Black Landscapes Matter

BLACK LANDSCAPES MATTER

BLACK LANDSCAPES MATTER

EDITED BY

Walter Hood

AND

Grace Mitchell Tada

University of Virginia Press

CHARLOTTESVILLE AND LONDON

University of Virginia Press

© 2020 by the Rector and Visitors of the University of Virginia

All rights reserved

First published 2020

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Hood, Walter, editor. | Tada, Grace Mitchell, editor.

Title: Black landscapes matter / edited by Walter Hood and Grace Mitchell Tada.

Description: Charlottesville : University of Virginia Press, [2020] | Includes bibliographical references and index.

Identifiers: LCCN 2020020084 (print) | LCCN 2020020085 (ebook) | ISBN 9780813944852 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780813944869 (paperback) | ISBN 9780813944876 (epub)

Subjects: LCSH: African Americans—Social conditions. | Cultural landscapes—United States. | Landscapes—Symbolic aspects—United States. | Collective memory and city planning—United States. | United States—Race relations.

Classification: LCC E185.86 .B52559 2020 (print) | LCC E185.86 (ebook) | DDC 305.896/073—dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020020084

LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020020085

Publication of this volume was assisted by a grant from Furthermore: a program of the J. M. Kaplan Fund.

Cover art: Redemption Mile, Rosa Parks, Detroit, Michigan, 2018. (Courtesy of Hood Design Studio)

CONTENTS

Introduction

Walter Hood

Part I. Calls to Action

As American as Baseball (and Central Park)

Richard L. Hindle

Insisting on Answers

Louise A. Mozingo

Black Landscapes Matter . . . Then and Now, Here and Everywhere

Anna Livia Brand

Part II. Practicing Culture

The Everyday and Mundane

Lifeways

Commemoration

Part III. Notes from the Field

Enabling Connections to Empower Place: The Carolinas

Kofi Boone

The Paradoxical Black Landscape: Trade and Tryon Streets, Charlotte, North Carolina

Walter Hood

A Tale of the Landscape: Detroit, Michigan

Maurice Cox

Site of the Unseen: The Racial Gaming of American Landscapes

Austin Allen

Ritual and Displacement in New Orleans: The Photographs of Lewis Watts

Lewis Watts with Walter Hood

The Beerline Trail: Milwaukee, Wisconsin

Sara Daleiden

Afterword

Walter Hood

Notes on Contributors

Bibliography

Index

BLACK LANDSCAPES MATTER

INTRODUCTION

Walter Hood

Traditional Africans did not look forward to radical change or to a messianic age, but rather they remembered the homes of their forefathers, reestablished after death by their spirits and awaiting the souls of the living. . . . In this traditional African sacred cosmos, time was viewed as having scale of value. There were good times and bad times, times that were favorable for an activity and times that were inauspicious for that special action. These particular events that were tied to time were also tied further to place. Events should and have occurred at particular places on the earth, places that were auspicious for and tied to the event.

—Mechel Sobel, The World They Made Together

Black landscapes matter because they are prophetic. They tell the truth of the struggles and the victories of African Americans in North America. The landscape bears the detritus of diverse origins: from the plantation landscape of slavery, to freedman villages and new towns, to agrarian indentured servitude. To northern and western migrations for freedom, to segregated urban landscapes, and to an integrated pluralist society. Black landscapes illuminate the diaspora of free Africans from the Southern Hemisphere to North America. These landscapes are the prophecy of America; they tell us our future. Their constant erasure is a call to arms against concealment of the truth that some people don’t want to know or see. Erasure is a call to arms to remember. Erasure allows people to forget, particularly those whose lives and actions are complicit.

The question Do Black landscapes matter? is intertwined in the colonial story of the Americas and their shadowed past. It is shared by all Americans, deeply ingrained in America’s subconscious, and its landscapes. In the United States, the landscapes of my ancestors exist all around: from ocean to ocean, border to border, the diaspora of African Americans on the North American continent reaches far.

Imagine if the United States had built a monument to the end of the Civil War—to the end of slavery. Instead, as soon as the Civil War ended, the battlefield was declared a monument to the tens of thousands of soldiers who died. Not the war itself, or its causes, or its heroes. At the dawning of freedom for African Americans, their emancipation was not imagined or viewed as something worthy of memorializing.

In the heterogeneous society of the United States, it takes time to work through memories. J. B. Jackson presents a framework that could help understand memory here. In The Necessity for Ruins, he writes:

But there has to be that interval of neglect, there has to be discontinuity; it is religiously and artistically essential. That is what I mean when I refer to the necessity for ruins: ruins provide the incentive for restoration, and for a return to origins. There has to be (in our new concept of history) an interim of death or rejection before there can be renewal and reform. The old order has to die before there can be a born-again landscape. Many of us know the joy and excitement not so much of creating the new as of redeeming what has been neglected, and this excitement is particularly strong when the original condition is seen as holy and beautiful. . . . That is how we produce the cosmic scheme and correct history.¹

Jackson is describing the landscape of preservation and commemoration, which can also provide ways for cultures to deal with cultural change and adaptation.

In previous times, Jackson writes, commemoration determine[d] our actions in the years to come. . . . For centuries that is what monuments and feast days had been for: to remind us of obligations, religious or political, and keep us on the beaten path, loyal to tradition.²

Gettysburg, Jackson argues, is where the monument and the commemorative landscape changed. In the several decades following the war’s end, monuments dedicated to the unknown soldiers from the North and South proliferated, and even to the Confederacy itself. These new monuments celebrate a different past, not the past which history books describe, but a vernacular past, a golden age where there are no dates or names, simply a sense of the way it used to be, history as the chronicle of everyday experience.³ It is this comment that offers a distinct lens through which we observe Black landscapes.

Here a second question emerges: are the places that I inhabit valued? Much of my life I have seen them mostly devalued. All around me, it is not these landscapes that are remembered, but the vernacular ones that Jackson mentions. In 2017, a southern politician, elucidating this view, remarked that the Black family under slavery was better off than they are presently, claiming that, in the past, Black people were united and strong.⁴ This vernacular past is celebrated in many manners, and, in many cases, the Black landscape is not a part of it. Middleton Place in Charleston, South Carolina, remembers its colonial gardens before it remembers its enslaved population and their contributions. The current conflicts surrounding the removal of the Civil War statues—those to which Jackson refers—celebrate the vernacular past. And the insistence on a vernacular past at the Lorraine Hotel in Memphis is manifest in the preference to talk about the African slavery diaspora rather than the murder of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

The past persists today as difficult burdens: the memory and guilt of institutionalized slavery, and the emancipation heritage. Memories document our historical presence in landscapes as subservient human beings, as segregated communities in a separate but equal cultural setting, and as integrated into the melting pot culture. Within this triad it is possible to see resilience, faith, optimism, and invention in the places and landscapes that African Americans made and occupy, but mostly these actions and places go forgotten. Are these memories too much for the country to bear? Are they too dark and heavy to bring forward for reconciliation?

Over the past 155 years, there have been moments when the country remembered. To name a few: the creation of the Freedmen’s Bureau at the beginning of Reconstruction, the promise of forty acres and a mule, Brown v. Board of Education, the Civil Rights Act of 1964, and the Voting Rights Act of 1965. But there has always been a lag, a period of forgetting. Reconstruction’s end, in 1877, by President Rutherford Hayes, immediately created a Jim Crow landscape in the South that persisted until the civil rights movement. Maybe a way to understand this pendulum of remembrance and neglect is through a 155-year timeline that begins with emancipation in 1865. Nearly forty years later, the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People was founded, and, in 1919, at the end of World War I, we were remembered for our service in the war. In the late 1980s and early 1990s, multiculturalism and hip-hop made us remember how cool Black is—until the neglect that followed. The election of Barack Obama, in 2008, demonstrated another period of remembrance followed by neglect, which led to the Black Lives Matter movement. But during these pauses or lapses we become apathetic, drunk from recent victories. Consequently, we are now in the midst of another period of neglect. The actions of some, who desire to erase the past, from immigration to civil rights, are forcing us to remember.

Black landscapes matter because they can be born again. They exist all around us and are continuously resuscitated. Doing so requires care in how we exhume and resuscitate these landscapes to ensure that their resonance and power are not lost. Maybe some Black landscapes have become vernacular: we now have a Malcolm X Plaza, a Frederick Douglass Circle, an Invisible Man sculpture in Harlem, an MLK memorial in Washington, DC, and a plethora of new landscapes conserved to correct history. But we need something more powerful—not simply pedagogical, not a vernacular past, and not merely a chronicle. To correct history, we must see the original condition as holy and beautiful. We must be audacious in what we bring forward.

Black landscapes matter because they are renewable. We can uncover, exhume, validate, and celebrate these landscapes through new narratives and stories that choose to return us to origins. The contested and the forgotten landscapes, renewed through a myriad of expressions, can give us incentives to obligations for years to come.

The period of neglect can be seen as a powerful pregnant pause. It can be a time to develop new concepts of history without being thwarted by the old, which must die and be rejected. Culturally, this relates to the people and objects that preserve these memories. The interval of time is where memories are stored through reflexive borrowing, mimetic appropriations, exchanges, and inventions within the cultural landscape. Thus, when these memories are born again, they can be prophetic. The nascent and latent landscapes that necessarily emerge from the neglected bear these memories and are mnemonic devices that can be triggered when we want to remember. Black voices are emerging today because we are in a period of neglect. How do we articulate and promote the acceptance and reconciliation of the cultural atrocities that accompany the American experiment? It is up to us to help America remember through our collective speech, writings, art, music, architecture, and landscapes.

Here is a call for new expressions that force reconciliation. I would argue that the times when opposition is loud—the periods of neglect—are the times when we renew. In these times, we must find ways to be outspoken, more audacious, and prophetic. Instead of being reactive, we should be proactive, preserving, conserving, and making more landscapes that are for us—Black landscapes that are resilient and forward-looking. Black landscapes that tell alternative stories and forge a new language for landscapes. Black landscapes that build on our local knowledge, a knowledge that attests to creativity and passion for inclusion.

The diverse voices assembled here represent notes from the field. They are memory workers, as the late Doria Dee Johnson expounded during a lecture a few years ago at UC Berkeley. These notes cover a wide geography, from the Carolinas to the Mississippi. They illuminate and convey that there are narratives and stories necessary to the current discourse. They help us to remember.

There is no single solution to the questions raised here, only a multiplicity of responses. How can art and design serve as mnemonic devices? How can environmental advocacy force us to remember the atrocities suffered living in unstable landscapes? Can new Black leadership in the planning and design of our cities create new narratives? And can pedagogy extend from the academic context into the world to constantly remind us of the collective voices that truly comprise America’s cultural landscape?

The volume opens with personal accounts. Designer and educator Richard L. Hindle offers a sobering view through a call to action based on the presidential election. Two essays share experiences that reflect racialized landscapes and their dynamics in the United States: that by designer and landscape historian Louise A. Mozingo, the other by urban planner Dr. Anna Livia Brand. As non-Black observers, they offer a set of narratives alternative to most of those that follow. Mozingo writes about her youthful experience of arrival to the United States via Rome, Italy, and describes her initial confrontation with race. She shares with us her personal observations of living in Washington, DC, and, in the nation’s capital, the encounter with Blackness in the landscape. Brand documents the everyday and mundane life pre–Hurricane Katrina on the 4800 block of Camp Street, in New Orleans, over a fifteen-year period. Her acute observations illuminate the shifting and fragile displacement of people in a postcatastrophic context in which gentrification was cloaked in the politics of rebuilding.

North Carolina–based designer, educator, and environmental-justice advocate Kofi Boone takes us down a path of dissonance. Through the lens of the Black Lives Matter movement, Boone asks if we can we rethink landscape architecture. His compelling argument asserts the Black person as artisan, present in landscapes that range from plantations to historically Black college and university campuses, to political and economic urban spaces, to failed planned communities. He suggests that maybe art is at the center of the Black creative ethos, explained by three concepts: to be seen, to live with dignity, and to be connected. In reflecting on my own childhood in North Carolina, I consider how the diachronic nature of history has affected Black landscapes, and our memories of them, in the city of Charlotte.

From Detroit, Maurice Cox relates his personal journey as an architect, academic, politician, and activist through professional experiences in Virginia, New Orleans, and, finally, Detroit. Who preserves Black landscapes? he asks, presenting the Bayview community in rural Virginia as a place that offers ideas of self-determination, and New Orleans as a landscape shaped by a multicultural heritage. Cox’s journey makes him seem destined for positions as planning director for the City of Detroit, Michigan, and commissioner of planning and development for the City of Chicago. For some, Detroit is the crucial testing ground for urbanism in the twenty-first century. How do we plan within a landscape of disinvestment and disenfranchisement of Black people, and, most of all, how do we not forget about Black people as a counterwave to new, predominantly white gentry returning to a place that they chose to leave behind?

Landscape architect, educator, and filmmaker Austin Allen reminds us of the struggle to define and maintain space that arises when we put our names on these spaces. Racial gaming has allowed our continued occupation of some places, he writes. Place can be elusive and improvisational, giving rise to rituals, rules, interpretations, and negotiations. As he travels through the southern landscape, long familiar to him, he offers examples that fully recognize histories and fictions. The open city concept, he suggests, can facilitate the preservation of place but, more importantly, can enable a transgressive set of negotiations. A photo-essay by photographer Lewis Watts—whose work has been influential in my own—portrays visually some of these same ideas.

Finally, as a case study, artist and civic-engagement facilitator Sara Daleiden discusses collaboration and agency as a tool for ethical cultural development within the context of a rail-to-trail project in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. The Harambee and Riverwest neighborhoods are spotlighted as she shifts land from the private realm to the public. The trail becomes the thing in the landscape that is a lens to figuratively navigate the neighborhood’s marginalized predicaments and desires.

These notes from the field are a diverse collection of thoughts, provocations, and case studies. The landscapes that are everyday and mundane, commemorative, and community lifeways together argue for culture to be central to design, recognizing that places and environments are maintained, sustained, or transformed by the people and bureaucracies