Kanye West Likened Slavery to a Choice. History Says Otherwise.

By AINARA TIEFENTHÄLER | May. 5, 2018 | 2:43

In perhaps his most shocking statement to date, the rap superstar Kanye West said 400 years of slavery sounded “like a choice.” But history tells a different story.

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Camille Cosby Compares Husband’s Conviction to Lynching

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Bill and Camille Cosby during the trial in April. She blamed the media for his guilty verdict and called for an investigation of prosecutors. Credit Tracie Van Auken/EPA, via Shutterstock

Camille Cosby, the wife of the disgraced comedian Bill Cosby, disparaged the media, Mr. Cosby’s accusers and his prosecutors in a caustic statement released Thursday, her first public comments since Mr. Cosby was convicted of sexual assault last week. She called for a criminal investigation of the Montgomery County district attorney and repeatedly suggested that Mr. Cosby was targeted because of his race.

In a three-page release, Mrs. Cosby explicitly blamed the media for Mr. Cosby’s fate in court, citing what she called a “frenzied, relentless demonization of him and unquestioning acceptance of accusers’ allegations without any attendant proof.” She went on to say, “Bill Cosby was labeled as guilty because the media and accusers said so.”

Once again, Mr. Cosby was compared to Emmett Till, a black 14-year-old who was lynched in 1955 after being falsely accused of leering at a white woman. Last week, Mr. Cosby’s publicist, Ebonee Benson, went on ABC’s “Good Morning America” and likened Mr. Cosby to Till.

This time, it was Mrs. Cosby.

“Since when are all accusers truthful? History disproves that,” she said in her statement, adding, “Emmett Till’s accuser immediately comes to mind.” Mrs. Cosby also cited Darryl Hunt, an African-American who wrongfully served 19 years in prison after being convicted of a 1984 murder. He was released in 2004, years after DNA evidence cleared him of the crime.

She also accused Andrea Constand, whose sexual assault complaint led to the conviction, of perjury, saying that her testimony was filled with “innumerable, dishonest contradictions.”

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Books of The Times: ‘Barracoon’ and ‘Slave Old Man’ Approach the Trauma of Slavery With Care and Kinship

Two new books fit beautifully into this tradition. Written almost 70 years apart, and in very different genres, both tell the stories of Africans captured and sold into slavery in the New World: “Slave Old Man,” a novel first published in France in 1997, by the Martiniquais writer Patrick Chamoiseau, and “Barracoon,” the true story of a survivor of the trans-Atlantic slave trade, by Zora Neale Hurston.

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Patrick Chamoiseau Credit Jacques Sassier

“Slave Old Man” is Chamoiseau’s strongest work since his masterpiece, “Texaco,” awarded the 1992 Prix Goncourt. It’s the story of an unnamed old man, his master and a monster — the plantation mastiff trained to hunt down runaways. Children and adults tried their best to keep the animal from catching their scent — “with that in its nostrils, it could sculpt you in its dreams, taste in anticipation the splendors of your blood.”

The book unfurls as an extended chase sequence. One day, the old man flees for the forest, the mastiff in pursuit. As he goes further into the woods, he moves deeper into his own past. He encounters “once again the nightmares of the slave-ship holds” and hallucinates “blocks of blood that scatter into shrieks.” He channels the history of the island and of the slave trade. In his mind he plunges into the watery graveyard of the Atlantic: “He sees himself as bone powder transforming into seaweed and rusty chain links. He sees skulls sheltering translucid fish.”

“Slave Old Man” is a cloudburst of a novel, swift and compressed — but every page pulses, blood-warm. “Literature in a living place must be taken alive,” Chamoiseau once wrote.

The prose is so electrifyingly synesthetic that, on more than one occasion, I found myself stopping to rub my eyes in disbelief. Chamoiseau writes “with both studied care and fond disrespect for words,” according to the book’s translator, Linda Coverdale. He jumbles together Creole and French — bricolage is his ethic and his aesthetic. “You can’t go to a library and find out what really happened in Martinique,” he once said. “You have to go to the oral tradition. For the people who were dominated, there is no history, no past. These people don’t have a voice. The Europeans tell our story. So you have to go to the storyteller.”

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Zora Neale Hurston Credit Library of Congress

This is the technique of “Barracoon” — and was, for a long time, its major liability in finding a publisher. In 1927, Hurston, at the behest of a mentor, the anthropologist Franz Boas, went straight to the storyteller, traveling to Alabama to interview the 86-year-old Cudjo Lewis, the last living African brought to America aboard a slave ship. (“Barracoon” is a word for the barracks built near the coast, where the enslaved were kept until they boarded the ships.)

The book was completed almost a century ago. Publishers considered her use of dialect too alienating, and there was a worry that the blunt description of Africans selling their own into slavery was too incendiary.

Hurston herself is present only at the edges of the narrative, but she is unmistakable. She is most beloved for her novels, particularly “Their Eyes Were Watching God,” but she was also a gifted folklorist, and the qualities that distinguished her are on display in this early work: her patience, persistence and charisma; her ability to read her subjects; her tact. She has an unerring instinct of when to push Lewis — and when to slip away and leave him to his memories. She brings him gifts and company. They talk over “a marvelous mess of blue crabs,” “excellent late melons” and huge quantities of clingstone peaches.

Lewis was a widower when Hurston found him. Many of his children had died, and he was desperately lonely. He asked for his portrait to be taken in his family graveyard, where everyone had vanished to — “dey lonesome for one ’nother.”

The details he shared with Hurston are indelible. He was captured as a teenager and marched into the ocean toward a slave ship, the water reaching his neck. He told of days in darkness in the hold of the ship, and the sour water given to drink twice a day, acrid with vinegar to prevent scurvy.

This term — “the hold” — is emblematic in Sharpe’s concept of “wake work,” referring to the psychic persistence of this space in black life. Chamoiseau returns to it often — “the holds-wombs of slave ships.” But this literature meets the horror of “the hold” with the injunction “to hold.” There is, in Chamoiseau’s conjuring and Hurston’s attentive gaze, not restitution but the consolations of kinship and witness, the sweetness of clingstone peaches, of the life built within the constraints.

Hurston once arrived at Lewis’s home and was sent away. He had no time for the past that day. He wanted to work in his garden.

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Books News: A Work by Zora Neale Hurston, Overlooked for Nearly a Century, Will Finally Be Published

“This is going to make us look at her again as a social scientist,” said the scholar Deborah G. Plant, who wrote an introduction to “Barracoon.” “There’s still a lingering notion of Hurston as not quite serious, maybe gifted and intuitive, but not a sound scholar, not a respectable social scientist. But she really was ahead of her time.”

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Zora Neale Hurston’s handwritten preface to “Barracoon.” Credit Copyright © 2018 by The Zora Neale Hurston Trust.

Hurston was first dispatched to Plateau, Ala., in 1927, at the behest of Franz Boas, her mentor and professor at Barnard. Boas, an influential anthropologist, urged her to interview Lewis for the Journal of Negro History. Doing field research in the segregated south was challenging for a single African-American woman, and Hurston, who was then in her mid-30s, occasionally slept in her car when she couldn’t find a hotel that would rent her a room, and traveled with a pistol for protection.

It was a momentous assignment: “Of all the millions transported from Africa to the Americas, only one man is left,” she wrote in “Barracoon.” “The only man on earth who has in his heart the memory of his African home; the horrors of a slave raid; the barracoon; the Lenten tones of slavery; and who has 67 years of freedom in a foreign land behind him.”

Hurston returned to Alabama to speak to Lewis again in 1931, and spent several months visiting him, gradually coaxing out his story.

“Barracoon,” which comes out May 8, takes its title from the barracks that enslaved Africans were kept in before they were forced onto slave ships. It tells the story of Lewis’s capture by Dahomey warriors in West Africa, and how he was sold to slavers and taken to Mobile, Ala., in 1859, more than 50 years after the United States Congress had outlawed the slave trade, in what Hurston describes as the “last deal in human flesh.”

He told Hurston about the roughly five years he spent enslaved, how he gained his freedom when Union soldiers appeared one day and told him he didn’t belong to anyone anymore, and how he joined together with a group of other former slaves and helped to establish Africatown, a community founded and run by Africans.

“Barracoon” unfolds largely as a monologue from Lewis, with an introduction and occasional interjections from Hurston. Some days, he didn’t feel like talking, so she helped him with chores. Other days, he grew exhausted by her questions and told her she wanted to know too much. At times, he was so overcome by painful memories that he couldn’t speak, like when he recalled the day his village was attacked by Dahomey warriors, who beheaded victims they deemed too weak to be sold, and smoked their victims heads to preserve them.

“His agony was so acute that he became inarticulate,” Hurston wrote.

She would bring him food, a basket of peaches or a Virginia ham, and tell him stories to break the ice. When Lewis was feeling chatty, he could go on for hours, and Hurston cedes the narrative to him for long, meandering stretches.

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Cudjo Lewis — who was believed to be the last living person captured in Africa and brought to America on a slave ship — with his great-granddaughters, circa 1927. Credit The McCall Library, University of South Alabama

“She wanted us to hear his voice and she kept herself out of it as much as possible,” said Alice Walker, who wrote aforeword to “Barracoon.” “She knew it was important for us to hear from him.”

Scholars of Hurston’s work have long known of the manuscript’s existence, but few recognized its significance. Some thought Hurston’s historical research was sloppy, even unethical. Before she wrote “Barracoon,” Hurston detailed her conversations with Lewis in an article published in the Journal of Negro History, titled “Cudjo’s Own Story of the Last African Slaver.” Parts of the article borrowed from another scholarly work, Emma Langdon Roche’s “Historic Sketches of the South,” without proper attribution, and the appearance of plagiarism cast a shadow over “Barracoon.” Robert E. Hemenway, who published a biography of Hurston in 1977, treated “Barracoon” as an extension of the article, and argued that Hurston had taken creative liberties, recreating Lewis’s story “as an artist rather than as a folklorist or historian.”

After she failed to publish “Barracoon,” Hurston threw herself into other projects. She wrote “Mules and Men,” a collection of African-American folklore. She traveled to Jamaica and Haiti to research voodoo, and wrote about the experience in “Tell My Horse.” In Haiti, she wrote her novel “Their Eyes Were Watching God” in a feverish seven weeks.

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Credit Sonny Figueroa/The New York Times

In her final decades, she slipped into obscurity. She worked as a substitute teacher and house cleaner in Florida to pay the bills. When she died at 69, she was buried in an unmarked grave.

“Barracoon” was never really lost. It was preserved in the archives at Howard University, in a collection of papers from one of Hurston’s professors and mentors, Alain Locke.

But it wasn’t until recently that the executors of Hurston’s trust began considering the commercial potential for “Barracoon,” and the cultural impact it could have. Lois Hurston Gaston, a grand niece of Hurston’s and one of the trustees, said that in August 2016, they began re-evaluating Hurston’s archives and looking for previously unpublished works, and Cudjo Lewis’s story jumped out.

“Racial issues have not gone away in our country, and we felt that this was an opportune time to publish ‘Barracoon’,” Ms. Gaston said. “It’s an important time in our cultural history, and here we have the story of Cudjo Lewis to remind us of what happens when we lose sight of our humanity.”

Hurston referred to Lewis by his African name, Kossola. Once, when she addressed him that way, tears welled up in his eyes, and he told her, “Nobody don’t callee me my name from cross de water but you.”

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Books News: A Work by Zora Neale Hurston Will Finally Be Published

In the spring of 1931, Zora Neale Hurston finished her first book, a 117-page manuscript titled “Barracoon.” It told the true story of Cudjo Lewis, an Alabama man who was believed to be the last living person captured in Africa and brought to America on a slave ship.

Publishers were unimpressed. One offered to buy it if she rewrote it “in language rather than dialect,” Hurston wrote in a letter to one of her benefactors. She refused, and “Barracoon” was never published.

But Hurston kept thinking about Lewis, whose story felt deeply personal to her. About a decade later, she wrote about him in “Dust Tracks on a Road,” her autobiography: “After 75 years, he still had that tragic sense of loss. That yearning for blood and cultural ties. That sense of mutilation. It gave me something to feel about.”

Now, nearly a century after she wrote it, “Barracoon” will be made widely available to the public for the first time, in a new edition published by Amistad, a HarperCollins’s imprint. The book’s release could have a profound impact on Hurston’s literary legacy. Hurston, who died in 1960, is best known for her works of fiction, including “Their Eyes Were Watching God” and “Moses, Man of the Mountain.” But she was also a groundbreaking anthropologist and ethnographer, one of the first in her field to record and study African-American folklore, at a time when most scholars ignored black culture, or dismissed it as primitive.

“This is going to make us look at her again as a social scientist,” said the scholar Deborah G. Plant, who wrote an introduction to “Barracoon.” “There’s still a lingering notion of Hurston as not quite serious, maybe gifted and intuitive, but not a sound scholar, not a respectable social scientist. But she really was ahead of her time.”

Hurston was first dispatched to Plateau, Ala., in 1927, at the behest of Franz Boas, her mentor and professor at Barnard. Boas, an influential anthropologist, urged her to interview Lewis for the Journal of Negro History. Doing field research in the segregated south was challenging for a single African-American woman, and Hurston, who was then in her mid-30s, occasionally slept in her car when she couldn’t find a hotel that would rent her a room, and traveled with a pistol for protection.

It was a momentous assignment: “Of all the millions transported from Africa to the Americas, only one man is left,” she wrote in “Barracoon.” “The only man on earth who has in his heart the memory of his African home; the horrors of a slave raid; the barracoon; the Lenten tones of slavery; and who has 67 years of freedom in a foreign land behind him.”

Hurston returned to Alabama to speak to Lewis again in 1931, and spent several months visiting him, gradually coaxing out his story.

“Barracoon,” which comes out May 8, takes its title from the barracks that enslaved Africans were kept in before they were forced onto slave ships. It tells the story of Lewis’s capture by Dahomey warriors in West Africa, and how he was sold to slavers and taken to Mobile, Ala., in 1859, more than 50 years after the United States Congress had outlawed the slave trade, in what Hurston describes as the “last deal in human flesh.”

He told Hurston about the roughly five years he spent enslaved, how he gained his freedom when Union soldiers appeared one day and told him he didn’t belong to anyone anymore, and how he joined together with a group of other former slaves and helped to establish Africatown, a community founded and run by Africans.

“Barracoon” unfolds largely as a monologue from Lewis, with an introduction and occasional interjections from Hurston. Some days, he didn’t feel like talking, so she helped him with chores. Other days, he grew exhausted by her questions and told her she wanted to know too much. At times, he was so overcome by painful memories that he couldn’t speak, like when he recalled the day his village was attacked by Dahomey warriors, who beheaded victims they deemed too weak to be sold, and smoked their victims heads to preserve them.

“His agony was so acute that he became inarticulate,” Hurston wrote.

She would bring him food, a basket of peaches or a Virginia ham, and tell him stories to break the ice. When Lewis was feeling chatty, he could go on for hours, and Hurston cedes the narrative to him for long, meandering stretches.

“She wanted us to hear his voice and she kept herself out of it as much as possible,” said Alice Walker, who wrote aforeword to “Barracoon.” “She knew it was important for us to hear from him.”

Scholars of Hurston’s work have long known of the manuscript’s existence, but few recognized its significance. Some thought Hurston’s historical research was sloppy, even unethical. Before she wrote “Barracoon,” Hurston detailed her conversations with Lewis in an article published in the Journal of Negro History, titled “Cudjo’s Own Story of the Last African Slaver.” Parts of the article borrowed from another scholarly work, Emma Langdon Roche’s “Historic Sketches of the South,” without proper attribution, and the appearance of plagiarism cast a shadow over “Barracoon.” Robert E. Hemenway, who published a biography of Hurston in 1977, treated “Barracoon” as an extension of the article, and argued that Hurston had taken creative liberties, recreating Lewis’s story “as an artist rather than as a folklorist or historian.”

After she failed to publish “Barracoon,” Hurston threw herself into other projects. She wrote “Mules and Men,” a collection of African-American folklore. She traveled to Jamaica and Haiti to research voodoo, and wrote about the experience in “Tell My Horse.” In Haiti, she wrote her novel “Their Eyes Were Watching God” in a feverish seven weeks.

In her final decades, she slipped into obscurity. She worked as a substitute teacher and house cleaner in Florida to pay the bills. When she died at 69, she was buried in an unmarked grave.

“Barracoon” was never really lost. It was preserved in the archives at Howard University, in a collection of papers from one of Hurston’s professors and mentors, Alain Locke.

But it wasn’t until recently that the executors of Hurston’s trust began considering the commercial potential for “Barracoon,” and the cultural impact it could have. Lois Hurston Gaston, a grand niece of Hurston’s and one of the trustees, said that in August 2016, they began re-evaluating Hurston’s archives and looking for previously unpublished works, and Cudjo Lewis’s story jumped out.

“Racial issues have not gone away in our country, and we felt that this was an opportune time to publish ‘Barracoon’,” Ms. Gaston said. “It’s an important time in our cultural history, and here we have the story of Cudjo Lewis to remind us of what happens when we lose sight of our humanity.”

Hurston referred to Lewis by his African name, Kossola. Once, when she addressed him that way, tears welled up in his eyes, and he told her, “Nobody don’t callee me my name from cross de water but you.”

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Black Harvard Student Is Punched by the Police During Arrest

An internal police investigation is underway after officers tackled and punched a black Harvard student they were trying to arrest. The police said he was on drugs and acting in an aggressive manner.

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Facebook Removes Popular Black Lives Matter Page for Being a Fake

The page, which had 700,000 followers, was run by a white man in Australia and raised at least $100,000, according to a CNN report.

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Kenya Barris, Creator of ‘Black-ish,’ Is Said to Seek an Exit From ABC

More than a month after the network pulled a charged episode of his show, the producer is looking to leave for Netflix, people familiar with negotiations said.

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Charleston Needs That African American Museum. And Now.

Right here. The spot used to be Gadsden’s Wharf. Historians estimate nearly half of all African slaves brought to America arrived in Charleston, most of them at Gadsden’s Wharf. At 840-feet-long, it was, two centuries ago, the largest wharf in America. Thousands of Africans waited in the wharf’s warehouses to be auctioned off.

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The city of Charleston, S.C., looking across Cooper’s River around 1838. Credit Chronicle

In what has become a parking lot, just inland, 700 of them froze to death.

For millions of African-Americans today, the site is “ground zero,” as the Harvard scholar Henry Louis Gates, Jr., has put it, for “blackness, black culture, the African experience, the African-American experience, slavery — however you want to slice it.”

Every era erects, removes, amends — or ignores — monuments. Monuments and historical museums are always mirrors, advertisements, time bombs. Hardly a street or building in Germany today lacks some sign or plaque, redressing the past. It was the removal of a Jim Crow-era statue of Robert E. Lee that became the excuse for the neo-Nazi rally in Charlottesville, Va., last year, where a white nationalist is to go on trial late this year in the murder of a protester at the event.

Unlike Virginia, South Carolina hasn’t taken down Confederate monuments. Much has changed here but much has not. The state’s most recent proposal for social studies standards in public schools doesn’t mention the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., or Rosa Parks.

The Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Charleston where a young white man massacred nine black congregants in 2015 is virtually in the shadow of what’s still the city’s tallest monument (another Jim Crow relic) of the antebellum vice president and proud white supremacist John C. Calhoun.

It has been nearly two decades since Joseph P. Riley Jr., Charleston’s mayor at the time, floated the idea of a museum of African-American culture and history, on a different site, nearby. A dozen years passed, then more.

Mr. Riley retired in 2016, after 40 years in office, having been elected during the 1970s as a racial bridge builder. White racists called him “L’il Black Joe” when he appointed a black police chief in 1975. Charleston prospered over the intervening decades.

But gentrification had its effects. Two-thirds black in the early 1980s, the population has become 70 percent white. I suggested to Mr. Riley the other day that Charleston can come across to a visitor as Disneyland for the Confederacy, still enthralled by its era of slavery, with a monument on seemingly every downtown corner commemorating some Confederate soldier, plantation aristocrat or antebellum judge who opposed Lincoln.

“It’s a process,” he replied. “We worked hard while I was mayor to avoid alienation, to make this a city where everyone feels welcome. When I was in school, they didn’t teach us about slavery. I really only learned the truth about how slaves were treated when I had already been in office for many years. That’s when I began to think seriously about the museum.”

But without enough money or much public enthusiasm, the plan sputtered. Then excavations turned up traces of Gadsden’s Wharf in the muck beneath the grassy lot. Through the exhibition designer Ralph Appelbaum, Mr. Riley reached out to Mr. Cobb.

Pretty much the architect’s first question: Why not build on the location of the wharf?

By that point, the city had sold the property to a local restaurateur, unaware of its history. Mr. Riley spent a tidy sum buying the land back.

“Sometimes you quick-cook something, it’s a mistake,” rationalized the former mayor, who has taken to calling the museum his “most important work,” especially after the church murders. “It turned out to be good that we had a lengthy germination period.”

Now 91, the soft-spoken Mr. Cobb is known for designing the John Hancock Tower in Boston, 7 Bryant Park in New York, and a variety of big, sleek buildings in between, the best of which are geometrically eloquent and deceptively simple. Working here with the structural engineer Guy Nordenson, he describes this project as an “unrhetorical work of architecture.”

But that’s not quite true. On the edge of the cobblestoned tourist area, with its ornate Gothic Revival-style churches and Queen Anne houses, the museum’s plain-spoken modernism comes across as almost whisperingly defiant, a turning of the page, promising a deliverance from history, modernism’s originating goal.

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A rendering showing the “I AM” hallway that will present audio prompted by touch with clips of oral history highlights. Credit Pei Cobb Freed

Moody Nolan are the architects of record. Slender brick cladding underscores the pavilion’s long horizontal spans and extended cantilevers on either end. Pointed columns are meant to make the structure’s mass appear to float. Perching the museum on piers will take account of rising waters. But it’s also hard not to see an allusion to a wharf.

Inside, galleries will document the many diverse cultures Africans brought to America, and a family center will let visitors trace their roots to Gadsden’s Wharf.

For his part, Mr. Hood has reimagined a constrained and narrow property, about a football-field long. The late, great Brazilian architect Oscar Niemeyer was an inspiration. Mr. Hood creates a shaded public plaza, in the breezy space underneath the raised structure, where people may congregate around the building’s double-sided staircase, so the museum can become a gathering spot, not just a pilgrimage site.

The memorial garden and tidal pool, at the same time, insure that it’s recognized as hallowed ground, a place for contemplation.

The budget for building the museum is $75 million. The goal is for bulldozers to start digging later this year and for construction to finish in 2020. But there’s a hitch. No shovel will be lifted until all the money is raised. Charleston has committed its $25 million share, along with the land, and private donations are approaching the $25 million goal.

But the South Carolina legislature, after an understanding that it would contribute $25 million over five years, allocated $14 million, and now won’t promise the remaining $11 million. The clock is ticking. The current legislature remains in session only until the end of May.

State Representative Brian White, a Republican who heads South Carolina’s House Ways and Means Committee, is one of those holding the money back. The museum “is not a state project and we have a lot of state needs right now that far outweigh a municipality’s request,” he recently told the Greenville News, citing competing priorities like education.

Bobby Hitt, South Carolina’s commerce secretary, by contrast, has pointed out that the museum will help attract businesses to the state. It adds a work of architectural dignity. And as for educational value, plainly it fills a gap.

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Robert Smalls, the great-great grandfather of Mr. Moore, in 1904. Smalls commandeered a Confederate ship, turning it over to Union forces and winning freedom for himself, his crew and his family. During Reconstruction, he became a state legislator and congressman. Credit

“This ain’t a black project,” as Bakari Sellers, a former Democrat in the state legislature, put it to the Greenville News. “This ain’t a Charleston project. This is an American project.”

Or as James Baldwin said, “If you know whence you came, there are absolutely no limitations to where you can go.”

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A rendering of the Tide Tribute, a pool whose stone floor is inscribed with the shapes of bodies crammed together, as slaves were, in the bowels of ships that landed here. Credit Pei Cobb Freed

One recent morning I toured the site with Mr. Hood and Michael Boulware Moore, the museum’s president, then we looked out over the harbor. Mr. Moore said his ancestors were among the slaves who arrived in shackles at Gadsden’s Wharf.

His great-great grandfather was Robert Smalls, who commandeered a Confederate ship, turning it over to Union forces and winning freedom for himself, his family and his crew. Smalls became a crusading state legislator and United States congressman during Reconstruction. He brought free public education to South Carolina.

A plaque honoring Smalls was installed on a squat little pillar downtown not long ago. Mr. Moore showed me a picture of it.

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A memorial to Robert Smalls in Waterfront Park in Charleston, S.C. Credit Kate Thornton for The New York Times

Think, the Stonehenge set from “Spinal Tap.” The memorial looks tiny, and is periodically obscured by bushes.

Not far away, a big statue on a huge round pedestal, at the tip of the battery facing Fort Sumter, honors the Confederate Defenders of Charleston.

Symbols matter. The past is present. The museum would clearly be good for more than just business.

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