In the Shadow of Statues

by Mitch Landrieu

  I now realize that in those lyrics I was hearing a counterstory to my own life, as I remembered parents who carefully taught us to embrace people whose skin was a different shade, not to hate or fear “the other.” The Jesuits stressed that we should be “men for others,” a message that has been central to my life in politics.

  During my work on this book, Will Landrieu, the youngest of our five, a basketball player at Jesuit, was filling out college applications, and showed me his entrance essay. With Will’s permission, I share part of it here.

  Growing up as the son of the mayor of New Orleans, I have seen the struggles of leadership. In response to years of discussion, my father decided to remove the Confederate monuments found across our city. He delivered a speech on the topic that though nationally applauded, was locally controversial. There was discord in the city leading to tense protests that bordered on violence. Despite thirty years of earning the public’s approval, the vitriol thrust through my father’s professional life directly to the daily lives of our family. We didn’t feel safe anywhere or with anyone.

  For the two days after the removal, I walked down the school hallway bracing myself as my classmates yelled out “nigger lover” and “your dad is ruining the city.” My closest friends even sent me articles with false rumors about my father. Until now, I have kept these words to myself.

  Standing up for others is excruciatingly lonely. I know my dad must be more hurt and lonely than I am. As my black friends explain, at least my family is lonely by choice. They were simply born just a little bit darker than I was. Until the monuments were removed, my friends never imagined they would live a day where they wouldn’t walk the hallways, or sit in history class, in fear of the next hateful comment.

  I know the decision is right because my friends would want someone to stand up for them. I have the ability to do that, so I intend to take full advantage of my privilege. I know that great decisions have great costs, but those costs are a fraction of what the people we are making them for have endured.

  I will let paternal pride fall away and admit when I read Will’s lines, I thought back to the woman berating me as an eighth grader outside the gym of that same school, and thought back to the phone calls on South Prieur Street when my dad was mayor and my mother took the calls, shielding us from the hostility of hateful anonymous voices. My son is correct in saying that there is a loneliness that comes with standing up for others; and yet I ultimately am proud of how far we have moved the conversation. If behavior is learned and passed on, that means we can continue to make progress, one person, one family at a time.

  Politics in the highest sense is grounded in hope. If we put our best instincts and willing minds to the common good, we can rebuild what has been destroyed by storms, derailed by hate, or eroded by neglect, and steer our society on a saner, safer course. We can pass on the promise of America to our young. We have made great strides in that direction in this city I have been privileged to govern.

  “I am sorry.” “I forgive you.” Perhaps the six most powerful words in the English language. Staying mad is no strategy for getting better or ahead or for feeding our families. We seem to spend a lot of time assigning blame to others. It’s a never-ending search. I can’t ever figure out whose fault anything is. But I am pretty clear that I have a responsibility to help fix whatever is broken. And so do you. As Father Tompson would say, go do the thing that will do the most good for the most people, in the shortest amount of time.

  * * *

  —

  One of my great thrills as mayor is to know that NASA has chosen the Michoud Assembly Facility in New Orleans East to build the rocket that will eventually take a human mission to Mars. It’s part of the Orion Mission. Those of us old enough to remember the excitement of watching Neil Armstrong set foot on the moon in 1969 know it was the culmination of our hopes for a soaring America, a show of our pioneering spirit, a determination to do really big things.

  Rather than a look backward, space exploration is America’s bold commitment to explore the world’s new frontier. As impossible and daunting as it seems, we invest time, technology, know-how, grit, determination, money, aspiration, and dreams. We suffer setbacks and defeats. And yet we keep trying, never doubting our ability to find the outer reaches of the universe in a quest for knowledge that could improve the quality of our lives on earth.

  When we testify in court, we swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. This is important because anything but the whole truth and nothing but the truth will lead us astray. Unfortunately, that is the story of the American history most of us know, particularly as it relates to race. To move forward, we must commit to tell the whole truth about our past. To move forward, we must find that new space on race here, a zone of belief that holds promise for a nation committed to justice for all of our people, making right what we have failed to do, and insisting that we will do what it takes to reach the next threshold for humankind. We find that new space, in politics and society, if we confirm our belief in democracy as a welcome table for people created equal under God, where the pursuit of equity is an open field for opportunity and responsibility. As the scientists continually course-correct a mission error in order to make the next flight safer, so we must learn to revise the mistakes in our perceptions of history, to acknowledge with honesty what went wrong so that we can learn how to make it right. We are all being called to a better day, a better South, a better America. I have great faith that we will respond well to that call. Now is the time to choose our path forward.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A few friends who have written books before cautioned me that the hardest part about writing a book is the acknowledgments, because someone indispensable will undoubtedly be left off. So let me start by thanking all of you for reading this book and giving me an opportunity to share my thoughts on history and this moment we find ourselves in today.

  This work is the culmination of nearly thirty years of public service to the people of Louisiana. Throughout it all, I have sought to fight for justice, and perhaps more relevant today, to fight for truth. It’s been both an honor and a burden. The honor comes from the incredible opportunity to be in the middle of this awesome thing we call democracy, in good times and in bad, which leads us—sometimes lurches us—forward, sometimes backward, and hopefully at last toward a better nation. The burden, honestly, comes from the intense isolation and loneliness one feels and the weight of being responsible for the safety, security, and well-being of the people you have been entrusted to serve. It is a burden that I chose to bear and one that I would gladly do again. But it is a burden nonetheless, and it has hurt pretty badly from time to time. At the end of the day, the joy outweighed the pain and the sacrifice was worth it. After thirty years of stellar service to the people of my state, most people will only ever remember that I took down some statues. If I had my wish, they would say that I helped rebuild a broken city and took a huge step forward towards healing a hurting nation. But most importantly, that I was honest and sought the truth.

  I’m not the only leader who has borne the honor and the burden of this work. I must also recognize the countless civil rights advocates, elected officials, and groups like Take ’Em Down NOLA in New Orleans and across the country that have also paved the way on issues of race and have done their part to bend the arc of the moral universe toward justice.

  I can’t remember doing or accomplishing anything by myself my entire life. Everything I have done well has been with the aid, assistance, and support of so many people. This book, of course, is no different.

  To the people of New Orleans, I am indebted for the opportunity to serve the city I love so dearly. I pray that one day you realize how very special you are, and that you don’t wait for the next catastrophe to begin to rise above small things, so you can get to the big stuff soon. You deserve it. To my fellow mayors across America, keep fighting the good fight. Thank you for insp
iring me daily with your bold leadership.

  I am grateful to the folks at Viking Penguin for guiding me through the process and for giving me the opportunity to share my thoughts with all of you. Thanks to the best editor you could ask for in Wendy Wolf, another New Orleans native, might I add. From the moment we first spoke, I knew she would ensure that this was a story grounded in speaking truth to power, but also truth in love—for as much as there is despair, from our hometown there is a message of hope, resurrection, and redemption. To my agents, Keith Urbahn, Matt Latimer, and the team at Javelin, your counsel and advice throughout has been invaluable.

  This process has been easy because of the great talents of New Orleans’s own Jason Berry. Jason, of course, achieved prominence for his investigative reporting on the Catholic Church abuse crisis in the 1990s. I first got to know him well while he was exposing David Duke in the 1980s and ’90s; he has been everything you could ask for in a collaborator. I know this was a heavy lift for him as he carved out time from work on his forthcoming history of New Orleans, City of a Million Dreams, to assist me, nights and weekends, given my daily schedule. I am eternally grateful for his time, talent, and friendship throughout this writing process.

  Those who have worked with me know that I go through dozens of versions of a speech before I give it. Sam Joel has been my scribe and speechwriter over the past eight years.

  This book and most speeches would not have been possible without the shepherding and writing of Ryan Berni from beginning to end.

  To my staff at City Hall, literally the best team in America: I can do what I do because you dedicate your life to a cause greater than one’s self. You are the team who helped rebuild a broken city, who reengineered an improbable comeback story. As if that weren’t enough, you endured the grueling work through trying times in the attempt to get the statues down. There were protests. There were threats. But through it all, you not only kept your eyes focused on the end, you also kept the city running well, laying a stronger foundation for the future. Thank you, thank you, thank you, Brooke Smith, Judy Reese Morse, Ryan Berni, Rebecca Dietz, Jeff Hebert, Cedric Grant, Scott Hutcheson, Sam Joel, Tyronne Walker, Sarah Robertson Miller, Zach Butterworth, Aaron Miller, Vincent Smith, Dani Galloway, Katie Dignan, Michael Harrison, Timmy McConnell, George Patterson, Eddie Sens, Andy Kopplin, Emily Arata, Sharonda Williams, Alex Lebow, Suzie Sepcich, April Davenport, Glenda Patterson, Mary Pettingill, Erin Burns, Bob, Gary, and many others. And to all of their families, who sacrificed so much of their time during our service together.

  Thanks to Flozell Daniels and the Foundation for Louisiana for stepping up to serve as a fiscal partner in the monument removal effort. And to all the philanthropic donors who assisted.

  To Ruth and Larry Kullman and Norma Jane Sabiston, whose friendship and guidance I rely upon daily. Thanks also to Scott Shalett.

  I will always be indebted to the spiritual guidance and moral clarity of two Jesuit priests, Father Harry Tompson and Father Paul Schott, and finally to the Men of Manresa for keeping me in your prayers. AMDG.

  To my eight brothers and sisters, thank you for your friendship, love, and support.

  A special thanks and note of gratitude to my father and mother, Moon and Verna Landrieu. As a young boy, I watched my father help integrate our great American city. His strength, his resolve, his clarity of vision, and his relentless focus on the people he served inspires me every day. My mother, keeping all nine of us kids in check while also serving as my dad’s most important adviser, is the closest living person to a saint. They taught all nine of us to love one another. To be fair, honest, and just. They taught us to work hard and play hard. To be thankful and to help others. You are my heroes and role models.

  As it should be, my unconditional love and thanks to my wife, Cheryl, and our five kids, Grace, Emily, Matt, Ben, and Will. Thank you for your sacrifices. I love you.

  And finally, to one of my heroes, John Lewis, who gives me the courage to keep going and to stand in the face of danger even when you know you are going to get hit.

  FURTHER READING

  Among the many books on New Orleans and Louisiana that I have read over the years, these were particularly helpful in the work on In the Shadow of Statues.

  Tyler Bridges, The Rise of David Duke (Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 1994)

  Freddi Williams Evans, Congo Square: African Roots in New Orleans (Lafayette, LA: ULL Press, 2011)

  Jed Horne, Breach of Faith: Hurricane Katrina and the Near Death of a Great American City (New York: Random House, 2006)

  Sybil Kein, ed., Creole: The History and Legacy of Louisiana’s Free People of Color (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 2000)

  James W. Loewen, Lies Across America: What Our Historic Sites Get Wrong (New York: Touchstone, 2000)

  James W. Loewen and Edward H. Sebesta, The Confederate and Neo-Confederate Reader: The “Great Truth” about the “Lost Cause” (Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 2010)

  Keith Weldon Medley, Black Life in Old New Orleans (Gretna, LA: Pelican Publishing, 2014)

  Lawrence N. Powell, The Accidental City: Improvising New Orleans (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2012)

  Douglas D. Rose, ed., The Emergence of David Duke and the Politics of Race (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1992)

  Ibrahima Seck, Bouki Fait Gombo: A History of the Slave Community of Habitation Haydel (Whitney Plantation), Louisiana, 1750–1860 (New Orleans, LA: UNO Press, 2014)

  Jesmyn Ward, Salvage the Bones (New York: Bloomsbury, 2011)

  TRUTH: REMARKS ON THE REMOVAL OF CONFEDERATE MONUMENTS IN NEW ORLEANS

  Gallier Hall

  Friday, May 19, 2017

  Text from the Speech

  Thank you for coming.

  The soul of our beloved city is deeply rooted in a history that has evolved over thousands of years; rooted in a diverse people who have been here together every step of the way—for both good and for ill.

  It is a history that holds in its heart the stories of Native Americans—the Choctaw, Houma Nation, the Chitimacha.

  Of Hernando de Soto, Robert Cavelier, Sieur de La Salle, the Acadians, the Isleños, the enslaved people from Senegambia, Free People of Color, the Haitians, the Germans, both the empires of France and Spain. The Italians, the Irish, the Cubans, the South and Central Americans, the Vietnamese and so many more.

  You see—New Orleans is truly a city of many nations, a melting pot, a bubbling cauldron of many cultures.

  There is no other place quite like it in the world that so eloquently exemplifies the uniquely American motto: e pluribus unum—out of many we are one.

  But there are also other truths about our city that we must confront.

  New Orleans was America’s largest slave market: a port where hundreds of thousands of souls were brought, sold, and shipped up the Mississippi River to lives of forced labor, of misery, of rape, of torture.

  America was the place where nearly 4,000 of our fellow citizens were lynched, 540 alone in Louisiana; where the courts enshrined “separate but equal”; where Freedom Riders coming to New Orleans were beaten to a bloody pulp.

  So when people say to me that the monuments in question are history, well, what I just described is real history as well, and it is the searing truth.

  And it immediately begs the questions; why there are no slave ship monuments, no prominent markers on public land to remember the lynchings or the slave blocks; nothing to remember this long chapter of our lives; the pain, the sacrifice, the shame . . . all of it happening on the soil of New Orleans.

  So for those self-appointed defenders of history and the monuments, they are eerily silent on what amounts to this historical malfeasance, a lie by omission.

  There is a difference between remembrance of history and reverence of it.

  For America and New Orleans, it ha
s been a long, winding road, marked by great tragedy and great triumph. But we cannot be afraid of our truth.

  As President George W. Bush said at the dedication ceremony for the National Museum of African American History and Culture, “A great nation does not hide its history. It faces its flaws and corrects them.”

  So today I want to speak about why we chose to remove these four monuments to the Lost Cause of the Confederacy, but also how and why this process can move us toward healing and understanding of each other.

  So, let’s start with the facts.

  The historic record is clear, the Robert E. Lee, Jefferson Davis, and P. G. T. Beauregard statues were not erected just to honor these men, but as part of the movement that became known as the Cult of the Lost Cause.

  This “cult” had one goal—through monuments and through other means—to rewrite history to hide the truth, which is that the Confederacy was on the wrong side of humanity.

  First erected over 166 years after the founding of our city and 19 years after the end of the Civil War, the monuments that we took down were meant to rebrand the history of our city and the ideals of a defeated Confederacy.

  It is self-evident that these men did not fight for the United States of America, they fought against it. They may have been warriors, but in this cause they were not patriots.

  These statues are not just stone and metal. They are not just innocent remembrances of a benign history.

  These monuments purposefully celebrate a fictional, sanitized Confederacy; ignoring the death, ignoring the enslavement, and the terror that it actually stood for.