'Symbols aren't just symbols'

5 questions for poet, educator, and historian Clint Smith

I thought I had a decent hold on U.S. history, but reading Dr. Clint Smith’s new book, How the Word is Passed: A Reckoning with the History of Slavery Across America, was a constant experience of discovery. I was gutted by all that I didn’t know, all that I’d never slowed down long enough to really contemplate in its full texture and dimension. I marveled at his ability to weave together travelogue, reporting, research—all with a poet’s pen. I felt my courage growing to tell a more vivid, brutal, galvanizing truth about who we have been as a country, and who we might be, and also stretched my imaginations about what new symbols, stories, and spaces we might create.

I can’t recommend it highly enough. (It was also a real joy to know that my brilliant editor, Vanessa Mobley, at Little Brown edited Clint’s book. The unsung heroes of books like ours, books that wrestle with old histories and new territories, are the editors. Thank you for midwifing Clint’s book, Vanessa. We are all better for it!)

Meet Dr. Clint Smith…

Courtney Martin: When and why did you decide to write this book? 

Dr. Clint Smith: I started thinking about this book in May of 2017 when three statues to Confederate leaders came down in my hometown of New Orleans. The statues for Robert E. Lee, for Jefferson Davis, and for P.G.T. Beauregard. And I looked around and thought to myself: 

What does it mean that I grew up in this majority Black city in which there are more homages to enslavers than to enslaved people?

What does it mean that I grew up with this sixty-foot statue of Robert E. Lee in the middle of the city? What does it mean that, to get to school, I had to go down Robert E. Lee Boulevard; that, to get to the grocery store, I had to go down Jefferson Davis Parkway; that my middle school is named after a Confederate leader; that my parents now live on a street named after someone who enslaved over 150 people? And what are the implications of that?

Because we know that symbols aren’t just symbols. They are reflective of the stories that people tell, and those stories embed themselves into the narratives that societies carry, and those narratives shapes public policy, and public policy shapes the material conditions of people’s lives.

This isn’t to say that taking down a statue of Robert E. Lee is going to erase the racial wealth gap, but it is to say that these things shape the ecosystem of public consciousness that help people understand why our country looks like it does today.

So I started thinking about how the history of slavery was memorialized in my own hometown, and then started wondering how it might be memorialized—or not—in other places across the country. I went on this journey to explore how these different memorials, monuments, plantations, prisons, cemeteries, and cities reckoned with their own respective relationships to this history, and ultimately found eight places that reflect the inconsistency with which the history of slavery is remembered across the United States, and abroad.

You interview Dr. Ibrahima Seck, who was foundational in creating the Whitney Plantation, the only one in American which centers the experiences of enslaved people, not their owners. At one point he says, “Books are really good, but who can read a book? Who can have access to books? This needs to be an open book, up under the sky, that people come here to see.” It made me wonder what your dream for this book is? Why a book, specifically? 

I love that quote, but it does make my writing a book ironic, right? The first, and primary reason I wrote a book is because it allowed me to go on my own journey of learning over the past four years. It pushed me to go places, have conversations, and read things I otherwise might not have. And just on a personal level, that was all so valuable. I learned so much about this country in ways that have given me a profound sense of clarity about how our history has shaped the contemporary landscape of inequality. And it also helped me fill in so many gaps that existed in my own education. I tried to write the sort of book I felt like I had needed in high school, a book that would have helped me more fully understand why I grew up in a city surrounded by Confederate statues, or in a country where the economic and social disparities between Black and white people are so vast.

I also just love the act and process of writing a book. I love trying to find the right words to capture what someone’s voice sounds like. I love trying to find a new way to describe something we might see every day. I love trying to get the reader—and myself—to pay attention to something we otherwise might look past. It’s a really enjoyable process for me.

With all that said, I’m also interested in meeting folks where they are. So maybe someone will encounter this information here in this book, but maybe for whatever reason they’re not interested in or able to read a book like this. That’s why I also think other mediums can be really valuable. I host a YouTube series called Crash Course Black American History where I’m part of a team that makes 10 minute animated videos on topics across African-American history.

I enjoy doing that because there are people who might watch one of those videos who might not read this book, and there’s people who might do both. But whether it’s the book, the YouTube series, an article at the Atlantic, a podcast, or whatever, I’m just interested in finding new ways to help people encounter this history and to push them to wrestle with its implications.

You are trained as an academic. You are a poet. You are an educator. How did you think about the voice you used throughout this book? A lot of those roles could have been at odds when you actually sat down to write, but as a reader, it felt seamless.

That’s so kind of you to say. I’m glad it felt that way. What I wanted was to take the best of the historical scholarship I’ve spent the past several years reading, and put it in conversation with the physical landscape its tied to. For example, when you go to Monticello, what does it look like; what does it smell like; what does the air taste like; who are the people on that land; what do they look like, what do their voices sound like. I wanted to engulf the book with sensory detail to make the reader feel like they were there on these visits alongside me. I wanted this book of history to read like a novel; something with intimate, textured details, three-dimensional characters, and high stakes. I wanted to take what I know of poetry, of journalism, of history, of literature and put them all together to hopefully contribute something new to this incredible body of work on the history of slavery in this country.

This line was so powerful for me: “White supremacy enacts violence against Black people, but also numbs a whole country.” Can you say more about that? How do we stop being numb without relying on witnessing the murder of Black bodies, as with George Floyd? 

I think part of it is becoming more intimately familiar with the history that makes such moments possible. That’s not to say that learning the history of this country will itself end racist violence and oppression, but hopefully it can more effectively equip a critical mass of people with the historical and sociological context to advocate for the sorts of policies that can account for—and make amends for—the harm that has been done to large groups of people over the course of generations.

You have two young children. What did the book teach you about how you want them to learn the history of this country?

Well the first thing that it taught me was that trying to write a book with two kids under the age of three is going to be a wild ride and that thousands of tiny crumbs of Ritz crackers will be inside of laptop forever.

But with regard to the history of this country, I want them to grow up knowing that their lives are only possible, because generations of Black folks who came before them fought for a freedom that they knew they might never see, but fought for it anyway because they knew somebody that they’ll never know might see it one day. And because of that, we have a responsibility to try and build a better world not necessarily so we can see it for ourselves, but so that someone, someday will.

We’ll be donating to the Innocence Project New Orleans in honor of Clint’s work. And don’t forget to get his new book from your local bookstore.

A few other things:

I accidentally published Wednesday’s post with comments only being allowed from subscribers! A complete accident. If you’re not a subscriber and would like to comment, please have at it.

If you read my stuff, you know I am obsessed with intergenerational everything. One of my true heroes on this front is Brenda Eheart, who convinced the frickin’ Pentagon to give her an old military base so she could start a community with foster kids, foster parents, and grandparents. She has a new book out! And there’s an event on it next week! Register here.

This week’s episode of Solvers is an interview with Barnraisers founder Garrett Bucks. It’s so worth a listen. One of my favorite parts was when Garrett shared his favorite learning from his confirmation experience: “There are only two religions in this world: the religion of being right and the religion of being in love. And the only rule is you’re not allowed to be a member of both at the same time.”

I have never stopped thinking of those words since he said them.