said. "Worship on Sunday must lead to justice work on Monday."

When I asked my questions, Ms. Carter's answers reflected both historical perspective and present commitment.

"What do we all share? Stories," she said. "Everyone needs narratives that help them make sense of their lives and connect to something larger. The problem comes when certain stories are elevated as universal while others are treated as marginal."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"My Sunday School teacher, Mrs. Robinson," she said. "She lived through segregation but never let bitterness define her. She taught us that our dignity came from God, not from how others treated us. That's a profound lesson in a world that often denies Black humanity."

## Mid-Afternoon at Richmond Hill: An Intentional Community

From Sixth Mount Zion, we walked to Richmond Hill, an ecumenical Christian fellowship and residential community housed in a former convent overlooking the city. Founded in 1987, the community is dedicated to prayer, hospitality, racial reconciliation, and healing in metropolitan Richmond.

"We're located at the geographic center of the city," explained Brother Michael, one of the community members who welcomed us. "From this hill, you can see both the historic center of power—the Capitol designed by Jefferson—and the historic centers of oppression, like Shockoe Bottom where enslaved people were bought and sold."

The community maintains a rhythm of daily prayer for the city, hosts retreats and dialogues across racial and denominational lines, and runs urban service programs addressing needs like education and housing.

"We believe reconciliation begins with truth-telling," Brother Michael said as he showed us the simple chapel where the community gathers three times daily for prayer. "That includes acknowledging historical injustices, present inequities, and the ways religious institutions have been complicit in both."

Particularly moving was the community's "Kneeling Bench"—a prayer station where visitors are invited to kneel in repentance for the city's history of racial injustice and commit to working for healing and equity.

When I asked my questions, Brother Michael's answers reflected contemplative depth.

"What do we all share? Brokenness and belovedness," he said. "Every human being knows both woundedness and the capacity for love. Reconciliation happens when we can acknowledge our common brokenness without shame and recognize our common belovedness without exception."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"The poor," he said simply. "Before joining this community, I worked with homeless individuals in Washington DC. They taught me that kindness isn't about having resources to share but about recognizing shared humanity. Some of the most generous people I've known owned almost nothing."

## Late Afternoon at the Virginia Holocaust Museum: Never Again

As afternoon turned to evening, Marcus suggested we visit the Virginia Holocaust Museum, founded by Mark Fetter, a local Holocaust survivor, to educate about the dangers of prejudice and dehumanization.

"It might seem disconnected from Richmond's history," Marcus explained, "but the museum has been intentional about drawing connections between different histories of oppression and resistance."

The museum's powerful exhibits document both the horrors of the Holocaust and the courage of resisters and rescuers. A special section explores connections between antisemitism and other forms of prejudice, including racism in American history.

"We believe education is the key to preventing future genocide," explained Rebecca, our guide. "That means understanding how ordinary people can become perpetrators, bystanders, or upstanders when faced with systematic dehumanization of others."

The museum also houses the "Ipson Auditorium," named for another local Holocaust survivor whose family was hidden by non-Jewish Lithuanians during the Nazi occupation—a testament to how individual moral courage can make a life-or-death difference.

When I asked my questions, Rebecca's answers reflected both historical awareness and contemporary concern.

"What do we all share? Vulnerability," she said. "The Holocaust demonstrates how quickly rights and protections can be stripped away when a group is targeted. That's why solidarity across differences is so essential—because an attack on any group's humanity ultimately threatens everyone."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"The survivors I've had the privilege to know," she said. "Despite experiencing the worst of human cruelty, many maintained their capacity for compassion and their commitment to building a more just world. That's not just kindness—it's moral heroism."

## Dinner at Alewife: Sustenance for the Journey

For dinner, Marcus took me to Alewife, a restaurant in the Churchill neighborhood that specializes in sustainable seafood from the Chesapeake Bay watershed. Over rockfish, seasonal vegetables, and local wine ($26 each), we reflected on a day spent exploring Richmond's sacred spaces and the different ways they approach the work of remembrance and reconciliation.

"Faith communities contain the same contradictions as the broader society," Marcus observed. "They've been used to justify oppression and to inspire liberation, sometimes simultaneously."

At the next table sat Rabbi Goldman and Imam Malik, religious leaders who co-chair an interfaith coalition addressing poverty in Richmond. Overhearing our conversation, they introduced themselves and shared their perspective on religious communities' role in social transformation.

"Our traditions all teach that justice is a sacred obligation," Rabbi Goldman explained. "Where we've fallen short is in limiting that concern to our own communities rather than seeing it as a universal imperative."

Imam Malik added, "Richmond's religious landscape is changing. There are now thriving Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist, and Sikh communities alongside the Christian majority. That diversity creates new possibilities for coalition-building across differences."

When I asked my questions, their answers reflected both theological depth and practical wisdom.

"What do we all share?" Rabbi Goldman considered. "A moral imagination," he said. "Every religious tradition offers stories and practices that help us envision a more just world and work toward creating it. We may use different language, but we're often pointing toward the same horizon."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"My grandfather," Imam Malik said. "He was the first Muslim in our family, converting in the 1950s. He faced discrimination from both the white mainstream and from his own relatives who didn't understand his choice. Yet he remained steadfast in his faith while building bridges wherever possible. He taught me that kindness requires both principle and flexibility."

## Evening at a Reconciliation Concert: Harmony Across Differences

After dinner, Marcus had tickets for a special concert at the Carpenter Theatre downtown—a collaboration between the Richmond Symphony and local church choirs from diverse congregations across the city. The program, titled "Hallelujah Anyway: Songs of Hope and Healing," featured music from various religious and cultural traditions, from Bach cantatas to African American spirituals to contemporary gospel.

Particularly moving was a piece commissioned specifically for the concert, composed by a local musician who incorporated melodic elements from European classical music, African rhythms, and Native American themes—a musical representation of the diverse strands that make up Richmond's cultural fabric.

Between musical selections, community leaders shared brief reflections on the theme of reconciliation. One speaker, Dr. Johnson, a historian and pastor, offered a perspective that resonated deeply with what I'd been observing throughout the day.

"True reconciliation requires both memory and imagination," he said. "We must honestly remember the wounds of the past while imagining a future not determined by them. Music helps us do both—it carries our grief while lifting our spirits toward something new."

After the concert, I spoke briefly with one of the choir directors, Ms. Washington, about the process of bringing together singers from historically separated communities.

"It hasn't been easy," she acknowledged. "These choirs come from congregations with different histories, different worship styles, different theological perspectives. But music creates a space where we can harmonize without erasing our distinctiveness."

When I asked my questions, Ms. Washington's answers reflected both artistic and spiritual insight.

"What do we all share? Breath," she said. "Singing begins with breath—the same element that gives us life. When we sing together, we're literally synchronizing our breathing. There's something profound about that shared vulnerability, especially across historical divisions."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"The hymns themselves," she said. "I grew up singing songs like 'Amazing Grace' and 'His Eye Is on the Sparrow.' The theology in those lyrics—that everyone is worthy of grace, that no one is beyond redemption—shaped my understanding of what kindness really means. It's not just being nice; it's recognizing divine worth in every person."

## Late Night Reflections: Faith in a Divided City

It's nearly midnight now as I write this at Marcus's kitchen table, reflecting on a day spent exploring Richmond's sacred spaces. What strikes me most is how faith communities embody both the divisions that have shaped this city and the possibilities for healing across those divisions.

From St. John's Church with its Revolutionary history to First African Baptist with its legacy of resistance, from Sixth Mount Zion with its celebrated founder to Richmond Hill with its intentional community, from the Holocaust Museum with its universal lessons to the interfaith concert with its harmonious diversity—each space tells part of Richmond's complex story.

Perhaps what we share as Americans is not a single faith tradition but the ongoing work of finding common moral ground across our differences. As Rabbi Goldman suggested at dinner, we all possess a moral imagination—the capacity to envision a more just world and work toward creating it, even if we use different language to describe that vision.

And as Brother Michael observed at Richmond Hill, we share both brokenness and belovedness—the universal human experience of woundedness and the capacity for love. Reconciliation becomes possible when we can acknowledge our common brokenness without shame and recognize our common belovedness without exception.

What I've witnessed today in Richmond is not a city that has resolved its contradictions, but one engaged in the difficult, necessary work of facing them honestly. From the reinterpretation of colonial history at St. John's to the preservation of Black religious leadership at Sixth Mount Zion, from the intentional community at Richmond Hill to the interfaith collaboration addressing poverty, these sacred spaces are contributing to a more truthful, more inclusive understanding of both past and future.

Tomorrow I'll board an Amtrak train for Charleston, South Carolina—another city deeply shaped by both slavery and resistance, by both division and reconciliation. I'm curious to compare how these two historic Southern cities are approaching the work of honest reckoning with their complex histories.

Until tomorrow,
Robert

P.S. I keep thinking about what Dr. Johnson said at the concert—that true reconciliation requires both memory and imagination. Perhaps that's what I'm witnessing across these communities: the difficult, necessary work of remembering truthfully while imagining something new. Not forgetting the past, but ensuring it doesn't determine the future. Not ignoring wounds, but preventing them from defining us. Not erasing differences, but finding harmony across them. It's messy, incomplete work, but it seems to be the only path forward.

# Day Ten: Richmond - Confronting the Past, Reimagining the Future

The Amtrak Northeast Regional pulled into Richmond's Main Street Station just after 10 AM. The station itself—a magnificent Beaux-Arts building with its distinctive clock tower—seemed a fitting introduction to a city where history is both omnipresent and being actively rewritten.

I'd bid farewell to Emily in Charlottesville with promises to stay in touch. Her hospitality and insights had given me a valuable foundation for understanding Virginia's complex relationship with its past. Now I was eager to explore Richmond—once the capital of the Confederacy and now a city in the midst of reimagining itself.

"Welcome to Richmond," said Marcus, my host for the next two days, as he greeted me on the platform. A community organizer who works with a racial reconciliation nonprofit, Marcus had offered to host me through a mutual connection in the restorative justice network. "You've come at an interesting time. The city is still figuring out what it wants to be."

## Late Morning on Monument Avenue: Absences as Powerful as Presences

After dropping my backpack at Marcus's apartment in the Fan District, we headed straight to Monument Avenue—once lined with massive statues of Confederate generals, now a street defined by what's no longer there.

"This was the most visible symbol of the Lost Cause narrative in America," Marcus explained as we walked the tree-lined boulevard. "For generations, these monuments shaped how people understood the Civil War and its aftermath."

What struck me most was how the absence of the monuments has become a presence of its own. Where towering statues of Lee, Jackson, and Davis once stood, there are now empty pedestals or grassy circles. The most notable exception is the monument to Arthur Ashe, the Black tennis champion and Richmond native, which remains standing among the vacant spots once occupied by Confederate leaders.

"The empty spaces tell a story too," Marcus observed. "They represent a community's decision to stop celebrating one version of history and make room for new narratives."

As we walked, we encountered a small group conducting a tour focused on the avenue's transformation. The guide, Dr. Williams, a historian at Virginia Commonwealth University, invited us to join.

"Monument Avenue was designed as a physical manifestation of the Lost Cause ideology," she explained to the group. "These weren't just statues—they were part of a deliberate campaign to rewrite the history of the Civil War, to present the Confederacy as noble and to justify the racial hierarchy of Jim Crow."

She pointed out how the monuments weren't erected immediately after the Civil War, but decades later, during the period when segregation was being codified and Black political power was being systematically suppressed.

"The timing wasn't coincidental," she noted. "These were statements about power in the present, not just memorials to the past."

After the tour, I asked Dr. Williams my questions.

"What do we all share?" She considered carefully. "Selective memory," she said. "Everyone—individuals, communities, nations—remembers what serves their interests and forgets what doesn't. The difference is in who has the power to make their version of history official, to literally cast it in bronze and place it in the center of the city."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"My mentor in graduate school," she said. "He was a white Southerner who spent his career documenting the history of slavery and resistance. He taught me that true kindness includes intellectual honesty—being willing to face uncomfortable truths without flinching, because that's the only way toward healing."

## Lunch at Mama J's: Soul Food and Community Stories

For lunch, Marcus took me to Mama J's in the historic Jackson Ward neighborhood—once known as "the Black Wall Street of America" for its thriving African American businesses in the early 20th century.

"Best fried catfish in Richmond," Marcus promised as we entered the warm, bustling restaurant filled with a diverse crowd of locals.

We ordered catfish, collard greens, and cornbread ($16.50 each) and were greeted by Lester, the owner's son, who stopped by our table to welcome us.

"This restaurant is about more than food," he explained when I asked about its history. "My mother started it as a place where the community could gather, where the tradition of Black Southern cooking would be preserved and celebrated."

When I asked my questions, Lester's answers reflected both family pride and community commitment.

"What do we all share? Hunger," he said with a smile. "Not just for food, but for connection. Everyone wants a place where they feel welcome, where they're treated with respect. That's what we try to create here."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"My mother," he said without hesitation. "She built this business by treating everyone who walked through that door like family. During the pandemic, we provided free meals to healthcare workers and anyone who needed food. That's the tradition I'm carrying on—hospitality as a form of care."

## Early Afternoon at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts: Art as Reconciliation

After lunch, we walked to the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts, where a special exhibition titled "Monuments and Memory" explored how artists have responded to questions of public commemoration and historical reckoning.

The exhibition juxtaposed historical paintings glorifying Confederate leaders with contemporary works that challenge those narratives. Particularly powerful was a series of photographs documenting the removal of Richmond's Confederate monuments in 2020 and 2021, showing the massive crowds that gathered to witness these historic changes.

In one gallery, we encountered an installation by Kehinde Wiley—the artist known for Barack Obama's presidential portrait—called "Rumors of War." The massive bronze sculpture depicts a young Black man with dreadlocks on a rearing horse, directly referencing the style of the Confederate monuments while subverting their message.

"This piece was originally installed just blocks from Monument Avenue," explained Jordan, a museum educator leading a discussion group. "It asks us to consider who gets monumentalized in our society and why."

When I asked my questions, Jordan's answers reflected both artistic and historical perspectives.

"What do we all share? The need for representation," they said. "Everyone wants to see themselves reflected in the culture around them—in art, in monuments, in stories. When certain groups are systematically excluded from that representation, it sends a powerful message about who matters."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"Art itself," they said. "Great art teaches empathy—the ability to see the world through someone else's eyes, even if just for a moment. That's the foundation of kindness—recognizing others' full humanity."

## Mid-Afternoon in Jackson Ward: The Black History Museum

From the VMFA, Marcus took me to the Black History Museum and Cultural Center of Virginia, housed in the historic Leigh Street Armory in Jackson Ward. The museum chronicles the experiences of African Americans in Virginia from the arrival of the first enslaved Africans in 1619 to the present day.

"Jackson Ward was once called 'the Harlem of the South,'" Marcus explained as we walked through the neighborhood. "It was a center of Black business, culture, and resistance during segregation. Then highway construction and urban renewal tore through it in the 1950s and '60s, destroying much of the community."

Inside the museum, exhibits documented both the brutality of slavery and Jim Crow and the resilience of Black Virginians in the face of oppression. Particularly moving was the section on Maggie L. Walker, who in 1903 became the first African American woman to charter a bank in the United States, founding the St. Luke Penny Savings Bank in Jackson Ward.

"She understood that economic empowerment was essential to civil rights," explained Ms. Thompson, a museum docent who offered to guide us through the exhibits. "Her motto was 'Let us put our money together, let us use our money; Let us put our money out at usury among ourselves, and reap the benefit ourselves.'"

The museum also addressed more recent history, including Richmond's school desegregation struggles and the 2020 protests that led to the removal of Confederate monuments.

"History isn't just the past," Ms. Thompson emphasized. "It's an ongoing conversation about what matters to us as a community, about whose stories get told and how."

When I asked my questions, Ms. Thompson's answers reflected decades of educational work.

"What do we all share? The desire to be remembered accurately," she said. "Everyone wants their story told truthfully, with all its complexity. The problem comes when some stories are elevated while others are erased."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"The elders of this community," she said. "I grew up in Jackson Ward in the 1950s, when it was still a thriving Black neighborhood despite segregation. The teachers, preachers, business owners—they created a world within a world, teaching us to have pride in ourselves despite what the larger society said about us. That's a profound form of kindness—helping the next generation believe in their own worth."

## Late Afternoon at the American Civil War Museum: Multiple Perspectives

As afternoon turned to evening, we visited the American Civil War Museum at Historic Tredegar—located on the site of the Tredegar Iron Works, which supplied much of the Confederacy's cannons and ammunition. What makes this museum unique is its commitment to telling the Civil War story from multiple perspectives—Union and Confederate, enslaved and free, civilian and military.

"This museum represents a new approach to Civil War history," explained our guide, Kevin. "For too long, the story was told primarily from the perspective of white Southerners or white Northerners. We're trying to present a more complete picture that includes the experiences of African Americans, women, and ordinary soldiers on both sides."

The exhibits use personal stories to humanize the conflict while never losing sight of its central cause—slavery—and its profound consequences for American society. Particularly powerful was a section on emancipation that centered the experiences of formerly enslaved people seeking freedom during and after the war.

"Richmond's surrender in April 1865 meant different things to different people," Kevin noted as we viewed photographs of the city in ruins. "For Confederate supporters, it represented defeat. For enslaved people, it meant liberation. For everyone, it marked the beginning of a new chapter in American history—one we're still writing."

When I asked my questions, Kevin's answers reflected the museum's nuanced approach.

"What do we all share? Complexity," he said. "No one is just a hero or just a villain. The human story is always more complicated than the myths we create. Our job is to honor that complexity while still being clear about fundamental moral truths—like the fact that slavery was wrong and fighting to preserve it was wrong."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"My father," he said. "He was a Vietnam veteran who came home to a country that often treated him poorly for his service. He taught me that you can love your country while still holding it accountable for its failures. That's a kind of kindness too—believing someone or something can be better."

## Early Evening in Shockoe Bottom: Confronting the Hardest History

As the sun began to set, Marcus took me to Shockoe Bottom—once the site of Richmond's slave trading district, second only to New Orleans in the domestic slave trade. Today, much of this history remains unmarked, though community activists have worked for years to create a memorial park honoring the enslaved people bought and sold there.

"This is some of the hardest history to confront," Marcus said as we stood at the site of Lumpkin's Jail, known as the "Devil's Half Acre" for its brutal conditions. "But it's essential to understanding Richmond—and America."

We met Ana, a community activist who has been part of the effort to preserve and memorialize Shockoe Bottom's history. She led us through the area, pointing out sites where auction houses once stood and describing the ongoing archaeological work to uncover physical evidence of the slave trade.

"Richmond was the capital of Virginia, which sold more enslaved people than any other state," Ana explained. "People were marched in coffles down these streets, families were separated, human beings were treated as commodities. We can't understand our present without acknowledging that reality."

She described the community's vision for a nine-acre memorial park that would honor the enslaved while creating space for education, reflection, and healing.

"This isn't just about the past," she emphasized. "It's about how we build a more just future by honestly confronting our history."

When I asked my questions, Ana's answers reflected both passion and pragmatism.

"What do we all share? Connections to this history," she said. "Whether your ancestors were enslaved, enslavers, or came to America long after slavery ended, this history shaped the country we all live in today. The difference is in whether we're willing to acknowledge those connections."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"The descendants," she said. "I've worked with many people who can trace their lineage to those who were sold here in Shockoe Bottom. Despite carrying that painful history, they approach this work with such dignity and grace, insisting that these sites be treated as sacred ground rather than objects of voyeurism. They've taught me that true kindness includes truth-telling, however difficult."

## Dinner at Mama Zu: Community Around the Table

For dinner, Marcus suggested Mama Zu, a no-frills Italian restaurant in Oregon Hill—a historically working-class white neighborhood now experiencing gentrification. The small, crowded space with its mismatched tables and chairs had a distinctly communal atmosphere, with conversations flowing between tables and servers treating everyone like family.

We ordered pasta alla norma and a simple green salad to share ($18 each), along with glasses of house red wine. At the next table sat a group of VCU students and their professor, continuing a class discussion over dinner.

"This neighborhood has its own complex history," Marcus explained. "It was originally home to workers from the nearby Tredegar Iron Works. During integration, it became known for resistance to change. Now it's changing in different ways as younger, more affluent people move in."

We struck up a conversation with the professor, Dr. Martinez, who teaches urban studies at VCU. When I explained my project, she shared her perspective on Richmond's ongoing transformation.

"This city is in the midst of reimagining itself," she said. "For generations, Richmond's identity was tied to the Lost Cause narrative. Now there's space for new stories, new monuments, new ways of understanding both our past and our future."

When I asked my questions, Dr. Martinez's answers reflected her academic expertise and personal observations.

"What do we all share? Attachment to place," she said. "Everyone develops relationships with the places they inhabit—emotional connections to specific streets, buildings, landscapes. The conflict comes when those attachments are rooted in different histories and different values."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"My students," she said, gesturing to the group at her table. "Especially first-generation college students who overcome incredible obstacles to be here. They remind me that education isn't just about information—it's about transformation, about creating spaces where people can reimagine what's possible for themselves and their communities."

## Evening at a Community Dialogue: Richmond's Future

After dinner, Marcus took me to a community meeting at a local church where residents were discussing the future of Monument Avenue now that most of the Confederate statues have been removed. The diverse group included longtime residents, newcomers, artists, historians, and city officials, all sharing perspectives on what should replace the monuments.

"This conversation is happening all over Richmond," Marcus explained. "It's not just about what physical objects should occupy these spaces, but about what values we want to express through our public landscape."

Proposals ranged from new monuments honoring diverse historical figures to community gardens, from interactive art installations to educational spaces. The discussion was sometimes tense but remained respectful, with facilitators ensuring that all voices were heard.

One of those facilitators, Reverend Johnson, spoke with me afterward about the process of community healing through dialogue.

"These conversations are difficult but necessary," he said. "For generations, decisions about Richmond's public spaces were made by a small, privileged group. Now we're trying to create a more inclusive process where everyone has a voice in shaping our shared environment."

When I asked my questions, Reverend Johnson's answers reflected both spiritual depth and practical wisdom.

"What do we all share? Wounds," he said. "Everyone carries hurts, whether personal or historical, individual or collective. The question is whether we allow those wounds to define us or motivate us to create something better."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"My grandmother," he said. "She lived through Jim Crow in rural Virginia, experienced terrible injustice, yet maintained her fundamental belief in human dignity. She used to say, 'Hate is too heavy a burden to bear.' That doesn't mean accepting injustice—it means fighting it without becoming what you oppose."

## Late Night Reflections: A City in Transformation

It's past midnight now as I write this at Marcus's kitchen table, reflecting on my first day in Richmond. What strikes me most is how this city embodies America's ongoing struggle to reconcile its founding ideals with its historical realities.

Richmond was once the capital of a rebellion founded explicitly to preserve slavery, as Confederate Vice President Alexander Stephens made clear when he declared that the Confederacy's "cornerstone rests upon the great truth that the negro is not equal to the white man; that slavery, subordination to the superior race, is his natural and normal condition."

Yet today, I've witnessed a community engaged in the difficult, necessary work of confronting that history honestly while imagining a more just future. From the empty pedestals on Monument Avenue to the Black History Museum in Jackson Ward, from the inclusive approach of the Civil War Museum to the community dialogue about what comes next, Richmond seems to be in the midst of a profound transformation.

Perhaps what we share as Americans is not agreement about our past but the ongoing work of grappling with it truthfully. As Dr. Williams suggested on Monument Avenue, we all engage in selective memory, remembering what serves our interests and forgetting what doesn't. The difference lies in who has the power to make their version of history official—to literally cast it in bronze and place it in the center of the city.

And as Ana noted in Shockoe Bottom, we all share connections to this history, whether our ancestors were enslaved, enslavers, or came to America long after slavery ended. This history shaped the country we all live in today. The difference is in whether we're willing to acknowledge those connections and their continuing consequences.

Tomorrow I'll explore more of Richmond, including visits to several historic churches that played important roles in both the Civil War and the Civil Rights Movement. I'm particularly interested in how faith communities have contributed to the work of reconciliation in a city still reckoning with its complex past.

Until tomorrow,
Robert

P.S. I keep thinking about what Reverend Johnson said about wounds—that everyone carries them, whether personal or historical, individual or collective. Perhaps healing, both for individuals and communities, begins with acknowledging those wounds rather than denying them. Not to dwell in pain, but to create the possibility of moving beyond it toward something new.

# Day Nine: Monticello and the Weight of History

"Jefferson is everywhere in Charlottesville," Emily told me over coffee on her front porch this morning. "But nowhere is his presence—and his contradictions—more palpable than at Monticello."

Today would be devoted to exploring Thomas Jefferson's mountaintop home and the complex legacy it represents. As we drove the winding road up to Monticello, I thought about how this single place embodies America's founding paradox: a temple to liberty built and maintained by enslaved people.

## Morning at Monticello: The Visible and Invisible

Monticello sits atop a small mountain (or "little mountain," which is what Monticello means in Italian), offering commanding views of the surrounding Virginia countryside. The approach is designed to impress, and even now, knowing what I know about its history, I couldn't help but be struck by the elegance of Jefferson's architectural vision—the perfect proportions, the thoughtful innovations, the harmony with the landscape.

Emily and I had reserved tickets for both the standard house tour and the "Slavery at Monticello" tour ($32 each), wanting to experience the fullest possible picture of this place.

The house tour began in the entrance hall, where scientific instruments and Native American artifacts reflect Jefferson's wide-ranging curiosity. Our guide, a retired history teacher named David, expertly explained Jefferson's architectural innovations—the skylights, the dumbwaiters, the alcove beds—while also acknowledging the labor that made his vision possible.

"Jefferson designed these spaces for efficiency," David explained as we entered the dining room with its revolving door to the kitchen, "but it was enslaved workers who operated the systems, often remaining invisible to dinner guests."

Throughout the house, I was struck by how Jefferson's genius for design created spaces that simultaneously displayed and concealed—showcasing his intellectual achievements while hiding the human cost of his lifestyle.

After the house tour, we joined Sally, a young Black woman with a graduate degree in public history, for the "Slavery at Monticello" tour. This experience shifted our focus from the mansion to the surrounding grounds, to Mulberry Row where enslaved people lived and worked, and to the stories of the more than 400 individuals Jefferson enslaved throughout his lifetime.

"We're standing in two places at once," Sally told us as we gathered on the lawn. "This is both the home of the man who wrote 'all men are created equal' and the site where hundreds of men, women, and children were held in bondage, some for their entire lives."

She introduced us to specific individuals—like John and Priscilla Hemmings, skilled artisans whose craftsmanship is visible throughout the house; Isaac Jefferson, a talented metalworker; and Sally Hemings, an enslaved woman who bore six children by Jefferson, four of whom survived to adulthood.

"These were people with skills, relationships, hopes, and strategies for survival," Sally emphasized. "Not just anonymous workers, but individuals navigating an unjust system as best they could."

What struck me most was how recent this history is—Sally Hemings' son Madison was alive until 1877, and many of his descendants are still living today. The tour ended at the Hemings family exhibition, which documents the story of Sally Hemings and her children through archaeological evidence, oral histories, and DNA testing that confirmed Jefferson's paternity.

After the tour, I asked Sally my two questions.

"What do we all share?" She thought carefully before answering. "Complicated histories," she said. "Everyone's family story includes things they're proud of and things they'd rather not face. The difference is that some people have the privilege of ignoring the uncomfortable parts while others are forced to confront them daily."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"My grandfather," she said. "He was a civil rights activist in Richmond who faced violence and arrest. He had every reason to be bitter, but he taught me that understanding history isn't about assigning blame—it's about taking responsibility for creating a different future."

## Lunch at the Farm Table Café: Processing History

After our tours, Emily and I stopped at the Farm Table Café on the Monticello grounds for lunch. We both ordered the Jefferson soup and cornbread ($14 each), made with vegetables grown in the restored gardens.

At the next table sat an interracial couple with their teenage son, visiting from Chicago. Overhearing our conversation about the tours, they joined in, introducing themselves as Marcus and Jennifer, with their son Elijah.

"It's our first time here," Jennifer explained. "We wanted Elijah to see this place as part of understanding American history—both its ideals and its failures."

Elijah, a thoughtful sixteen-year-old, shared his perspective: "It's weird to see a place that's both beautiful and terrible at the same time. Like, I can appreciate Jefferson's ideas and inventions while also being horrified that he owned people."

When I asked my questions, their answers revealed how differently family members can experience the same place.

"What do we all share?" Marcus, who is Black, answered first. "The need to reckon with history, whether we want to or not. But some of us have the luxury of treating it as an intellectual exercise, while for others it's deeply personal."

Jennifer, who is white, nodded. "I'd say we share responsibility—not guilt for the past, but responsibility for how we teach it and what we do with that knowledge."

Elijah added, "I think we share the ability to hold contradictory thoughts at the same time. Like, I can think Jefferson was brilliant and also think he did monstrous things."

When I asked who taught them kindness, Jennifer spoke of her mother, a special education teacher who "saw potential in kids everyone else had written off." Marcus mentioned his pastor, who "preached justice but practiced forgiveness." Elijah, after thinking a moment, said simply, "Each other," gesturing to his parents. "They showed me how people from different backgrounds can build something good together."

## Afternoon at the International Rescue Committee: Present-Day Charlottesville

After Monticello, Emily suggested we shift our focus from historical injustices to present-day efforts at creating a more inclusive community. She took me to the Charlottesville office of the International Rescue Committee, where she volunteers teaching English to recently resettled refugees.

"Charlottesville has become a significant resettlement community," she explained as we drove. "There are thriving communities from Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria, Congo, and other countries. It's a side of the city many visitors never see."

At the IRC office, we met with Fatima, the community integration coordinator who came to Charlottesville as a refugee from Afghanistan in 2014. She showed us around the center, which offers everything from English classes to job training to cultural orientation for newcomers.

"Many people are surprised to find such international diversity in a small Virginia city," Fatima told us. "But Charlottesville has actually welcomed refugees for decades. There are now second-generation families whose parents arrived as refugees and who are now fully part of the community."

She introduced us to a group of women from various countries who meet weekly to practice English while sharing cooking techniques from their home cultures. Today they were making a fusion dish that combined Afghan spices with Southern ingredients—a culinary representation of their new hybrid identities.

When I asked my questions, Fatima's answers reflected both her personal journey and professional experience.

"What do we all share? The experience of leaving and arriving," she said. "Even if you haven't physically crossed borders, everyone knows what it's like to leave one chapter of life and begin another. The difference is in degree, not kind."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"The strangers who became friends when I first arrived here," she said. "I came knowing no one, speaking little English, having lost everything in Afghanistan. The people who took time to help me navigate everyday things—the bus system, grocery shopping, school enrollment for my children—they showed me that kindness crosses all cultural boundaries."

## Late Afternoon at the Ix Art Park: Community Creativity

From the IRC, Emily took me to the Ix Art Park—a former textile factory transformed into a creative community space filled with murals, sculptures, and interactive installations. On this Monday afternoon, the park was relatively quiet, with a few families exploring the art and a yoga class happening on the central lawn.

"This represents another kind of transformation," Emily explained. "Taking an industrial space and reimagining it as a place for creativity and connection."

We wandered through the outdoor gallery, admiring murals that addressed themes of social justice, environmental awareness, and cultural heritage. Inside the adjacent building, The Looking Glass—a small immersive art space—offered installations by local artists exploring identity and perception.

There we met Frank, one of the park's founders, who shared the vision behind the project.

"After 2017, we needed spaces that could bring people together across differences," he explained. "Art creates opportunities for connection that might not happen otherwise."

When I asked my questions, Frank's answers reflected his commitment to community-building through creative expression.

"What do we all share? The capacity for wonder," he said. "I've seen it countless times—people from completely different backgrounds experiencing the same moment of surprise or delight in front of an artwork. Those shared moments matter. They remind us of our common humanity."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"My daughter," he said, smiling. "She has autism, and navigating the world with her has taught me to slow down, to notice details others miss, to be patient with different ways of processing experience. She's made me a better human being."

## Early Evening at the Jefferson School African American Heritage Center: Continuing Yesterday's Conversation

Before dinner, we returned to the Jefferson School African American Heritage Center, where I'd attended the community forum yesterday. Emily had arranged for me to meet with Dr. Wilson, a historian who directs the center's oral history project documenting Black experiences in Charlottesville across generations.

Dr. Wilson showed me the archive they've created—hundreds of recorded interviews with longtime residents sharing stories that rarely appear in official histories: memories of the thriving Black business district before urban renewal, experiences of school integration, accounts of everyday resistance to segregation, and reflections on how the community has changed over time.

"Memory is a form of power," Dr. Wilson explained as we listened to excerpts from the interviews. "When communities preserve their own stories, they challenge dominant narratives about who matters and what counts as history."

He also shared the center's plans for the "Swords Into Plowshares" project—an initiative to melt down the removed Confederate statue of Robert E. Lee and transform the bronze into new public art determined by a community process.

"It's not about erasing history," he emphasized. "It's about transforming symbols of division into something that reflects our aspirations for a more just community."

When I asked my questions, Dr. Wilson's answers reflected his scholarly perspective and community commitment.

"What do we all share? The need for dignity," he said. "Everyone wants to be seen as fully human, to have their experiences validated, to feel they matter. When systems or symbols deny that dignity to some people, conflict is inevitable."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"The people who share their stories with me," he said. "Especially the elders who lived through Jim Crow, who experienced daily humiliation but maintained their sense of self-worth. They teach me that kindness isn't just about being nice—it's about recognizing the humanity in others even when systems try to deny it."

## Dinner at MarieBette: Breaking Bread

For our final dinner in Charlottesville, Emily suggested MarieBette, a French-inspired bakery and café in the Rose Hill neighborhood. Over roast chicken, seasonal vegetables, and fresh bread ($22 each), we reflected on the past two days of conversations and experiences.

"What's struck you most about Charlottesville?" Emily asked.

I shared how impressed I was by the community's willingness to engage directly with difficult history—not just the dramatic events of 2017, but the deeper patterns of inequality and exclusion that made those events possible.

"It's not that Charlottesville has solved these issues," I observed. "But there seems to be an unusual commitment to facing them honestly."

Emily nodded. "That's fair. We're trying, though we still have a long way to go. The university is still predominantly white and wealthy. We still have neighborhoods shaped by historical segregation. But at least we're having the conversations."

At the next table sat an older white couple who, overhearing us, introduced themselves as longtime residents who had been active in local politics for decades. Jim and Barbara shared their perspective on how the city has changed.

"Charlottesville was much more segregated when we moved here in the 1970s," Barbara explained. "The progress is real, even if it's incomplete."

Jim added, "What 2017 did was strip away the illusion that we'd moved beyond our history. It forced us to recognize how much work remains to be done."

When I asked my questions, their answers revealed both hope and realism.

"What do we all share? Imperfection," Jim said. "Individuals and communities alike—we're all works in progress. The question is whether we're willing to acknowledge our flaws and try to address them."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"Our neighbors," Barbara said. "We live in a mixed-income, mixed-race neighborhood. Over the years, we've experienced community in the most basic ways—sharing garden vegetables, checking on each other during storms, watching each other's children grow up. Those everyday connections matter more than grand political statements."

## Evening Walk Through the University Grounds: Full Circle

After dinner, Emily suggested we take an evening walk through the university grounds, which take on a different character after dark. The Lawn, illuminated by soft lighting, was quiet except for students crossing between buildings or studying on the steps of the Rotunda.

We paused at the Memorial to Enslaved Laborers, which we had visited yesterday afternoon. In the evening light, the memorial's curved wall seemed to glow from within, the names carved into the stone creating shadows and texture.

A small group of students sat nearby in quiet conversation. One of them, noticing us, approached and introduced herself as Maya, a fourth-year student who had been part of the advocacy effort to create the memorial.

"It matters that we acknowledge who actually built this place," she said. "Not to make anyone feel guilty, but to tell a more complete truth."

When I asked my questions, Maya's answers reflected both her youth and wisdom.

"What do we all share? The future," she said. "Whatever happened in the past, we're all responsible for what comes next. That's both a burden and an opportunity."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"This work," she said, gesturing to the memorial. "Advocating for this memorial taught me that kindness isn't always comfortable. Sometimes the kindest thing you can do is tell hard truths, even when people don't want to hear them."

## Late Night Reflections: The Unfinished Work

It's nearly midnight now as I write this at Emily's kitchen table, preparing to leave for Richmond tomorrow morning. These two days in Charlottesville have given me much to reflect on about how communities reckon with difficult histories.

What strikes me most is how this small Virginia city embodies both America's contradictions and its possibilities. The same place that produced Thomas Jefferson—champion of liberty and enslaver of human beings—is now engaged in the messy, difficult work of confronting that paradox honestly.

From Monticello's dual narratives to the Memorial to Enslaved Laborers, from the IRC's work with refugees to the Jefferson School's oral history project, from the transformed Confederate statue to the transformed industrial space at the Ix Art Park, I've witnessed a community trying to acknowledge its past while creating a more inclusive future.

Perhaps what we share as Americans isn't agreement about our history but the ongoing, unfinished work of grappling with it truthfully. As Sally suggested at Monticello, we share complicated histories—stories that include both achievement and injustice, both pride and shame. The difference lies in whether we have the courage to face the fullness of those stories.

And as Dr. Wilson noted at the Jefferson School, we share the need for dignity—to be seen and valued as fully human. When that dignity is denied to some while granted to others, the wounds run deep and healing requires more than symbolic gestures.

Tomorrow I'll board a train to Richmond, Virginia's capital and the former capital of the Confederacy, to continue exploring how communities reckon with complex histories while building toward more just futures.

Until tomorrow,
Robert

P.S. I keep thinking about what Elijah said at lunch—about holding contradictory thoughts simultaneously. Perhaps that's a skill we need to cultivate as Americans: the ability to honor what's worthy in our traditions while honestly confronting what's not, to love our country not despite its flaws but because we believe it can overcome them. Not simple patriotism or simple criticism, but something more complex and ultimately more hopeful—a commitment to the unfinished work of creating "a more perfect union."

# Day Eight: Charlottesville - Reckoning with History and Hope

The Amtrak Northeast Regional pulled into Charlottesville's historic train station just before noon. The station itself—a red brick building constructed in 1885 that still serves its original purpose—seemed an appropriate introduction to a city where history isn't just preserved but actively debated, reinterpreted, and reckoned with.

I'd chosen to visit Charlottesville for a specific reason. This small Virginia city of just under 50,000 residents became a national flashpoint in August 2017 when white supremacists rallied around Confederate monuments, resulting in violence that killed counter-protester Heather Heyer and injured dozens more. I wanted to understand how a community works to heal after being thrust into the center of America's ongoing struggle with its racial history.

"We didn't become a different place on August 12th," Emily, my host for the next two days, told me as we walked from the station. "The rally just exposed tensions that were always here, beneath the surface of our progressive college town image."

Emily, a longtime resident who teaches at a local high school, had offered to host me through a mutual friend. Her perspective would shape my understanding of a community still processing trauma while working toward reconciliation.

## Lunch at Bodo's Bagels: A Charlottesville Institution

Our first stop was Bodo's Bagels on the Corner—the area adjacent to the University of Virginia campus where students and locals mix. The line stretched out the door, a testament to this modest bagel shop's status as a beloved community institution.

"Everyone comes to Bodo's," Emily explained as we waited. "It's one of the few places where you'll see students, professors, construction workers, and families all in the same space."

We ordered at the counter—an everything bagel with egg and cheese for me, sesame with hummus for Emily ($7.50 total)—and found a table outside where we could watch the diverse parade of customers coming and going.

At the table next to us sat an older gentleman reading a book about Thomas Jefferson. When he noticed me taking notes, he introduced himself as Professor Emeritus Richard Coleman, who had taught American history at UVA for over thirty years.

"Studying our fair city?" he asked with a smile.

When I explained my project, he nodded thoughtfully. "Charlottesville embodies America's contradictions in miniature. We're a progressive university town founded by a slave-owning champion of liberty, in a state that was both the capital of the Confederacy and the first to elect a Black governor."

When I asked my questions, Professor Coleman didn't hesitate.

"What do we all share? Complexity," he said. "No one is just one thing. Jefferson wrote that all men are created equal while owning human beings. The university he founded excluded women and Black students for most of its history. We're all walking contradictions, individually and collectively."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"My students," he said, surprising me. "Particularly those who challenged me most vigorously. They forced me to reexamine assumptions I didn't even know I had. True kindness isn't niceness—it's the willingness to help others grow, even when that process is uncomfortable."

## Afternoon at the University of Virginia: Jefferson's Academical Village

After lunch, Emily suggested we walk through the grounds of the University of Virginia, founded by Thomas Jefferson in 1819. The Rotunda—modeled after the Pantheon in Rome—and the Lawn with its colonnaded student rooms form what Jefferson called an "Academical Village," designed to foster learning through close interaction between students and faculty.

The classical architecture was undeniably beautiful, but Emily made sure I understood the fuller story.

"These buildings were constructed by enslaved laborers," she explained as we walked. "The university has only recently begun to fully acknowledge that history."

We visited the Memorial to Enslaved Laborers, completed in 2020—a circular stone monument inscribed with the names of the known enslaved people who built and maintained the university, along with space for the many whose names remain unknown.

There we met Aisha, a student guide who offered to share her perspective as a Black student at an institution with this complex history.

"This memorial matters because it makes the invisible visible," she said. "For most of UVA's history, the contributions of enslaved people were literally buried. Now we're excavating that history, both physically and metaphorically."

When I asked my questions, Aisha's answers reflected both her academic training and personal experience.

"What do we all share? The need for belonging," she said. "Everyone wants to feel they have a rightful place somewhere. The question is whether that sense of belonging comes from excluding others or from creating communities where everyone belongs."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"My grandmother," she said. "She grew up in Virginia during segregation, experienced terrible racism, yet never taught us to hate. She'd say, 'Bitterness is a poison you drink yourself, hoping others will die.' Instead, she taught us to work for justice while maintaining our own humanity."

## Mid-Afternoon on the Downtown Mall: Heart of the City

From the university, Emily and I walked to Charlottesville's Downtown Mall—a pedestrian-only stretch of Main Street lined with shops, restaurants, and the historic Paramount Theater. On this sunny Sunday afternoon, the brick-paved mall was alive with activity—musicians playing for tips, families enjoying ice cream, couples browsing bookstore windows.

"This is where it happened," Emily said quietly as we approached a memorial of flowers marking the spot where Heather Heyer was killed. "Right here, in the heart of our downtown."

We stood silently for a moment, reading messages left by visitors. Then Emily pointed out how the area had been renamed "Heather Heyer Way" and how a foundation in her name continues to advocate for social justice.

"The community has worked to transform places of trauma into spaces for healing," she explained.

At a nearby cafe called Mudhouse, we ordered iced coffees ($4.75 each) and sat outside, watching the diverse crowd strolling past. Emily introduced me to Michael, the owner of a bookstore across the way who pulled up a chair to join our conversation.

"August 12th changed us," he said. "For better and worse. It forced conversations we'd been avoiding for generations. It also showed us who we really are—both the hate that exists here and the love that rose to counter it."

When I asked my questions, Michael reflected on his twenty years as a small business owner in Charlottesville.

"What do we all share? Stories," he said. "Everyone needs narratives that help them make sense of their lives. The problem comes when we insist our story is the only valid one—when we can't acknowledge that others experience the same events differently."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"My father," he said. "He ran a hardware store in a small Virginia town for forty years. He extended credit to people who couldn't pay, hired folks others wouldn't give a chance to. Not because he was a saint—he had plenty of flaws—but because he believed business was about more than profit. It was about community."

## Late Afternoon at the Jefferson School African American Heritage Center: Reclaiming History

As afternoon turned to evening, Emily took me to the Jefferson School African American Heritage Center, housed in a historic Black school building that served the community during segregation and now preserves and celebrates African American history and culture in Charlottesville.

We arrived just in time for a community forum on the future of public monuments in the city. Following the removal of Confederate statues in 2021, the community has been engaged in an ongoing conversation about what should replace them and how public space should represent the full spectrum of local history.

The discussion was passionate but respectful, with diverse perspectives represented. Some advocated for new monuments honoring civil rights leaders or everyday citizens. Others suggested transforming the spaces into community gardens or performance venues. Still others argued for leaving the empty pedestals as reminders of the changing understanding of history.

Afterward, I spoke with Andrea, the center's executive director, about the process of community healing through honest engagement with history.

"Monuments aren't just about the past," she explained. "They're about what values we choose to elevate in the present. For too long, our public spaces told a selective story that glorified the Confederacy while erasing Black resistance and resilience."

When I asked my questions, Andrea's answers reflected her work at the intersection of history, art, and community building.

"What do we all share? The need for truth," she said. "Not just facts, but deeper truth about who we are and how we got here. When communities can face hard truths together—about slavery, about Jim Crow, about ongoing inequities—that's when healing becomes possible."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"The elders of this community," she said. "The teachers who kept this school going during segregation, ensuring Black children received education despite systemic barriers. The civil rights activists who faced violence with dignity. They taught me that kindness isn't weakness—it's strength rooted in justice."

## Dinner at Mel's Cafe: Soul Food and Stories

For dinner, Emily suggested Mel's Cafe, a small soul food restaurant that's been serving the community for over thirty years. The modest exterior gave way to a warm, welcoming space filled with the aromas of home cooking.

We ordered fried catfish, collard greens, and mac and cheese ($16.50 each) and were greeted by Mel himself, who still works the kitchen despite being well into his seventies.

"Best food in town," Emily told me. "And one of the few Black-owned businesses that's survived as the city has gentrified."

At the next table sat three generations of a family celebrating a birthday. The grandmother, Mrs. Washington, overheard our conversation and joined in, sharing stories of growing up in Charlottesville's historically Black Vinegar Hill neighborhood—an area demolished in the 1960s in the name of "urban renewal."

"They called it progress," she said, "but it destroyed a thriving Black business district and displaced hundreds of families. That's part of this city's history too, alongside Jefferson and the university."

When I asked my questions, Mrs. Washington spoke with the authority of her eighty-plus years.

"What do we all share? Memory," she said. "Both personal and collective. When certain memories are honored while others are erased, that's not just about the past—it shapes who has power in the present."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"My church," she said. "First Baptist on Main Street—one of the oldest Black churches in Virginia. During the civil rights movement, we practiced nonviolence not just as a tactic but as a spiritual discipline. That takes a different kind of strength—to face hatred without becoming what you oppose."

## Evening at the Bridge Progressive Arts Initiative: Creativity as Healing

After dinner, Emily took me to The Bridge Progressive Arts Initiative, a community space hosting an evening event called "Healing Through Art" that brought together local artists responding to the community's trauma and recovery since 2017.

The gallery walls displayed photography, paintings, and mixed media works addressing themes of racial justice, community resilience, and collective memory. In an adjacent room, a diverse group gathered for a poetry reading where local writers shared pieces reflecting on personal and community experiences.

One poem particularly moved me—written by a young woman named Jasmine who had been a high school student during the 2017 rally. Her words captured both the fear she felt that day and the determination that followed, ending with the line: "This city is not defined by those who came to destroy it, but by those who stayed to rebuild."

Afterward, I spoke with Jasmine about how art has functioned as part of the healing process.

"Writing helped me process what happened," she explained. "Not just the rally itself, but the realization that my hometown contained this kind of hatred. Poetry became a way to reclaim my relationship with this place."

When I asked my questions, Jasmine's answers reflected wisdom beyond her years.

"What do we all share? Wounds," she said. "Everyone carries some form of hurt. The difference is in how we respond—whether we use our wounds to justify hurting others or as a source of empathy."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"My English teacher, Ms. Rodriguez," she said. "After the rally, when many of us were struggling, she created space in class for us to write about our feelings. She taught me that turning pain into art isn't just self-expression—it's an act of transformation."

## Late Night Conversation: The Work of Reconciliation

Back at Emily's modest bungalow in the Belmont neighborhood, we sat on her porch with cups of tea, watching fireflies blink in the yard as she introduced me to her neighbor James, who joined us for a nightcap.

James, I learned, is part of the Charlottesville Clergy Collective—an interfaith group formed after the 2017 violence to promote healing and reconciliation. Our conversation turned to the ongoing work of building a more just and inclusive community.

"The cameras left after a few weeks," James explained, "but the work of healing continues years later. It's not dramatic or newsworthy—it's slow, patient relationship building across differences."

He described community dinners that bring together people from different backgrounds, difficult conversations about privilege and power, and practical efforts to address systemic inequities in housing, education, and policing.

"The mistake people make is thinking reconciliation is about feeling good," he said. "Real reconciliation requires justice. It means changing systems, not just hearts and minds."

When I asked my questions, James's answers reflected his spiritual vocation and community work.

"What do we all share? Brokenness," he said. "Religious traditions have different names for it—sin, suffering, ignorance—but they all recognize that something is fundamentally out of alignment in human life. The question is whether we acknowledge our brokenness or deny it."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"A man named Robert," he said, "who I met through a prison ministry. He'd served twenty years for a violent crime, found faith inside, and dedicated himself to mentoring young men when he got out. He taught me that transformation is possible for individuals and communities, but it requires both grace and accountability."

## Late Night Reflections: A City in Process

It's nearly midnight now as I write this at Emily's kitchen table. Tomorrow I'll explore more of Charlottesville, with plans to visit Monticello—Jefferson's plantation home where the contradictions of American history are perhaps most visible.

What strikes me most about my first day in Charlottesville is how this small city embodies America's ongoing struggle with its history. The physical landscape itself tells conflicting stories—Jefferson's architectural vision alongside monuments to the Confederacy, historic Black churches alongside sites of urban renewal that displaced Black communities, new memorials to enslaved people alongside old statues of those who fought to preserve slavery.

Yet what I've witnessed today isn't a community paralyzed by its contradictions, but one actively engaged in the messy, difficult work of confronting them. From the Memorial to Enslaved Laborers at UVA to the community forum at the Jefferson School, from the poetry reading at The Bridge to the interfaith reconciliation work James described, Charlottesville seems to be doing the hard work of honest reckoning.

Perhaps what we share as Americans isn't a single, unified story but the ongoing struggle to create a more truthful narrative that acknowledges both our aspirations and our failures. As Andrea suggested at the Jefferson School, we share the need for truth—not just comfortable facts that confirm what we already believe, but deeper truths that challenge us to grow.

And as Professor Coleman noted over bagels this morning, we share complexity—the recognition that no person, community, or nation is just one thing. We contain contradictions, individually and collectively.

Tomorrow I'll continue exploring this complex, contradictory, resilient community, looking for more stories of how Americans reckon with history while building toward a more just future.

Until tomorrow,
Robert

P.S. I keep thinking about what Jasmine said at the poetry reading—that a community is defined not by those who come to destroy it but by those who stay to rebuild. Perhaps that's true of our nation as well. Despite forces that would divide us, there are always those doing the patient, unglamorous work of rebuilding—creating spaces where truth can be spoken, wounds can be acknowledged, and healing can begin.

# Day Seven: Sacred Sunday in DC - From Eastern Market to Evening Vigil

"Sunday mornings still matter in DC," Marcus told me over early coffee. "It's when communities really show themselves—whether in churches, markets, or parks."

This simple observation would frame my day—a Sunday spent exploring the rituals, both religious and secular, that bring Washingtonians together in a city often defined by division.

## Morning at Eastern Market: A Capital Tradition

We started at Eastern Market, a historic brick building in the Capitol Hill neighborhood that has served as a community gathering place since 1873. On Sundays, the market expands beyond its permanent food stalls to include an outdoor farmers' market and flea market where local artisans sell everything from handmade jewelry to vintage maps of the District.

The morning air carried the mingled scents of fresh bread, brewing coffee, and sizzling breakfast sandwiches as we joined the diverse crowd of families, couples, and solo shoppers browsing the stalls. Inside the main hall, butchers, bakers, and produce vendors called out to regular customers by name, their interactions speaking to relationships built over years.

At Market Lunch, a no-frills counter known for its "Blue Buck" pancakes, we waited in a line that snaked through the building. "Worth every minute," Marcus assured me.

He was right. The pancakes ($9.50)—blueberry buckwheat with a side of crispy bacon—were exceptional, but it was the community atmosphere that made the experience memorable. We shared a table with Elaine and Richard, a couple in their sixties who've been coming to Eastern Market every Sunday for over thirty years.

"This was our first date," Elaine told me, gesturing around the market. "He brought me here to impress me with his knowledge of DC beyond the tourist spots."

Richard laughed. "Worked, didn't it?"

When I asked my questions, their answers revealed deep roots in a changing city.

"What do we all share? Routines," Elaine said. "The little rituals that anchor our lives—Sunday pancakes, farmers' markets, the places where we feel known. That's what makes a city feel like home."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"My mother," Richard said. "She was a public school teacher in DC for forty years. Taught generations of kids from every background. She'd say, 'The District may be divided, but my classroom isn't.' She made sure every child felt valued, no matter what neighborhood they came from."

After breakfast, we wandered through the outdoor market where I met Claudia, an artist selling vibrant paintings of DC neighborhoods—not just the monuments but rowhouses, corner stores, and community gardens.

"I paint the Washington that's home, not the Washington on postcards," she explained.

When I asked what we all share, she gestured to the crowd around us.

"Creativity," she said. "Everyone makes something—a meal, a garden, a family, a business. Creation is how we leave our mark on the world."

When I asked who taught her kindness, she pointed to her paintings.

"The neighbors I paint," she said. "I've lived in the same house in Petworth for thirty years. I've seen families struggle, support each other, celebrate together. The media talks about division, but on my street, people still bring soup when you're sick and watch your kids in an emergency—across every line you can imagine."

## Late Morning at Metropolitan AME Church: Faith and Justice

From Eastern Market, we took the Metro to Metropolitan AME Church, one of the oldest and most historically significant Black churches in the nation. Founded in 1838, it has hosted luminaries from Frederick Douglass to Paul Robeson to Barack Obama.

Marcus had called ahead to let them know we were coming, and we were warmly welcomed by an usher who found us seats in the already-crowded sanctuary. The interior was magnificent—soaring ceilings, stained glass, and a sense of history in every polished wooden pew.

The service blended traditional hymns with contemporary gospel, formal liturgy with spontaneous expressions of faith. The sermon, delivered by a visiting pastor from Alabama, wove together scripture, history, and current events into a call for both spiritual renewal and social justice.

"Faith without works is dead," she reminded the congregation. "And works without faith can leave us empty. We need both to heal our communities and our nation."

After the service, we were invited to stay for coffee and fellowship in the church hall. There I met Mrs. Pearson, a church elder who has been a member for over sixty years.

"This church has always stood at the intersection of faith and freedom," she told me. "During the civil rights movement, we hosted strategy meetings. During the AIDS crisis, we opened our doors when other churches wouldn't. After the 2016 election, we became a sanctuary for those who felt threatened. That's our tradition—faith that acts."

When I asked my questions, Mrs. Pearson spoke with the authority of her years and experience.

"What do we all share? Vulnerability," she said. "Every human being knows what it is to fear, to hope, to grieve, to celebrate. The problem comes when we forget that others feel what we feel."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"This church," she said simply. "Not just the building, but the people. I came here as a young woman from the South, alone in a big city. The congregation became my family. Now I try to do the same for newcomers—to be the welcome I received."

## Lunch in Adams Morgan: The World in One Neighborhood

By early afternoon, we were ready for lunch, and Marcus suggested Adams Morgan, a neighborhood known for its international character and vibrant street life. On 18th Street, restaurants representing dozens of cultures sit side by side—Ethiopian next to Salvadoran next to Vietnamese.

We chose a small Ghanaian restaurant called Appioo, where we shared jollof rice, plantains, and goat stew ($16 each). The owner, Florence, stopped by our table to make sure we were enjoying the food.

When I explained my journey, she pulled up a chair, eager to share her perspective as an immigrant who has made DC home.

"I came here twenty-five years ago," she said. "What surprised me most was finding so many other Ghanaians—doctors, diplomats, taxi drivers, students. We've built a community within the larger community."

When I asked what we all share, Florence didn't hesitate.

"Food memories," she said. "Everyone has dishes that take them home, whether home is Accra or Appalachia. When people eat my food, I see it in their faces—either the recognition of familiar flavors or the excitement of discovering new ones. Either way, it's connection."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"My grandmother," she said. "In Ghana, she always cooked extra, saying, 'You never know who God will send to your door hungry.' I've kept that tradition here. During the pandemic, we cooked free meals for hospital workers and anyone who needed food. Not for recognition—because that's what humans should do for each other."

## Afternoon at The Potter's House: Conversations Across Difference

After lunch, Marcus took me to The Potter's House, a nonprofit bookstore and cafe in the Columbia Heights neighborhood that has served as a space for dialogue and community building since 1960. Originally founded by the Church of the Saviour as a place where people from different backgrounds could meet on equal footing, it has evolved into a hub for conversations about faith, justice, and social change.

We arrived just in time for a community discussion called "Bridging Divides in a Polarized Nation," facilitated by a local conflict resolution specialist. About twenty people of diverse ages and backgrounds sat in a circle, sharing perspectives on how to build relationships across political and cultural differences.

I was struck by the thoughtful ground rules established at the beginning—speak from personal experience, listen to understand rather than to respond, assume good intentions while acknowledging impact.

During a break, I spoke with the facilitator, Amina, who has been leading these discussions for several years.

"What makes these conversations work," she explained, "is that we start with shared values and experiences before moving to areas of disagreement. When people feel heard on what matters to them, they're more able to hear others."

When I asked my questions, Amina's answers reflected her professional expertise and personal wisdom.

"What do we all share? The need to be right," she said with a smile. "Everyone wants to feel their perspective is valid. The challenge is creating space where multiple truths can exist simultaneously—where your experience doesn't negate mine, and vice versa."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"My work," she said. "I started out thinking I would teach others how to communicate better. Instead, my clients have taught me that kindness isn't about being nice—it's about being willing to stay present with discomfort, to not abandon the conversation when it gets hard. That's true kindness—the courage to remain engaged."

## Late Afternoon at the National Cathedral: Interfaith Gathering

As afternoon turned to evening, we made our way to the Washington National Cathedral for an interfaith prayer vigil for peace and reconciliation. The Gothic cathedral, with its soaring arches and stained glass, provided a dramatic setting for a gathering that brought together representatives from Christian, Jewish, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist, and Native American traditions.

The service included prayers and readings from different faith traditions, music that ranged from Gregorian chant to gospel, and a shared commitment to healing divisions both local and global. Particularly moving was a ritual where participants wrote down barriers to peace on small pieces of paper, then dissolved them in bowls of water—a tangible symbol of letting go of what divides us.

Afterward, I spoke with Rabbi Levin, one of the participating clergy, about the significance of such gatherings in our current moment.

"In a time when religion is often used to divide," he said, "it's essential to demonstrate that faith can also unite—that our different traditions, at their best, call us to love our neighbors and work for justice."

When I asked my questions, Rabbi Levin offered thoughtful reflections.

"What do we all share? Questions," he said. "The great questions of human existence—Why are we here? How should we live? What happens when we die? Our answers may differ, but the questions themselves connect us across time and tradition."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"My father, a Holocaust survivor," he said. "He had every reason to be bitter, to hate. Instead, he chose to build a life defined by generosity and forgiveness. When I asked him how, he said, 'I decided not to let those who tried to destroy me determine who I would become.' That's a lesson I carry with me every day."

## Evening in Dupont Circle: Community in Public Space

As night fell, Marcus suggested we end our day at Dupont Circle, a public park centered around a fountain that serves as a gathering place for a cross-section of Washingtonians. On this warm September evening, the circle was alive with activity—chess players at permanent tables, musicians performing informally, couples on dates, families with children playing in the fountain.

We found a spot on a bench and watched as a spontaneous dance circle formed around a group playing hand drums. People of all ages and backgrounds joined in, some with practiced moves, others simply moving to the rhythm as best they could.

"This is the Washington I love," Marcus said. "Public spaces where people come together not because they're the same, but because they share a city."

We struck up a conversation with Demetrius, a chess player who has been coming to these tables for decades. As his fingers moved pieces with practiced precision, he shared stories of the circle's history—as a counterculture hub in the 1960s, a center of LGBTQ+ life in the 1980s, and now a place where multiple communities overlap.

"I've played chess with millionaires and homeless folks," he told us. "The board doesn't care who you are outside the game."

When I asked my questions, Demetrius paused his game to answer.

"What do we all share? The need for rules and the desire to break them," he said with a laugh. "Look at chess—strict rules but infinite possibilities within them. That's society too. We need structure, but we also need freedom to create within that structure."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"The streets," he said, surprising me. "I was homeless for three years in my twenties. The people who helped me most weren't the ones with the most to give—they were others struggling who shared what little they had. That taught me that kindness isn't about what you have but who you choose to be."

## Late Night Reflections: Rituals of Community

It's past midnight now as I write this at Marcus's kitchen table, reflecting on a Sunday spent observing the rituals—sacred and secular—that bring Washingtonians together.

What strikes me most is how these rituals create spaces where the divisions so evident in official Washington seem to fade, if only temporarily. In the shared experience of Sunday pancakes at Eastern Market, the communal worship at Metropolitan AME, the breaking of bread at Appioo, the facilitated dialogue at The Potter's House, the interfaith prayers at the National Cathedral, and the spontaneous gathering at Dupont Circle, I witnessed moments of connection across differences.

Perhaps what we share as Americans isn't agreement but participation—in markets and meals, in worship and work, in public spaces and community conversations. These rituals of togetherness don't erase our differences, but they remind us of our common humanity despite them.

As Mrs. Pearson at Metropolitan AME suggested, we share vulnerability—the universal human experiences of fear and hope, grief and joy. And as Amina the facilitator noted, we share the need to be heard and validated in our perspectives, even as we learn to make space for perspectives different from our own.

Tomorrow I'll board a train to Charlottesville, Virginia, carrying these Washington stories with me. I'm particularly interested in how that community has worked to heal after the violent white supremacist rally in 2017—another example of the ongoing American struggle to live up to our highest ideals while honestly confronting our deepest divisions.

Until tomorrow,
Robert

P.S. I keep thinking about what Rabbi Levin said about his father choosing not to let those who tried to destroy him determine who he would become. Perhaps that's a lesson for our nation as well—that even in the face of forces that would divide us, we can choose who we want to be, individually and collectively. The question is whether we have the wisdom and courage to make that choice.

# Day Six: First Impressions of the District - Monuments and Margins

The Amtrak Northeast Regional pulled into Union Station at 9:15 this morning, the journey from Baltimore taking just under an hour. I'd spent the ride saying goodbye to Darius—who insisted on seeing me off—and chatting with a congressional staffer named Eliza who commutes daily between Baltimore and DC.

"It's two completely different worlds," she told me, "but only 40 miles apart. In Baltimore, people ask what neighborhood you're from. In DC, they ask what you do."

As we approached the station, she pointed out the Capitol dome through the window. "That's the Washington most people come to see," she said. "But there's another city beyond the monuments where actual Washingtonians live. That's the DC worth knowing."

Her words would frame my first day in the nation's capital—a day spent navigating between official Washington with its marble monuments and the other Washington where people make their homes, raise their children, and build communities in the shadow of power.

## Union Station: A Grand Entrance

Union Station welcomed me with Beaux-Arts grandeur—soaring ceilings, marble floors, and the bustling energy of a transportation hub that connects the capital to the nation it governs. The station itself seemed a metaphor for Washington: impressive in scale, beautiful in design, but serving different purposes for tourists, power brokers, and everyday residents.

I'd arranged to stay with Marcus, a friend of Darius who works for a nonprofit focused on youth development in Southeast DC. He wouldn't be available until evening, so I stored my backpack in a station locker ($8) and set out with just my essentials.

Outside the station, I was immediately struck by the contrast between the gleaming Capitol dome to the south and the diverse neighborhoods spreading out in other directions. Which Washington would I explore first? The monumental core that belongs to all Americans, or the residential neighborhoods that belong to Washingtonians?

I decided to begin where most visitors do—the National Mall—but with an intention to look beyond the postcard views.

## The National Mall: America's Front Yard

The walk from Union Station to the National Mall took me past the Supreme Court and the Library of Congress, buildings that embody American ideals of justice and knowledge. The Mall itself stretched before me like a vast green carpet, from the Capitol to the Lincoln Memorial, lined with museums and punctuated by monuments.

On this sunny Saturday morning, the space was alive with activity—tourists posing for photos, locals jogging or walking dogs, a group practicing tai chi beneath the trees, and what appeared to be multiple school groups on educational trips.

I paused at the Washington Monument, watching as visitors from across America and around the world queued for their chance to ascend. Rather than join them, I found a bench and struck up a conversation with a National Park Service ranger named Jerome who was taking a break between tours.

"How long have you been giving tours here?" I asked.

"Seventeen years," he replied. "I've watched three presidents come and go from this spot."

When I asked my two questions, Jerome thought carefully.

"What do we all share? A complicated history," he said. "Everyone who visits this monument is connecting with a story that includes both inspiring ideals and painful contradictions. Washington the man owned enslaved people. Washington the city was built by them. We're all inheritors of that complexity."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"My father," he said without hesitation. "He was a Vietnam veteran who came home to a country that didn't always welcome him back. But he never became bitter. He taught me that serving your country means serving all its people—not just the ones who look like you or agree with you."

## The Lincoln Memorial: Sacred Ground

I continued west along the Mall toward the Lincoln Memorial, passing the reflecting pool where the image of Washington's obelisk shimmered in the water. The memorial itself rose before me, a Greek temple housing the seated figure of America's 16th president.

As I climbed the steps, I was reminded that this was where Martin Luther King Jr. delivered his "I Have a Dream" speech in 1963—a connection made explicit by the inscription marking the spot where he stood. The memorial thus honors not only Lincoln and emancipation but the ongoing struggle for equality that followed.

Inside, beneath Lincoln's watchful gaze, visitors spoke in hushed tones, as if in a cathedral. I noticed a woman explaining the Gettysburg Address to her young daughter, carefully helping her sound out the words "government of the people, by the people, for the people."

I approached them afterward and learned they were from Oklahoma—Diane and her 8-year-old daughter Zoe.

"We're reading about Lincoln in school," Zoe told me proudly. "He freed the slaves."

Diane smiled but added, "We're trying to learn the fuller story—that freedom was also something enslaved people fought for themselves."

When I asked my questions, Diane's answers revealed the complexity of American identity.

"What do we all share? Aspirations," she said. "The hope that our children will have better lives than we did. That's universal, whether you're a Republican or Democrat, urban or rural."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"My grandmother," she said. "She grew up during the Dust Bowl, lost everything. But she always said, 'There's no one so poor they can't help someone else.' She lived that belief every day."

## Lunch at a Food Truck: Washington at Work

By midday, the Mall was filling with weekend visitors, and I followed the lead of several people in business attire to a row of food trucks along 14th Street. I ordered a falafel wrap ($11) from a truck called "Mediterranean Delight" and found a spot on a bench beside a man in a security guard uniform on his lunch break.

He introduced himself as Michael, a lifelong DC resident who works at one of the Smithsonian museums. Our conversation quickly moved from casual small talk to deeper reflections on the city.

"People think they know DC from the news," he said, "but that's just a tiny piece of it. There's the Washington of power—the White House, Congress, lobbyists. Then there's the Washington where people like me have lived for generations."

When I asked what we all share, Michael gestured to the diverse crowd around us.

"Contradictions," he said. "Everyone's got parts of themselves that don't match up—beliefs that conflict with each other, ways they fail to live up to their own standards. DC just makes those contradictions visible. We're the capital of the free world where people didn't have full voting rights until the 1960s, and we still don't have congressional representation."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"My mother," he said. "She raised four of us on a housekeeper's salary after my father died. Worked in those big houses up in Georgetown. She'd come home tired but still make sure we did our homework, still make sure we respected ourselves and others. She'd say, 'They might have more money, but nobody's better than you, and you're not better than anybody else.'"

## The National Museum of African American History and Culture: America's Story

In the afternoon, I visited the newest Smithsonian museum on the Mall—the National Museum of African American History and Culture. With its distinctive bronze-colored lattice exterior, the building itself is a powerful architectural statement.

I'd heard the museum often has long lines, but I was able to enter after about a 20-minute wait. The experience begins underground, with exhibits on the Middle Passage and slavery, then moves upward chronologically through Reconstruction, Jim Crow, the Civil Rights Movement, and into contemporary African American life and culture.

What struck me most was how the museum presents African American history not as a separate narrative but as central to understanding America itself. The story of enslavement, resistance, emancipation, and the ongoing struggle for equality isn't a sidebar to American history—it is American history.

I found myself beside an elderly Black woman and her adult granddaughter in the Reconstruction exhibit. The grandmother, Mrs. Robinson, pointed to a display about Black elected officials during that brief period of political empowerment.

"My great-grandfather was a state legislator in South Carolina during Reconstruction," she told me. "When I was growing up, we had his photograph on our wall, but our textbooks never mentioned that period."

When I asked my questions, Mrs. Robinson spoke with the wisdom of her 87 years.

"What do we all share? Memory," she said. "Both personal and collective. The stories we tell about the past shape how we live in the present. That's why this museum matters—it's filling in the memories that were erased."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"My father," she said. "He was a minister who lived through terrible times—lynchings, segregation. But he never taught us to hate. He'd say, 'Hate is too heavy a burden to bear.' Instead, he taught us to work for justice, which is different from revenge."

## Afternoon in Shaw: Beyond the Tourist Map

After several hours in the museum, I needed fresh air and a sense of Washington beyond the Mall. I took the Metro to the Shaw neighborhood, historically the center of African American intellectual and cultural life in DC before the Harlem Renaissance.

I walked along U Street, once known as "Black Broadway," where Duke Ellington grew up and performed. Today, the street reflects both gentrification and preservation efforts—historic theaters and Black-owned businesses alongside new luxury apartments and trendy restaurants.

At Ben's Chili Bowl, a DC institution since 1958 that has survived riots, economic downturns, and gentrification, I stopped for a half-smoke ($7.50)—the signature DC sausage that's somewhere between a hot dog and kielbasa. The walls were covered with photos of everyone from Barack Obama to Dave Chappelle who have eaten there.

The cashier, a young woman named Keisha, told me her grandmother had worked at Ben's for 30 years. When I asked my questions, her answers reflected both pride in the neighborhood's history and concern about its future.

"What do we all share? The need for community," she said. "Everyone wants to belong somewhere. That's why places like Ben's matter—they're anchors where people from all backgrounds can feel at home."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"My grandmother," she said. "She worked here through the '68 riots after Dr. King was killed. Ben's stayed open to feed people, including the first responders and activists. She taught me that showing up for your community, especially in hard times, is what matters most."

## Early Evening in Anacostia: The Other Side of the River

As evening approached, I took another Metro ride to Anacostia in Southeast DC—a predominantly Black neighborhood separated from the rest of the city by the Anacostia River. The area has historically received less investment than other parts of DC but is rich in community organizations and cultural institutions.

I visited the Anacostia Community Museum, a Smithsonian outpost focused on urban communities, and then walked to the Big Chair—an 19.5-foot wooden chair that's become a neighborhood landmark. There I met a group of teenagers working on a community mural depicting neighborhood history.

One of them, Jamal, explained they were part of a youth arts program called "Our Stories, Our Streets." The mural they were creating showed Frederick Douglass (who lived in Anacostia), the historic Nichols Avenue School, and contemporary neighborhood scenes.

"We're painting what we want people to know about Anacostia," Jamal told me. "Not what they see on the news."

When I asked my questions, the young artists gathered around to answer.

"What do we all share? Dreams," said Tanya, a 16-year-old with paint-spattered hands. "Everyone wants to create something that outlasts them."

"The need to be seen," added Jamal. "Not just looked at, but really seen for who we are."

When I asked who taught them kindness, they pointed to their program director, Ms. Evelyn, who was helping another group down the block.

"She believes in us when a lot of people don't," Tanya explained. "She doesn't just teach art—she teaches us how to navigate a world that doesn't always value what we have to offer."

## Evening with Marcus: Local Perspectives

As the sun began to set, I made my way to Columbia Heights to meet Marcus at his apartment. A youth development coordinator in his early 30s, Marcus greeted me with a firm handshake and showed me to his spare room—a simple but comfortable space that he uses as a home office when not hosting visitors.

"Hope you're hungry," he said. "I thought we'd go to a place that shows another side of DC."

We walked to a nearby Ethiopian restaurant called Zenebech, where Marcus was clearly a regular. The owner greeted him by name and led us to a table where we shared a large platter of doro wat, misir wat, and other dishes served on injera bread ($28 for both of us).

"DC has the largest Ethiopian population outside of Ethiopia," Marcus explained as we ate with our hands in the traditional style. "That's the Washington most tourists never see—a global city where immigrants have created communities that maintain their culture while becoming distinctly American."

Over dinner, Marcus shared his perspective as someone who works with young people across the city's diverse neighborhoods.

"The hardest part of my job is helping kids see beyond the boundaries—both physical and psychological—that divide this city," he said. "Some have never been to the Mall despite living a few miles away. Others have never crossed the river to Anacostia. The monuments belong to everyone in theory, but not in practice."

When I asked my questions, Marcus's answers revealed both his idealism and pragmatism.

"What do we all share? Potential," he said. "Every kid I work with has gifts, whether the system recognizes them or not. The tragedy is how much potential we waste as a society by not investing in everyone equally."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"My mentor, Mr. Thompson," he said. "I was headed down a bad path in high school. He ran an after-school program that literally saved my life. He didn't just keep me off the streets—he showed me I had something to offer the world. Now I try to do the same for the next generation."

## Late Night Reflections: A Capital of Contrasts

It's nearly midnight now as I write this at Marcus's kitchen table. Tomorrow I'll explore more of Washington, with plans to visit Eastern Market in the morning and perhaps attend a local church service Marcus recommended.

What strikes me most about my first day in DC is the stark contrast between monumental Washington and residential Washington—between the city that symbolizes American democracy and the city where 700,000 Americans live without full democratic representation.

In the shadow of buildings that proclaim equality and justice, I found neighborhoods shaped by historical inequities but also by remarkable resilience. I saw how the official narratives enshrined in marble and granite are being supplemented by the lived experiences preserved in museums like the National Museum of African American History and Culture and community spaces like the mural project in Anacostia.

Perhaps what we share as Americans isn't a single, unified story but the ongoing, messy process of trying to make our reality match our ideals. As Mrs. Robinson suggested at the museum, we share memory—both the memories we celebrate and those we've tried to forget.

And as Michael the security guard noted, we share contradictions—the gap between our highest principles and our daily practices, between what we say we believe and how we actually live.

Tomorrow I'll continue exploring this city of contrasts, looking for the connections that bridge its divisions and the common ground that exists beneath its monuments.

Until tomorrow,
Robert

P.S. I keep thinking about what Jamal said at the mural project—about the need to be not just looked at, but truly seen. Perhaps that's the deepest human desire: not fame or wealth or power, but recognition of our full humanity. And perhaps that's where healing begins, both for individuals and for a divided nation—in the simple, profound act of truly seeing one another.

# Day Five: Sacred Spaces and Difficult Conversations in Baltimore

"What do you want to see in Baltimore today?" Darius asked over breakfast, pouring me a second cup of coffee. We sat at his kitchen table, morning light filtering through the window of his Charles Village apartment.

"The real Baltimore," I replied. "Not just the tourist version."

He laughed. "There's no single 'real Baltimore.' There are dozens of them. But I'll show you mine."

This promise would shape a day that took me from historic churches to community meetings, from monuments of American patriotism to neighborhoods still healing from historical wounds—a day that revealed the many sacred spaces where Baltimoreans gather to worship, remember, organize, and simply be together.

## Morning in Pennsylvania Avenue: Black Broadway

Our first stop was Pennsylvania Avenue in West Baltimore, once known as "Black Broadway" for its legendary music venues where Billie Holiday, Cab Calloway, and countless other jazz and R&B legends performed. Today, the Royal Theater is gone, but the Avenue Market and the Arch Social Club—the oldest continuously operating African American men's social club in the country—remain as anchors of a community working to reclaim its cultural heritage.

Darius introduced me to Mr. James, a 78-year-old barber whose shop has been a neighborhood institution for over five decades. As customers came and went, Mr. James held court, his hands moving skillfully with scissors and clippers while maintaining a running commentary on everything from city politics to the Ravens' chances this season.

"This chair right here," he told me, patting the vintage barber chair, "has heard more Baltimore stories than any history book. Mayors have sat here. So have folks who couldn't pay but needed a cut for a job interview."

When I asked my questions, Mr. James didn't hesitate.

"What do we all share? The need for dignity," he said. "Every man who sits in this chair wants to walk out feeling like somebody, whether he's got two dollars or two million."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"My first boss, Mr. Wilkins. When I was starting out, he told me, 'A haircut is more than a service—it's a sanctuary.' Some folks coming in here, this might be the only place all week where someone calls them by name and asks how they're really doing."

## The Avenue Bakery and Community Memories

Next door to the barbershop, we stopped at The Avenue Bakery, famous for its "poppay's" rolls—pillowy soft dinner rolls that Darius insisted I couldn't leave Baltimore without trying. The owner, Mr. Anderson, returned to the neighborhood after a corporate career to open this bakery as an anchor for community revitalization.

The walls were covered with photographs documenting Pennsylvania Avenue's heyday—crowded theaters, sharp-dressed couples heading to dance halls, civil rights marches, and community celebrations.

"This isn't just a bakery," Mr. Anderson explained as he handed me a warm roll. "It's a community archive. Young folks come in for the rolls but leave knowing their neighborhood's history."

When I asked what we all share, Mr. Anderson gestured to a customer paying with exact change counted carefully from a worn wallet.

"Hunger," he said simply. "Not just for food, but for connection. For knowing where you come from and that you matter."

When I asked who taught him kindness, he smiled. "My grandmother. She'd bake extra bread every Sunday for 'whoever the Lord sends.' There was always someone—a neighbor down on their luck, a stranger passing through. She'd say, 'Breaking bread together is holy work.'"

## Fort McHenry: Contested Patriotism

From Pennsylvania Avenue, we drove to Fort McHenry, where the sight of the American flag still flying after a British bombardment in 1814 inspired Francis Scott Key to write what would become "The Star-Spangled Banner."

As we walked the grounds of the star-shaped fort, I was struck by the diverse visitors engaging with this symbol of American resilience in different ways—some with reverent patriotism, others with complicated feelings about what the flag has represented to different communities throughout history.

A park ranger named Gabriela led a thoughtful tour that didn't shy away from complexity—noting that the America being defended in the War of 1812 was one where slavery was legal and Indigenous peoples were being displaced.

"History isn't simple," she told the group. "We can celebrate the courage of the defenders while acknowledging the contradictions of the nation they defended. Both truths matter."

When I asked my questions after the tour, Gabriela's answers reflected this nuance.

"What do we all share? A desire to belong to something larger than ourselves," she said. "Whether it's a nation, a faith, a community—we want to be part of a story bigger than our own lives."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"My father, a Vietnam veteran who came home to a country that often wasn't kind to those who served in that war. He taught me that you can love a country enough to want it to be better—that true patriotism isn't blind loyalty but active engagement with both our triumphs and our failures."

## Lunch at Northeast Market: Crossing Divides

For lunch, Darius took me to Northeast Market, less famous than Lexington Market but equally beloved by locals. We ordered lake trout sandwiches—which, in classic Baltimore fashion, contain neither trout nor lake fish, but whiting from the ocean, breaded and fried to perfection ($8.50).

"Baltimore has a sandwich identity crisis," Darius joked as we found seats at a communal table.

We shared the table with Denise, a nurse on her lunch break, and Carlos, a contractor grabbing a quick meal between jobs. What began as casual conversation about the best stalls in the market evolved into a deeper discussion about Baltimore's challenges and strengths.

"People talk about 'two Baltimores,'" Denise said, "but it's more complicated than that. I live in Belair-Edison, work downtown, my church is in Cherry Hill, and my mom still lives in Highlandtown. I cross those invisible lines every day."

Carlos nodded. "Same here. My work takes me everywhere from Roland Park mansions to vacants in Sandtown. People are more alike than they think."

When I asked what we all share, Denise didn't hesitate. "Worry about our kids. I don't care what neighborhood you're from—every parent lies awake wondering if their children will be safe, if they'll have opportunities."

Carlos thought longer. "Everybody wants to be needed," he finally said. "To know their work, their presence in the world, matters to somebody."

When I asked who taught them kindness, their answers revealed Baltimore's complex community fabric.

"My church," Denise said. "Not just in words but actions. When my husband died, they didn't just pray for me—they mowed my lawn for a year, brought meals, sat with me when the house felt too empty."

"The family I first worked for when I came here from El Salvador," Carlos said. "They barely spoke Spanish, I barely spoke English. But they treated me like a human being when many didn't. Invited me to their table. That changes how you see a place forever."

## Afternoon at a Community Meeting: Democracy in Action

In the afternoon, Darius took me to a community meeting in the Broadway East neighborhood, where residents were discussing the redevelopment of a former industrial site. The meeting was held in a church basement, with about forty people seated in folding chairs—a diverse group spanning ages, races, and likely economic circumstances.

The discussion was passionate, sometimes tense. Longtime residents worried about gentrification and displacement. Young professionals spoke of needed investment. City officials presented plans while community organizers questioned who would truly benefit.

What struck me most was the woman facilitating—Ms. Loretta, a grandmother who commanded respect from all sides. She ensured every voice was heard, from the suited developer to the teenager concerned about safe spaces for youth.

"We don't have to agree," she reminded the group when tensions rose. "But we do have to listen. This neighborhood belongs to all of us."

During a break, I asked Ms. Loretta my questions.

"What do we all share? Consequences," she said firmly. "When decisions get made about this neighborhood, we all live with the results—good or bad. That's why everyone deserves a seat at the table."

"And who taught you kindness?"

She smiled. "My father. He was a steelworker at Bethlehem Steel for thirty years. Hardest-working man I ever knew. But every payday, he'd set aside something for anyone who came to our door hungry. He'd say, 'We're not rich, but we're not poor enough to forget our humanity.'"

## Historic Churches: Pillars of Community

After the meeting, Darius drove me through neighborhoods dotted with historic churches—some grand stone edifices, others modest storefronts with hand-painted signs. We stopped at Sharp Street Memorial United Methodist Church, the oldest African American Methodist congregation in Baltimore, founded in 1787.

The church secretary, Ms. Vivian, graciously showed us the sanctuary with its stunning stained glass and the basement museum documenting the congregation's role in the Underground Railroad and civil rights movement.

"This church has been a sanctuary in every sense of the word," she explained. "A place of worship, yes, but also education when Black children couldn't attend public schools, a meeting place for civil rights organizing, a food pantry during hard times."

When I asked what we all share, Ms. Vivian gestured to the church around us.

"Faith," she said. "Not necessarily religious faith, though that's important to many. But faith that tomorrow can be better than today. Without that, why get out of bed in the morning?"

When I asked who taught her kindness, she pointed to a photograph of a stern-looking woman in the church museum.

"Reverend Dr. Esther Thornton. She led this congregation through the 1968 uprising after Dr. King was killed. When buildings were burning and troops patrolled the streets, she opened these doors as a place of refuge for anyone who needed it. She taught me that kindness isn't soft—sometimes it's the strongest thing you can offer a broken world."

## Evening in Station North: Art as Resistance

As evening approached, we headed to the Station North Arts District, where abandoned factories and warehouses have been transformed into studios, theaters, and galleries. We visited the Motor House, a community arts hub where a group of young poets was rehearsing for a spoken word performance.

With their permission, I sat in the back, listening as they crafted verses about Baltimore—its beauty, its struggles, its resilience. Their words painted pictures more vivid than any tourist brochure, speaking of concrete childhoods and corner stores, of lost friends and found purpose.

Afterward, I spoke with Malik, one of the poets, whose piece about his grandfather's marble stoop had brought tears to my eyes.

When I asked what we all share, he thought carefully.

"The need to tell our own stories," he said finally. "Not just have them told about us. That's what this poetry is—taking back the narrative."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"My English teacher, Mr. Reed," he said. "I was angry, failing everything. Instead of suspending me when I cursed him out, he handed me a journal and said, 'Put it on the page.' That journal saved my life."

## Dinner in Little Italy: Breaking Bread

For dinner, Darius insisted we visit Baltimore's Little Italy, where we found a table at a family-owned restaurant called Chiapparelli's. Over house salad and pasta ($22), Darius explained how this neighborhood has remained an anchor while adapting to changing times.

"Baltimore neighborhoods hold on to their identities," he said. "But the best ones make room for newcomers too."

Our waiter, Anthony, had worked at the restaurant for over twenty years and treated us to stories of famous visitors and neighborhood characters between courses. When I asked my questions, his answers revealed the immigrant experience that shaped Baltimore.

"What do we all share? The table," he said, gesturing around the restaurant. "Breaking bread together is universal. It's how we celebrate, how we mourn, how we make peace."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"My grandmother," he said. "She came from Sicily with nothing. Couldn't speak English. But she'd still feed anyone who came to her door. She'd say, 'No one leaves this house hungry—it's bad luck.' But it wasn't superstition—it was humanity."

## Late Night Walk: The Monuments

After dinner, Darius suggested we take a nighttime walk to see some of Baltimore's monuments illuminated against the dark sky. We visited the Washington Monument in Mount Vernon Place—the first major monument to George Washington, predating the more famous one in DC.

We also stopped at the Confederate Women's Monument—now removed from its pedestal but with interpretive signage explaining its history and removal after the 2017 white supremacist rally in Charlottesville.

"This is how we handle history now," Darius explained. "Not erasing it, but contextualizing it, understanding why these monuments were erected during Jim Crow and what messages they sent."

As we stood in the empty space where the monument once stood, I asked Darius my questions.

"What do we all share? Memory," he said. "Both personal and collective. The stories we tell about the past shape how we live in the present."

"And who taught you kindness?"

He looked up at the stars visible despite the city lights. "My students," he said. "I teach Baltimore history to Baltimore kids. They live with the consequences of decisions made generations before they were born. Yet they still show up, still dream, still find ways to be kind to each other in a world that isn't always kind to them. If that's not a lesson in resilience and grace, I don't know what is."

## Late Night Reflections: Sacred Spaces

It's nearly midnight now as I write this at Darius's kitchen table. Tomorrow I'll board a train to Washington, D.C., carrying these Baltimore stories with me.

What strikes me most about today's journey is how many sacred spaces we visited—not just churches, but barbershops where dignity is restored, community meetings where democracy happens face-to-face, poetry workshops where young people reclaim their narratives, dinner tables where strangers become friends.

In each of these spaces, I witnessed Baltimoreans crossing the invisible lines that often divide cities—lines of race, class, and opportunity. I saw them doing the hard, daily work of creating community despite differences, of holding both pride in their city and clear-eyed recognition of its challenges.

Perhaps what we share as Americans isn't agreement but this struggle itself—the ongoing, imperfect effort to form "a more perfect union" across our differences. In Baltimore, that work happens in church basements and barbershop chairs, in community meetings and poetry slams, in the breaking of bread and the telling of stories.

As Mr. James the barber said, we all share the need for dignity—to be seen, to be heard, to be treated as fully human. And as Ms. Loretta reminded us at the community meeting, we all share the consequences of our collective decisions, whether we have a voice in making them or not.

Tomorrow, I'll carry these insights to our nation's capital, where the grand monuments and corridors of power often overshadow the everyday sacred spaces where democracy really lives.

Until tomorrow,
Robert

P.S. I keep thinking about what Malik, the young poet, said about the need to tell our own stories rather than having them told about us. Perhaps that's what this journey is really about—creating space for Americans to speak for themselves rather than being spoken for, to be subjects of their own narratives rather than objects in someone else's.

# Day Four: Charm City's Contrasts - First Day in Baltimore

The Amtrak Northeast Regional pulled into Baltimore's Penn Station just before 10 AM, the journey from Philadelphia taking just over an hour. I'd spent the ride chatting with a retired schoolteacher named Gloria who's lived in Baltimore her entire life.

"You want to understand Baltimore?" she asked when I explained my project. "Remember that we're a city of neighborhoods. Each one with its own character, its own history. Some folks live their whole lives within a few blocks."

As we approached the station, she pointed out the window at the patchwork of communities sliding past. "That's the thing about Baltimore—we're right next to each other but sometimes worlds apart."

Her words would prove prophetic as I spent my first day exploring this complex city that calls itself Charm City—a nickname that feels both earnest and ironic depending on which street you're standing on.

## Penn Station and Charles Village

Baltimore's Penn Station greeted me with its Beaux-Arts grandeur, though showing signs of wear that somehow felt appropriate for a city that wears both its pride and its struggles openly. Outside, a massive metallic sculpture of a male figure rising from the ground dominated the plaza—a modern counterpoint to the historic station.

I had arranged to stay with Darius, a friend of a colleague, who lives in Charles Village near Johns Hopkins University. He wouldn't be home until evening, so I stored my backpack in a station locker ($7) and set out with just my essentials.

The walk to the Baltimore Museum of Art took me through tree-lined streets of Charles Village, with its distinctive row houses painted in vibrant colors—purple, teal, yellow—their marble steps meticulously maintained, a Baltimore tradition I'd soon learn more about.

## The Baltimore Museum of Art: Beauty Amid Struggle

The BMA offers free admission (budget win!), so I spent the late morning wandering through its impressive collection. I was particularly moved by the contemporary wing's exhibition on Baltimore artists responding to the aftermath of Freddie Gray's death in 2015.

A security guard named Maurice noticed me lingering in front of a powerful mixed-media piece depicting boarded-up row houses alongside community gardens.

"That's my neighborhood," he said quietly, coming to stand beside me. "Sandtown-Winchester."

When I asked my two questions, Maurice thought carefully.

"What do we all share? Pain," he said. "Rich, poor, Black, white—everyone knows what it is to hurt. The difference is who gets help with their pain and who's expected to just live with it."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"My grandmother," he said, his face softening. "She raised seven kids in a two-bedroom house and still took in neighbors when they needed shelter. She'd say, 'There's always room at the table if you're willing to squeeze.'"

## Lunch at Lexington Market: Stories Amid the Stalls

After the museum, I took a bus downtown to Lexington Market, one of the oldest continuously running markets in America, recently renovated but still maintaining its character as a gathering place for Baltimoreans from all walks of life.

I ordered crab cakes from Faidley's ($18.50—a splurge, but when in Baltimore...) and found a spot at a communal table. To my right sat an older gentleman in a Baltimore Ravens cap who introduced himself as Earl. To my left, a young woman named Kira who works at a nearby hospital.

"First time at Faidley's?" Earl asked, watching me take my first bite.

I nodded, mouth full of the most delicious crab cake I'd ever tasted.

"Best in the world," he declared. "Been coming here forty years. Used to bring my kids. Now I bring my grandkids."

I asked both Earl and Kira my questions. Earl didn't hesitate.

"What we all share? The need for respect," he said. "Don't matter if you're the mayor or homeless—everybody wants to be seen as somebody."

Kira thought longer before answering. "I think we all share the experience of being misunderstood," she said. "As a nurse, I see people at their most vulnerable. Everyone has a story that would break your heart if you knew it."

When I asked who taught them kindness, their answers revealed Baltimore's complexity.

"The streets," Earl said, surprising me. "I grew up rough. But even in the toughest neighborhoods, there are codes. You look out for elders. You protect children. Those aren't written down, but they're real."

Kira smiled. "My fourth-grade teacher, Ms. Patterson. I was angry all the time—my mom was sick, dad was gone. She never sent me to the principal. Instead, she gave me books. Said, 'Put all that fire into reading.'"

## The American Visionary Art Museum: Outsider Perspectives

In the afternoon, I walked to the American Visionary Art Museum, a place dedicated to self-taught artists—people who created not for galleries or critics but because something inside them needed expression.

The museum itself is a work of art, covered in mirror mosaics that caught the afternoon sun. Inside, I found everything from intricate toothpick sculptures to cosmic visions painted on salvaged wood—art made by prisoners, psychiatric patients, farmers, and factory workers.

A docent named Eliza guided me through an exhibition called "The Science and Mystery of Sleep."

"Visionary artists remind us that creativity isn't about credentials," she explained. "It's about having something to say and finding your way to say it."

When I asked my questions, Eliza's answers were as thoughtful as the art surrounding us.

"What do we all share? Dreams," she said. "Not just when we sleep, but the visions that keep us going. Everyone has a picture of what could be—for themselves, their children, their community."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"The artists in this museum," she said, gesturing around us. "Many faced tremendous hardship—poverty, illness, discrimination. Yet they created beauty anyway. That's a profound kindness—to insist on adding beauty to a world that hasn't always been beautiful to you."

## Federal Hill and the Harbor: Two Baltimores

As afternoon turned to evening, I walked through Federal Hill, with its meticulously preserved historic homes and sweeping views of the Inner Harbor. The contrast was striking—from the harbor's gleaming tourism district to the neighborhoods just blocks away still bearing the scars of disinvestment.

I climbed to the top of Federal Hill Park, where cannons once stood ready to fire on the city during the Civil War if Maryland attempted to join the Confederacy. The view encompassed the entire harbor, from the National Aquarium and touristy Harbor Place to the industrial port where ships still bring goods from around the world.

A man was flying a kite with his young daughter, the string stretching high above the harbor. I struck up a conversation, and Anthony told me he brings his daughter Zoe here every Thursday.

"I want her to see all of Baltimore," he said. "The good and the challenging. This hill lets you see both."

When I asked my questions, Anthony looked at his daughter before answering.

"What we all share? The desire for safety," he said. "Not just physical safety, but the security of knowing you belong somewhere, that you matter to someone."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"I'm still learning," he said with a laugh, ruffling Zoe's hair. "She's my teacher now. Kids start kind. The world teaches them otherwise."

## Hampden: Community Dinner and Local Character

As evening approached, I took a bus to Hampden, a neighborhood known for its distinctive Baltimore accent ("hon" culture) and working-class roots that have more recently blended with artistic and hipster influences.

Darius had recommended I visit the Hampden Community Center, where Thursday nights feature a pay-what-you-can community dinner. For $10 (my chosen contribution), I joined tables of neighbors sharing a meal of homemade lasagna, garlic bread, and salad grown in the center's garden.

I sat beside Marge, a lifelong Hampden resident in her seventies, and across from Jayden, a college student who volunteers at the center. Despite their different backgrounds, they shared an easy rapport that spoke to the center's success in building community.

"Hampden's changed so much," Marge told me. "When I was growing up, it was all mill workers. Now we've got art galleries and fancy coffee. But this place"—she gestured around the community center—"this still feels like home."

Jayden nodded. "That's what I love about it. My family's from West Baltimore, but I feel welcome here. Not everywhere in Baltimore feels that way."

When I asked my questions, their answers revealed both Baltimore's divisions and its resilience.

"What do we all share? History," Marge said. "Even if we remember it differently, we're all living with what came before us—the good decisions and the terrible ones."

Jayden thought for a moment. "I'd say we share responsibility for what comes next. We didn't create the problems, but we're all part of the solution."

When I asked who taught them kindness, Marge pointed to a photo on the wall of an older woman serving food.

"Miss Edna, God rest her soul. She started this dinner program thirty years ago during the crack epidemic. Said nobody should make decisions hungry. Simple as that."

Jayden smiled. "My mom. She works two jobs, but she still volunteers at our church food pantry every Sunday. She says service isn't what you do when you have time—it's how you make time meaningful."

## Evening with Darius: Perspectives from a Native Son

By early evening, I made my way to Darius's apartment in Charles Village. A high school history teacher born and raised in Baltimore, Darius greeted me with a handshake that turned into a hug and showed me to his spare room—a luxury after Wei's couch.

"Hope you're hungry," he said. "I made crab soup. Can't come to Baltimore without trying it."

Over dinner, Darius shared his deep knowledge of the city—from its role in the American Revolution to the 2015 uprising after Freddie Gray's death. As someone who teaches Baltimore's history to Baltimore's children, his perspective was both loving and unflinching.

"This city breaks my heart and heals it daily," he said. "We've got so much beauty, so much pain, sometimes on the same block."

When I asked my questions, Darius leaned back in his chair.

"What do we all share? Contradictions," he said. "Everyone's got parts of themselves that don't match up—beliefs they hold that contradict each other, ways they fail to live up to their own standards. Baltimore's just honest about its contradictions."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"My students," he said without hesitation. "I teach in a school where kids face more before breakfast than most adults face all day. But they still show up. They still laugh. They still share their lunch with a classmate who forgot theirs. If that's not a lesson in kindness, I don't know what is."

## Late Night Reflections: The Many Baltimores

It's now past midnight as I write this, sitting at Darius's kitchen table while he grades papers in the next room. My first day in Baltimore has left me with a profound sense of the city's complexity—its warmth and its wounds, its pride and its pain.

What strikes me most is how Baltimore seems to contain multiple cities within its boundaries—divided by race, class, and opportunity, yet connected by shared history and common humanity. The same could be said of America itself.

Gloria's words from this morning's train ride keep coming back to me: "We're right next to each other but sometimes worlds apart." Perhaps what we share isn't always visible on the surface. Perhaps it lives in the spaces between our differences—in dreams for our children, in memories of those who taught us kindness, in the simple human desire to be seen and respected.

Tomorrow, Darius has offered to show me more of Baltimore—from the historic Pennsylvania Avenue Black arts district to Fort McHenry where the Star-Spangled Banner was written. I'm particularly looking forward to attending a community meeting about the redevelopment of a former industrial area, where I hope to hear more voices from across Baltimore's divides.

For now, though, I'll sleep in this city of neighborhoods, grateful for the stories shared across lunch counters and community tables on my first day in Charm City.

Until tomorrow,
Robert

P.S. I keep thinking about what Maurice said at the art museum—that pain is universal but help with pain is not. Perhaps that's the gap we need to bridge, not just in Baltimore but across America: ensuring that the comfort and care we'd want for ourselves is available to everyone, regardless of zip code or circumstance.

# Day Three: Finding Common Ground in the Divided City

The morning light filtered through the leaves of Wei's community garden as I sipped coffee on his narrow front stoop. Philadelphia was already humming—trash trucks rumbling by, neighbors calling greetings, the distant clang of the trolley on Baltimore Avenue. I felt rested despite the modest accommodations of Wei's couch, perhaps because the conversations from last night had nourished something deeper than sleep ever could.

"Morning, professor," Wei said, joining me with his own mug. "Sleep okay?"

"Better than okay," I replied. "Thanks again for the hospitality."

He waved away my thanks. "That's what we do, right? Make space for each other."

Those words would echo throughout my day as I explored a city known for both brotherhood and deep divisions.

## The Murals of North Philadelphia

After breakfast, I caught the #23 bus north, watching as the city transformed block by block. Philadelphia contains multitudes—from the gleaming skyscrapers of Center City to the struggling neighborhoods just a few miles away. The Mural Arts Program has turned these divisions into canvases, with over 4,000 murals adorning walls throughout the city.

I joined a walking tour led by Darnell, a local artist who helped create several of the murals we visited. Each massive painting told stories of resilience, history, and hope—faces of community leaders gazing down from five-story buildings, children playing amid fantastical landscapes, historical scenes of both struggle and triumph.

"Art does what politics can't," Darnell explained as we stood before a mural depicting generations of a neighborhood family. "It doesn't argue; it witnesses. It doesn't demand agreement; it invites understanding."

When I asked my questions, Darnell didn't hesitate.

"What do we all share? The need to leave a mark," he said, gesturing to the mural. "Whether it's children or art or just being remembered by our neighbors—we all want evidence that we were here."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"My grandfather," he said. "He was a sanitation worker who knew everyone on his route. He'd carry groceries for elderly folks, fix kids' bikes. He always said, 'The world breaks everyone, so be gentle with the pieces.'"

As the tour ended, an elderly woman approached our group. She pointed to a face in one of the murals—a young man with kind eyes.

"That's my grandson," she said. "Lost him to gun violence in '08. But here, he still watches over us."

I asked if I could write down her words in my notebook. She nodded, then added: "Tell them we're more than our tragedies."

## The Italian Market: A Feast of Contradictions

By midday, I'd made my way to South Philadelphia's Italian Market, where the aroma of fresh bread, cheese, and simmering sauces filled the air. Though historically Italian, the market now reflects Philadelphia's changing demographics—Mexican taquerias beside century-old Italian delis, Vietnamese grocery stores next to traditional pasta shops.

I stopped at Geno's, one of the famous cheesesteak rivals (I'd tried Pat's yesterday, and felt obligated to complete the comparison). As I waited in line, I chatted with a man named Tony who's been eating at both establishments for forty years.

"Which is better?" I asked.

He laughed. "Depends who's listening! But honestly? It's not about the sandwich. It's about the ritual. My father brought me here. I brought my kids. It's about belonging to something."

Cheesesteak in hand ($13—slightly pricier than Pat's), I wandered through the market, stopping to talk with vendors. At DiBruno Bros. cheese shop, I met Elena, whose grandparents opened their first store here in 1939.

"What do we all share?" she repeated, slicing me a sample of provolone. "Hunger—not just for food, but for tradition. People come here because some things shouldn't change, even when everything else does."

"Who taught you kindness?"

"The customers," she said, surprising me. "The ones who kept coming during COVID when we were barely hanging on. They weren't just buying cheese; they were saying 'we need you to survive.'"

Across the street at Tortilleria San Roman, I met Miguel, who moved from Mexico City twenty years ago. When I asked my questions, he gestured to Elena's shop.

"We share more than people think," he said. "Her grandparents came here with nothing, just like me. Different languages, same story."

## Germantown: Where History Collides

In the afternoon, I took the bus to Germantown, a neighborhood where America's contradictions are written in brick and mortar. At the Johnson House—a station on the Underground Railroad—I stood in a hidden basement room where enslaved people once huddled on their journey to freedom. Just blocks away stands Cliveden, where British troops took refuge during the Battle of Germantown.

My guide at the Johnson House, Kiara, showed me hidden compartments and secret passages, her voice reverent.

"People risked everything for strangers," she said. "Not because they agreed on politics—many abolitionists still held racist views—but because they couldn't bear the suffering of others."

When I asked what we all share, she thought carefully.

"The capacity for moral growth," she finally said. "The Johnson family were Quaker slaveholders who became abolitionists. They learned. They changed. We all can."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"History itself," she said. "When you study the past honestly—all its horrors and heroes—you realize kindness isn't natural. It's a choice, made over and over against the current."

## The Community Center: Making Space

As evening approached, I followed Wei's recommendation to visit the Germantown Community Center, where a weekly community dinner was underway. For $5, I joined a communal meal that brought together people from across the neighborhood—elderly residents, young families, teenagers, and local business owners.

I sat beside a woman named Ruth, who's lived in Germantown for 78 years, and Jamal, a 19-year-old student at Community College of Philadelphia. Despite the fifty-nine years between them, they spoke with the easy familiarity of neighbors who've shared countless such meals.

"We disagree on everything," Ruth told me with a laugh. "Politics, music, whether the neighborhood's getting better or worse. But we break bread together every Wednesday."

Jamal nodded. "My grandma says you don't have to like everyone, but you have to see everyone. That's what we do here."

After dinner, the center director, Marcus (no relation to yesterday's park ranger), invited me to observe a community mediation session—a structured conversation between neighbors with a dispute over noise and property boundaries. I watched as facilitators helped them move from accusation to understanding, from positions to interests.

It wasn't perfect. Voices raised at times. Old grievances surfaced. But by the end, they'd found enough common ground to continue the conversation next week.

"This is democracy," Marcus told me afterward. "Not voting every few years, but this—the hard, daily work of living together despite our differences."

## Evening with Wei: Seeds of Connection

I returned to Wei's as night fell, finding him in the garden with a flashlight, watering tomato plants.

"They're thirsty in this heat," he explained. "Can't wait until morning."

We sat on his stoop again, watching fireflies rise from the garden beds as he told me how the space came to be—first a vacant lot, then a dumping ground, now a source of fresh produce for the block. The transformation didn't happen through city planning or corporate investment, but through neighbors showing up with shovels, weekend after weekend.

"People say Americans don't know their neighbors anymore," Wei reflected. "Maybe in some places. Not here."

Before turning in for my last night on his couch, I asked Wei my questions.

"What do we all share? Soil," he said, looking at his garden. "We all come from it, return to it, depend on it. Everything else is just details."

"And who taught you kindness?"

"My father," he said quietly. "He was undocumented for years, working construction jobs for whatever they'd pay him. But every Sunday, he'd cook huge meals for other men in the same situation. He'd say, 'Today, we eat like kings.' He had nothing to spare, but he shared anyway."

## Late Night Reflections

It's past midnight now as I write this, my second and final night in Philadelphia drawing to a close. Tomorrow I'll board a train to Baltimore, carrying these stories with me.

What strikes me most about Philadelphia isn't the history—though it's everywhere—but how that history lives in the present. The Revolutionary ideals of liberty alongside the brutal reality of enslavement. The promise of brotherhood with the persistent reality of division. The Italian Market transforming while preserving its essence.

Perhaps what we share isn't agreement but the struggle itself—the ongoing, imperfect effort to live up to our highest ideals while acknowledging our deepest failures. We share the contradiction of being human: capable of both tremendous kindness and terrible cruelty, often in the same day.

As Wei said this morning: "Making space for each other." Not because we agree, not because we're the same, but because we recognize our shared humanity in all its messy, beautiful complexity.

Tomorrow, Baltimore. New voices, new stories, new contradictions to explore. But tonight, I'm grateful for Philadelphia—the city of brotherly love that doesn't shy away from family disagreements.

Until tomorrow,
Robert

P.S. I've been thinking about what Darnell said about art witnessing rather than arguing. Perhaps that's what I'm trying to do with this journey—not to persuade anyone of anything, but simply to witness America in all its complexity, to create space for voices that might otherwise never be heard in the same conversation.

# Day Two: Brotherly Love and Hard Questions in Philadelphia

The Amtrak Northeast Regional pulled into Philadelphia's 30th Street Station at 10:15 this morning, right on schedule. There's something deeply satisfying about train travel—the gentle rocking, the passing landscapes, and most importantly, the conversations that seem to flow more easily than on any other form of transportation.

I spent the two-hour journey from New York chatting with Elaine, a retired school administrator heading to visit her grandchildren. When I explained my project, she leaned in close.

"You know what we all share?" she said without my having to ask. "We all want our children to have it better than we did. Everything else is just details."

I couldn't have asked for a better welcome to this journey.

## First Impressions

30th Street Station is a temple to travel—soaring ceilings, art deco chandeliers, and the clickety-clack of the split-flap departure board that somehow survived the digital revolution. I stood in the main hall for a moment, watching the ballet of arrivals and departures, before shouldering my backpack and stepping out into the Philadelphia sunshine.

My host Wei wouldn't be available until evening, so I stored my backpack in a station locker ($6 for the day—a worthwhile expense) and set out with just my notebook and camera.

## Independence Hall: Where It All Started

I decided to begin where America, in many ways, began. Independence Hall stands dignified among the modern buildings of downtown Philadelphia, its red brick and white trim a reminder of an earlier era. The tour was free (budget win!), and our guide, a National Park Service ranger named Marcus, brought the Constitutional Convention to life with both reverence and honesty.

"They argued right here in this room," he said, gesturing to the simple chamber with its wooden tables and Windsor chairs. "They disagreed fundamentally about what America should be. And yet, they found enough common ground to create a framework that, however imperfect, we're still using nearly 250 years later."

Standing in that room, I couldn't help but think about my project. If those men—privileged, flawed, and divided as they were—could find enough common ground to forge a nation, surely we can find threads that still connect us today.

After the tour, I approached Marcus with my two questions.

"What do we all share as humans? Vulnerability," he said without hesitation. "We all know what it's like to be afraid, to be uncertain, to need help."

"And who taught you kindness?"

He smiled. "My mother. She cleaned houses for wealthy families in Chestnut Hill. She taught me that true dignity isn't about what you have but how you treat people who can do nothing for you."

## Lunch at Reading Terminal Market

By noon, my stomach was growling, so I followed the crowds to Reading Terminal Market—a cacophony of food stalls, produce vendors, and Amish craftspeople under one historic roof. I settled on a classic Philly cheesesteak from Carmen's ($12 with a bottle of water), finding a seat at a communal table near the center of the market.

To my left sat a woman in scrubs eating a quick lunch. To my right, a man in a business suit. Perfect subjects for my questions.

The nurse, Keisha, told me she was on break from her shift at Jefferson Hospital.

"What do we all share? The need for care," she said. "I've held the hands of CEOs and homeless people. In those moments of need, they're exactly the same."

The businessman, Richard, was more guarded at first but warmed up as we talked.

"We all want to be seen as good," he offered. "Even people doing terrible things tell themselves a story where they're the hero."

When I asked who taught him kindness, he grew quiet.

"My daughter," he finally said. "She has Down syndrome. She loves without condition, without judgment. I'm still learning from her every day."

## The Divided Bell

After lunch, I visited the Liberty Bell, waiting in line with tourists from across America and around the world. A family from Texas stood behind me, their teenage son clearly bored. I struck up a conversation, asking what brought them to Philadelphia.

"American history," the father said proudly. "Our roots."

I nodded to the Bell as we approached it. "What do you think about when you see it?"

"Freedom," he said immediately. "American exceptionalism."

His wife touched his arm. "I think about the crack," she said softly. "How even our most precious symbols are imperfect."

They weren't arguing, just seeing the same object through different lenses. It struck me as a perfect metaphor for my journey—we can look at America and see both its aspirations and its flaws, its wholeness and its cracks.

## Eastern State Penitentiary

In the afternoon, I took a bus to Eastern State Penitentiary, the revolutionary (and often cruel) 19th-century prison that now stands as a haunting museum. The audio tour narrated by Steve Buscemi guided me through crumbling cellblocks where thousands of men and women were held in solitary confinement, supposedly for their own reformation.

What struck me most was a contemporary art installation comparing incarceration rates across countries and time periods. The United States imprisons more people per capita than any other nation—a sobering counterpoint to our liberty rhetoric.

A volunteer guide named Jerome, a formerly incarcerated man who now works with reentry programs, agreed to answer my questions.

"What do we all share? The capacity to change," he said. "I've seen the worst men become mentors, and I've seen good men break. None of us is static."

"Who taught you kindness?"

"A corrections officer," he said, surprising me. "Officer Mendez. He treated me like a man when the system treated me like an animal. He slipped me books that weren't on the approved list. *The Fire Next Time*. *Native Son*. He risked his job to feed my mind."

## Evening in West Philadelphia

As the day cooled into evening, I made my way to West Philadelphia, where my host Wei lives in a narrow row house with a flourishing community garden next door. Wei greeted me with a handshake that turned into a hug and showed me to his couch, which would be my home for the next two nights.

"Hope you don't mind, but I invited some neighbors for dinner," he said, stirring something fragrant on the stove. "Nothing fancy, just people sharing food."

By seven o'clock, Wei's small living room was filled with an eclectic mix of neighbors—a retired teacher, a young couple who run a bakery, a community organizer, and a teenager who helps with the garden. We ate Wei's homemade dumplings and a salad harvested entirely from the garden next door.

As we ate, I explained my project and asked my questions. The conversation flowed for hours, touching on gentrification, community resilience, political divisions, and family stories. What struck me was how these neighbors disagreed on many things—from local politics to religion—yet still showed up at each other's tables.

"We all share this block," the community organizer, Shanice, said simply. "When the pipes burst last winter, it didn't matter who voted for who. We all needed water."

## Late Night Reflections

It's now past midnight, and I'm writing this by the dim light of my phone to avoid disturbing Wei. My first day on the road has left me with more questions than answers, but perhaps that's as it should be.

What I'm beginning to see is that unity doesn't require uniformity. The family at the Liberty Bell could see the same symbol differently without diminishing their connection to each other. The neighbors in Wei's living room could disagree on policy while passing plates of food. Maybe our shared humanity isn't found in agreement but in how we navigate our disagreements.

Tomorrow, I'll visit more of Philadelphia—the murals of North Philly, the Italian Market, perhaps a community center Wei recommended. I'm particularly interested in visiting Germantown, where he tells me there's a historic site that hosted both Revolutionary War battles and Underground Railroad stops—another place where America's aspirations and contradictions converge.

For now, though, I'll sleep on this borrowed couch in this city of brotherly love, grateful for the conversations that filled my first day on the road.

Until tomorrow,
Robert

P.S. I've been thinking about Elaine from the train this morning. "We all want our children to have it better than we did." Maybe that shared hope—for a future better than our present—is the common ground I'm looking for.

# Day One: The Journey Begins Where I've Always Been

It's a peculiar feeling to begin a journey in the place you've called home for years. This morning, I woke up in my apartment in Queens for the last time in months, watching dawn break over the city through my kitchen window. The same view I've had for eight years suddenly felt different—like I was seeing it as both a local and a visitor.

I've spent the past three weeks gradually emptying my apartment, donating what I don't need and storing the rest with my sister in Jersey. All that remains is my backpack: two pairs of jeans, four shirts, a sweater, rain jacket, toiletries, notebook, harmonica, and a well-worn copy of Steinbeck's *Travels with Charley*. Plus my camera and this laptop I'm typing on. It's surprising how little you need when you really think about it.

## The Last New York Morning

I started today with a ritual—coffee at Manny's, the corner bodega where I've been getting my morning fix for years. Manny himself was behind the counter, as he has been every weekday since I moved here.

"So today's the day, professor?" he asked, already pouring my usual.

I nodded, feeling both the excitement and weight of what I was about to do. "Today's the day."

"America needs more listeners," he said, sliding my coffee across the counter. "But come back in one piece, you hear? Who else appreciates my coffee the right way?"

When I tried to pay, he waved me off. "On the house. Consider it fuel for the road."

That's $2.50 saved already—at this rate, my budget might last an extra day or two.

## The Questions Begin at Home

I decided to practice my approach right here in New York before heading out. After all, if I can't have these conversations in my own city, how can I expect to have them across America?

I spent the morning at Washington Square Park, notebook in hand, approaching strangers with my two questions: *What do we all share as humans? Who taught you kindness?*

Maria, a nursing student rushing to class, paused long enough to tell me: "We all share the need to be seen. Really seen. My abuela taught me kindness by making food for everyone in our building during blackouts—even the super who always complained about our music."

James, a construction worker on lunch break: "Pain. We all know pain. And my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Wilson. I was the troublemaker, but she never gave up on me. Never."

A teenager who called himself Dex: "We all want to belong somewhere. And kindness? I'm still learning that. Maybe from my little sister. She forgives like it costs her nothing."

What struck me wasn't just their answers but how readily people shared them. Most of us are carrying these thoughts around, waiting for someone to simply ask.

## Lunch with Purpose

I met my old colleague Diane for lunch at a diner in Midtown—the kind with spinning stools at the counter and waitresses who call you "hon." Diane runs a community mediation program where I volunteered for years. When I told her about my journey, she offered connections in several cities on my route.

"Just promise me something," she said, pointing her fork at me. "Don't just look for what you want to find. Be open to what's actually there."

It was a good reminder. I'm embarking on this journey with hope, yes, but I need to remain clear-eyed. America contains multitudes—beauty and ugliness, kindness and cruelty, agreement and division. My job isn't to ignore the contradictions but to sit with them, to understand them.

The check came to $18.50 with tip. Worth every penny for both the conversation and the cherry pie.

## Final Preparations

This afternoon, I visited the main branch of the New York Public Library to return some books and to sit in the Rose Reading Room one last time before departure. There's something about that space—the hushed reverence, the painted ceiling, the collective pursuit of knowledge—that centers me.

I finalized my Amtrak ticket to Philadelphia for tomorrow morning. I've decided to start my journey with a short leg, giving myself time to adjust to life on the move. Philadelphia feels right—a city built on ideals of freedom and unity, however imperfectly realized. What better place to begin asking what still binds us together?

I've arranged to stay with Wei, a friend of a friend who runs a community garden in West Philly. He's offered his couch for two nights and promised to introduce me to some locals with deep roots in the city.

## Evening Reflections

As the sun sets on my first official day of this journey, I'm sitting in Riverside Park watching the Hudson River flow past. It strikes me that rivers are perfect metaphors for what I'm seeking—they connect disparate places, they nourish communities along their banks, they carry stories from one place to another.

A man walking his dog stopped to ask what I was writing. When I explained my project, he nodded thoughtfully.

"I was in the Army for twenty years," he said. "Served with people from every state, every background. We didn't always agree on politics, but we agreed on the mission. Maybe that's what's missing now—a shared mission."

Maybe he's right. Maybe that's what I'm looking for—not just what we agree on, but what mission we might still share.

As night falls on New York, I'm filled with a strange mixture of anticipation and nostalgia. Tomorrow, I'll board a train and officially begin this journey. But in many ways, it started today, with these conversations, these questions, this city that has shaped me.

I've lived in New York long enough to know its contradictions—its warmth and its indifference, its community and its isolation. Perhaps America is just New York writ large, full of the same contradictions but also the same possibility.

Tomorrow, Philadelphia. Tonight, one last sleep in my own bed.

Until then,
Robert