by Seneca Fox
Chapter XXIII
May 27th
Sometime before four o’clock in the morning I awoke to the sound of something stirring just outside my tent. I looked out. It was still dark; there was no sign of a sunrise along the eastern skyline and the moon was low in the west. The leaves and needles on the trees were fixed in the damp, night air. Nothing was moving.
I do not like waking so early. When lying alone in my tent before sunrise, I sometimes succumb to negative thinking. I have never been the kind of hiker who worries about being attacked by a wild animal or having a snake crawl into the tent – that’s not the kind of negative thinking I’m talking about. When I wake in the predawn hours of the morning I feel empty and tired, the way one feels when abruptly awakened only minutes after going to sleep following an exhausting day. It’s hard to think positive when you’re that tired. Instead, it’s easy to obsess about events or people that you cannot control. I sometimes fixate on overly generalized assumptions about the crassness of business executives and lobbyist and their insensitivity toward our air and rivers and bays. Or, I become angry thinking about how others continue to “grow” the bottom-line at the expense of the wellbeing of children by allowing the proliferation of violence in the media. I obsess about the materialism and the “fix it with a pill” expectations of our society. Most of all, I worry about what’s to become of the mountains and valleys.
This morning was no different. I started out thinking about the events of the previous day. I had witnessed far more than I had expected. I knew that a few days from now, when Max and I were once again hiking the crest of the Blue Ridge, the harder edges of the experience would be replaced by the dull images of fading memories. Nonetheless, I was troubled by some of what I had learned. I was uneasy with what appeared to be a deliberate effort to recruit members into a neo-Confederate world that sometimes crossed-over into the darker world of white supremacy. I became tense when I thought about the systematic and seemingly one-sided way children were being taught to think about the South, the Civil War and the Confederacy. I tried to convince myself that it was just an alternative view of history that may be as valid as any other. I was no historian; and, even Anna agreed that it was impossible for historians to be unbiased. For some reason, however, I was not satisfied with that explanation.
Restless with uncertainty, I tried to distract myself by thinking about Anna. But when the first vision of her sharing an intimate moment with her therapist friend popped into my head I decided to think about something else. I recalled some of the brighter moments Max and I experienced on the trail – beautiful sunrises and sunsets; the spontaneous laughter that overcame us as water ran down our faces the first time we hiked in a downpour; how, sometimes late in the afternoon the deer comfortably gather nearby our campsite to graze; and the conversations we often share with other hikers while sheltered inside a trail hut. Despite these efforts, I kept reliving the encounters of the day before. It was clear that I would not get back to sleep, so I unzipped my sleeping bag, crawled out, reached down and slipped on my shoes. I climbed out of the tent, walked to the edge of the spectators’ camp and looked out over the battlefield. The Confederate battle flag was hanging limp, lifeless against the pole.
Grudgingly, I confronted the vivid images that dominated my thinking and began sorting through the details of the past evening. I rationalized that the South had changed in many ways, perhaps most notably in some of its attitudes toward racism. I reflected that the notion of white supremacy had become diluted, and was confident that the intensity of the anger between black and white Americans had diminished. I was also confident that the number, or at least proportion, of white Southerners who believed that they were somehow superior to people of color was only a small, small fraction of what it once had been. The man I talked to inside the circle of tents expressed that his motivation for participating in reenactments was to promote an alternative view of the causes and outcomes of the Civil War. Although the accuracy of his perspective was debatable and despite my lingering doubts, I wanted to trust his intentions. Most others, it seemed, were like Ben, celebrating their heritage, or like the men of the Virginia 1202nd, simply enjoying each other’s company while passing time on a crisp Spring evening. When I thought about Junior and Leland, I told myself that they represented an obscure minority that was clinging to a fading mentality. In America the tolerance for racism was low – the press, educators, politicians and the masses understood that the idea of white supremacy was simply wrong and were quick to ridicule racist behaviors. Surely, that was the way it was now.
I tried to convince myself that most people involved in Civil War reenactments understood that racism persisted among some participants. But I did wonder if they seriously considered the implication; that is, as Anna said, that participation is a “tacit approval of the hatred that motivates white supremacists”. Obviously, some participants recognized this problem and had taken measures to rid Civil War reenactments of racist influence. The headline: “Mississippi Reenactors Turn Their Backs on the Klan,” seemed to provide some evidence. I really didn’t know the details of this story, but I hoped that it represented progress.
Despite what I wanted to believe, I remained uneasy. It seemed obvious that both racism and the various means by which it was perpetuated were thriving inside the large tent that stood out among the circle of tents in the Confederate camp. For a moment I thought I understood the intensity of the anger Anna showed when she had said, “I have to do something”.
As I paced back and forth among the campers and RVs, the sound of my steps was muffled in the decaying matter beneath my feet. I kept walking, retracing the steps that Anna and I had taken only hours earlier – beyond the spectators’ camp, onto the hard-surfaced road and through the trees toward the Foxhartes’ home.
On that dark morning I was trying to make myself tired, hoping that as I walked my feelings about the events of the day before would wane. Eventually, I became weary and willing to forgive myself for not wanting to speak out. I returned to my tent, finally ready to fall asleep.
I sat down and felt thankful that in a few hours Max and I would return to hiking. “Anna’s right, if there’s a problem here,” I whispered, “it is not mine.” And so, I concluded that I was just a bystander who had, partly by chance and partly by curiosity, discovered a scheme that was intended to spread the alternative viewpoint that some call a neo-Confederate movement and others call white supremacy – it was not for me to decide. Nor was it up to me to speak out against Leland or Junior. Even if Leland’s plans bothered me, it was not my place to interfere. Besides, I reminded myself once again, “I’ve seen evidence in the stack of newspaper articles in Owen’s RV that others are trying to expose and otherwise keep the white supremacist movement under control.” I lay down, satisfied that I had given due consideration to all that I had witnessed on the reenactment battlefield.