Hello, Monticello
Some people lose their heart in San Francisco. Others get their kicks on Route 66. And on January 2, 2020, I broke my leg in the Shenandoah Valley.
To be fair, I was wearing smooth-soled riding boots during a Virginia Winter while hiking attempting to hike down a steep slope. The things I’ll do for a waterfall view. So perhaps more of an inevitability than an accident given that information. I had been on a whirlwind road trip with a friend involving stops in Pennsylvania, Baltimore, Virginia and Washington D.C. We’d dined on oysters the night before, sat at JFK’s favorite booth in Georgetown and had some fierce ping pong battles at a local bar. To round-off the trip, we had a planned stop for a short hike on our way to Monticello.
For those of you who don’t know, Monticello is pronounced like “Limoncello”, with the “ch” sound rather than a “s” sound. Monticello was also the home of Thomas Jefferson. For those of you who don’t know Thomas Jefferson, he was one of the authors of the United States Constitution and the third president of the United States of America. For those of you who don’t know what the Constitution of the United States of America contains, apparently that is not a prerequisite to becoming president of the United States. Our dreams died with ‘45.
Which leads me to the crux of this tale. I was hobbling—and I mean fully stiff-leg-limping—through the multitude of rooms and around the grounds of the estate. Totally fun post-injury that would turn out to be a broken left fibula. Turns out pain equals pensiveness: what I couldn’t fully enjoy physically, mentally I foraged around, contemplating the United States of America, and it’s (official) 244 years of existence on the world stage. Stories of Jefferson’s achievements in botany, philosophy, chemistry, diplomacy and hospitality were evident. Meanwhile, I was experiencing many of my own words ending in “-y”...uneasy, unsteady, angry, and even a little queasy. Needless to say, specifics are haz-y. BUT I remember our guide, a young black man, disclosing tales of Jefferson’s illicit lover, Sally Hemmings. Favored, though enslaved, she bore at least six of Jefferson’s children. I recall discussion of The Jefferson Bible (The Life and Morals of Jesus of Nazareth), a compilation of Jesus’ teachings from the New Testament which includes many of the parables and miracles embedded with a moral lesson, but excludes any mention of Jesus as messiah. And I remember the vast collection of antiquities and inventions throughout the home, hanging from walls and proudly displayed on shelves. The architecture, with heavy personal involvement from Jefferson himself, spoke to his advanced understanding of an array of concepts, capturing light and maximizing design in an age where the mere idea of electrifying a household was still a century away.
In those bitingly cold and blustery conditions, atop the hill where Monticello has been situated since 1772, I wasn’t struck by the interwoven cynicism associated with the term “American Exceptionalism”. To my shame, I felt it. I even almost believed it.
And then, it was March 2020. As the treatment for my fractured leg was ending, so was the world as we knew it. And that bitter day in early January visited me like a Dickensian ghost; rattling chains and revealing truths hidden behind the walls of that home on the hill. While nursing an injured leg and attempting to navigate a landscape not suitable for anyone that isn’t in the peak of health, I was treated to a showcase of nationalism. An extravaganza of exceptionalism. I now recognize that this “exceptionalism” requires complicity to slavery and segregation as an open, but cold case in the courts of this country. The abounding capitalist ideals found in the articles collected on Jefferson’s travels and subsequently put on display, robbed items of their cultural context. Jefferson’s appropriation of the teachings of Jesus as a moral leader rather than a messianic, divine figure, belies the monotheistic interpretations of “In God We Trust”. Even Jefferson’s intellect, though undeniable, wasn’t immune to dissection. A man born in British America under British rule, on land forcibly taken from those native to this continent, is celebrated for devising a separate system of government “for the people, by the people”. This moniker is a cornerstone of the inalienable right to establish a life and worship whomever or whatever one so desires. The unadulterated hypocrisy felt like incurring that broken bone all over again.
When the weather turns cold, there is an ache in my bones. That injury, though mild, will forever be a dedicated analogy to the continuing revelations of that day. A day which began a year that none of us will be able to forget, try as we may. A human being, white, privileged, but female, broken and suffering, was treated to an opportunity to worship at the shrine of yet another Father of Freedom. But only freedom for some. And only free as long as we, the people—in spite of the patriarchy—continue to get up off the bench, and step forward on aching limbs. Free as long as we the people fight to an end that includes opportunities, liberties and justice for ALL.