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History (Education)

A historic plantation went up in flames, but people's reactions to it are the real story

The Nottoway Plantation had been turned into a luxury event space that glossed over its history of enslavement.

Bogdan Oporowski/Wikimedia Commons

The 53,000 square foot Nottoway mansion before it burned down in May of 2025.

For generations, the way Southern plantations have been portrayed and viewed by the American public has been a point of contention. For some, the sprawling grounds and grandiose mansions are viewed romantically, the beauty of them hearkening to wealthy aspirations and a nostalgic allure of Southern charm a la "Gone With the Wind." For others, plantations are a painful reminder of the plight of the Black Americans who worked the grounds and tended the crops of white plantation owners who enriched themselves off the backs of enslaved people trapped in a heinous system enforced by racism.

It's easy to see how those two perspectives can clash. And the tension between them was placed front and center on May 15, 2025, as the Nottoway Resort, the largest remaining antebellum plantation in the U.S., went up in flames. The 64-room mansion was built between 1857 and 1859 for its wealthy owner John Hampden Randolph, who enslaved 150+ people to work his sugar cane farm. As news and images of the blaze went viral, reactions were starkly divided. While some lamented the loss, others cheered with cries of "Good riddance!" and "Burn, baby, burn!"

The fact that Nottaway was marketed as a "resort" and a popular event venue, as opposed to a museum dedicated to sharing the full history of the plantation, is a big impetus behind the celebratory sentiment. Some plantations have been converted into purely educational facilities in which visitors learn how those beautiful places were built and maintained by slaves, but Nottoway wasn't one of them.

Historian and lecturer on the history of slavery Dr. Andrea Livesey visited Nottoway in 2019 and was horrified by how the slavery history was glossed over.

The plantation does have a museum, Livesey shared, which only included one board about slavery. "It tells visitors that 'various records indicate they were treated well for the time," she wrote, adding that those records likely all came from the enslavers.

Even the Nottoway website is thoroughly lacking in historical information. As of the day of the fire, the History section of the website shares details about the 16 historic oak trees on the property. That's it. (There's literally nothing else about the property's history, which is an odd choice.)

But it's the drastically different reactions to the mansion's destruction that mark this moment in time more than anything else. Over 150 years after slavery was officially abolished, we are still grappling with that history, intellectually and viscerally. In some cases, we learned drastically different versions of that part of our history, which of course doesn't help. But even if we're looking at the same exact historical record in its accurate entirety, we see that history through different lenses colored by our individual and familial histories, experiences, and biases.

What shouldn't be hard to see is the pain that enslavement caused generation after generation of Black families and how plantations being relished in for their architectural beauty while ignoring how and why they were built and the atrocities that took place on them could feel like a slap in the face. Even the elementary knowledge of the history of slavery in American ought to make that clear.

But many Americans have been conditioned to downplay the history of slavery, as if it wasn't the long atrocity that it was. Is holding a wedding or a party at a plantation markedly different than throwing a picnic at Auschwitz because the train station makes a beautiful backdrop? Some would argue it's not.

And yet, some people are sad to see the mansion burn, lamenting the loss of its magnificent architectural grandeur. Instead of "Yes, it's beautiful, but the slavery part ruins it," some see it as, "Yes, slavery was terrible, but it's still a beautiful building." Whether those are equally valid perspectives or not, those different lenses is where much of the debate over slavery-era historical places and monuments lies.

Marketing a plantation as a luxury event space while ignoring its oppressive history feels wrong. But does watching it burn to the ground feel right? For some, it definitely does, which begs some questions: What role do visceral feelings have in the debate over what to do with places and things that were created via and for the perpetuation of slavery? What role does white supremacy still play in who gets to make those decisions? Is it possible to turn a plantation into a place where everyone feels like their ancestral history is being honored? These and other questions need serious consideration and discussion as America continues to reckon with its own history.

One plantation that has been turned into an educational monument seems to have struck a reasonable balance. Less than an hour's drive from Nottoway, the Whitney Plantation is a non-profit museum "dedicated to truth-telling about America's past." It does not shy away from its history, but rather invites visitors to dive in. Like Nottoway, Whitney was primarily a sugar plantation, which made it all the more tragic for the enslaved people forced to work there. Sugar was a particularly brutal crop. The life expectancy for slaves on sugar cane farms was dramatically lower than those on cotton plantations—around 7 years—and being sold to Louisiana for sugar production was often considered a death sentence.

Knowing that full history, it's hard to see a plantation used as a resort and event venue and it's understandable that people might revel in its demise. Would there be the same kind of sentiment if Whitney burned? Probably not, or at least not to the degree that Nottoway's destruction has seen. Perhaps now's a prime time to discuss the respectful, appropriate ways to handle historic places with problematic histories, to let the ashes of the past fertilize our collective future.


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Identity

Man shares two lessons he learned from disrupting a racist joke in a group of white people

"Can you speak up? Because our silence is not benign?"

Paul Scanlon/Facebook

Racist jokes are one of the more frustrating manifestations of racism. Jokes in general are meant to be a shared experience, a connection over a mutual sense of humor, a rush of feel-good chemicals that bond us to those around us through laughter.

So when you mix jokes with racism, the result is that racism becomes something light and fun, as opposed to the horrendous bane that it really is.

The harm done with racist humor isn't just the emotional hurt they can cause. When a group of white people shares jokes at the expense of a marginalized or oppressed racial group, the power of white supremacy is actually reinforced—not only because of the "punching down" nature of such humor, but because of the group dynamics that work in favor of maintaining the status quo.

British author and motivational speaker Paul Scanlon shared a story about interrupting a racist joke at a table of white people at an event in the U.S, and the lessons he drew from it illustrate this idea beautifully. Watch:



Speaking up in a group setting where people have an unspoken sense of solidarity is difficult. Giving up social capital and being seen as a breaking a code of sorts is uncomfortable. But that that difficulty and discomfort are not excuses for staying quiet. As Scanlon points out, our silence is not benign, it's malignant. Keeping quiet while a racist joke is being told and laughed at is harmful because it allows racism to go unchecked and white supremacy to remain secure.

An important point Scanlon makes is that not only do white folks allow harm to take place when we remain silent in the face of a friend, family member, colleague, or acquaintance making a racist joke, but we are actually rewarded for saying nothing. We maintain a sense of solidarity, we gain social capital, we're seeing as agreeable and establish a sense of belonging. Those rewards are an insidious form of racism that many white people aren't even aware we participate in. And we have to decide ahead of time that we're going to give up that reward and embrace the inevitable awkwardness in order to do the right thing.

We have to decide that ending racism is more important than embarrassment. The more people who stand firm in that decision, the less awkward it will become and the sooner we can redefine what social capital and solidarity really mean.


This article originally appeared on 6.30.20

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Identity

Formerly enslaved man's response to his 'master' wanting him back is a literary masterpiece

"I would rather stay here and starve — and die, if it come to that — than have my girls brought to shame by the violence and wickedness of their young masters."

GOOD

A photo of Jordan Anderson.

In 1825, at the approximate age of 8, Jordan Anderson (sometimes spelled "Jordon") was sold into slavery and would live as a servant of the Anderson family for 39 years. In 1864, the Union Army camped out on the Anderson plantation and Jordan and his wife, Amanda, were liberated. The couple eventually made it safely to Dayton, Ohio, where, in July 1865, Jordan received a letter from his former owner, Colonel P.H. Anderson. The letter kindly asked Jordan to return to work on the plantation because it had fallen into disarray during the war.

On Aug. 7, 1865, Jordan dictated his response through his new boss, Valentine Winters, and it was published in the Cincinnati Commercial. The letter, entitled "Letter from a Freedman to His Old Master," was not only hilarious, but it showed compassion, defiance, and dignity. That year, the letter would be republished in theNew York Daily Tribune and Lydia Marie Child's The Freedman's Book.

The letter mentions a "Miss Mary" (Col. Anderson's Wife), "Martha" (Col. Anderson's daughter), Henry (most likely Col. Anderson's son), and George Carter (a local carpenter).

Dayton, Ohio,
August 7, 1865
To My Old Master, Colonel P.H. Anderson, Big Spring, Tennessee

Sir: I got your letter, and was glad to find that you had not forgotten Jordon, and that you wanted me to come back and live with you again, promising to do better for me than anybody else can. I have often felt uneasy about you. I thought the Yankees would have hung you long before this, for harboring Rebs they found at your house. I suppose they never heard about your going to Colonel Martin's to kill the Union soldier that was left by his company in their stable. Although you shot at me twice before I left you, I did not want to hear of your being hurt, and am glad you are still living. It would do me good to go back to the dear old home again, and see Miss Mary and Miss Martha and Allen, Esther, Green, and Lee. Give my love to them all, and tell them I hope we will meet in the better world, if not in this. I would have gone back to see you all when I was working in the Nashville Hospital, but one of the neighbors told me that Henry intended to shoot me if he ever got a chance.

I want to know particularly what the good chance is you propose to give me. I am doing tolerably well here. I get twenty-five dollars a month, with victuals and clothing; have a comfortable home for Mandy, — the folks call her Mrs. Anderson, — and the children — Milly, Jane, and Grundy — go to school and are learning well. The teacher says Grundy has a head for a preacher. They go to Sunday school, and Mandy and me attend church regularly. We are kindly treated. Sometimes we overhear others saying, "Them colored people were slaves" down in Tennessee. The children feel hurt when they hear such remarks; but I tell them it was no disgrace in Tennessee to belong to Colonel Anderson. Many darkeys would have been proud, as I used to be, to call you master. Now if you will write and say what wages you will give me, I will be better able to decide whether it would be to my advantage to move back again.

As to my freedom, which you say I can have, there is nothing to be gained on that score, as I got my free papers in 1864 from the Provost-Marshal-General of the Department of Nashville. Mandy says she would be afraid to go back without some proof that you were disposed to treat us justly and kindly; and we have concluded to test your sincerity by asking you to send us our wages for the time we served you. This will make us forget and forgive old scores, and rely on your justice and friendship in the future. I served you faithfully for thirty-two years, and Mandy twenty years. At twenty-five dollars a month for me, and two dollars a week for Mandy, our earnings would amount to eleven thousand six hundred and eighty dollars. Add to this the interest for the time our wages have been kept back, and deduct what you paid for our clothing, and three doctor's visits to me, and pulling a tooth for Mandy, and the balance will show what we are in justice entitled to. Please send the money by Adams's Express, in care of V. Winters, Esq., Dayton, Ohio. If you fail to pay us for faithful labors in the past, we can have little faith in your promises in the future. We trust the good Maker has opened your eyes to the wrongs which you and your fathers have done to me and my fathers, in making us toil for you for generations without recompense. Here I draw my wages every Saturday night; but in Tennessee there was never any pay-day for the negroes any more than for the horses and cows. Surely there will be a day of reckoning for those who defraud the laborer of his hire.

In answering this letter, please state if there would be any safety for my Milly and Jane, who are now grown up, and both good-looking girls. You know how it was with poor Matilda and Catherine. I would rather stay here and starve — and die, if it come to that — than have my girls brought to shame by the violence and wickedness of their young masters. You will also please state if there has been any schools opened for the colored children in your neighborhood. The great desire of my life now is to give my children an education, and have them form virtuous habits.

Say howdy to George Carter, and thank him for taking the pistol from you when you were shooting at me.

From your old servant,
Jordon Anderson

Learn more about Jordan Anderson here.


This article originally appeared eight years ago.


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A forgotten feature of the Statue of Liberty is an apt symbol for how we treat our history

There's a broken shackle and chains at her feet for a reason.

Photo by Jeff Burak on Unsplash

Most Americans associate Lady Liberty with welcoming immigrants, but that's not what she was meant to represent.

If Americans were asked to describe the Statue of Liberty without looking at it, most of us could probably describe her long robe, the crown on her head, a lighted torch in her right hand and a tablet cradled in her left. Some might remember it's inscribed with the date of the American Declaration of Independence, July 4, 1776.

But there's a significant detail most of us would miss. It's a feature that points to why Lady Liberty was created and gifted to us in the first place. At her feet, where her robe drapes the ground, lay a broken shackle and chains—a symbol of the abolishment of slavery.

Most people see the Statue of Liberty as a symbol of our welcoming immigrants and mistakenly assume that's what she was meant to represent. Indeed, the opening words of Emma Lazarus's poem engraved on a plaque at the Statue of Liberty—"Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free"—have long evoked images of immigrants arriving on our shores, seeking a better life in The American Dream.

But that plaque wasn't added to the statue until 1903, nearly two decades after the statue was unveiled. The original inspiration for the monument was emancipation, not immigration.

“The Statue of Liberty we now associate with immigration was a gift from France to commemorate the emancipation of American slaves. Before you lift your eyes to her torch of enlightenment, first pass them over the broken shackle and chains at her feet.”

According to a Washington Post interview with historian Edward Berenson, the concept of Lady Liberty originated when French anti-slavery activist—and huge fan of the United States' Constitution—Édouard de Laboulaye organized a meeting of other French abolitionists in Versailles in June 1865, just a few months after the American Civil War ended. "They talked about the idea of creating some kind of commemorative gift that would recognize the importance of the liberation of the slaves," Berenson said.

Laboulaye enlisted a sculptor, Frédéric-Auguste Bartholdi, to come up with ideas. One of the first models, circa 1870, had Lady Liberty holding the broken shackles and chains in her left hand. In the final iteration, her left hand wrapped around a tablet instead and the anti-slavery symbolism of the shackle and chain was moved to her feet.

Writer Robin Wright pondered in The New Yorker what Laboulaye would think of our country today. The America that is embroiled in yet another civil rights movement because we still can't seem to get the whole "liberty and justice for all" thing down pat. The America that spent the century after slavery enacting laws and policies specifically designed to keep Black Americans down, followed by decades of continued social, economic and political oppression. The America that sometimes does the right thing, but only after tireless activism manages to break through a ton of resistance to changing the racism-infused status quo.

The U.S. has juggled dichotomies and hypocrisies in our national identity from the very beginning. The same founding father who declared "that all men are created equal" enslaved more than 600 human beings in his lifetime. The same people who celebrated religious freedom forced their Christian faith on Native peoples. Our most celebrated history of "liberty" and "freedom" is inseparable from our country's violent subjugation of entire races and ethnicities, and yet we compartmentalize rather than acknowledge that two things can be equally true at the same time.

Every nation on earth has problematic history, but what makes the U.S. different is that our problematic history is also our proudest history. Our nation was founded during the heyday of the transatlantic slave trade on land that was already occupied. The profound and world-changing document on which our government was built is the same document that was used to legally protect and excuse the enslavement of Black people. The house in which the President of the United States sits today was built partially by enslaved people. The deadliest war we've ever fought was over the "right" to enslave Black people.

The truth is that blatant, violent racism was institutionalized from the very beginning of this country. For most of us, that truth has always been treated as a footnote rather than a feature in our history educations. Until we really reckon with the full truth of our history—which it seems like we are finally starting to do—we won't ever get to see the full measure of what our country could be.

In some ways, the evolution of the design of the Statue of Liberty—the moving of the broken shackle and chain from her hands to being half hidden beneath her robe, as well as the movement of our perception of her symbolism from abolition to immigration—is representative of how we've chosen to portray ourselves as a nation. We want people to think: Hey, look at our Declaration of Independence! See how we welcome immigrants! We're so great! (Oh, by the way, hereditary, race-based chattel slavery was a thing for longer than emancipation has been on our soil. And then there was the 100 years of Jim Crow. Not to mention how we've broken every promise made to Native Americans. And honestly, we haven't even been that nice to immigrants either). But look, independence and a nod to immigration! We're so great!

The thing is that we can be so great. The foundation of true liberty and justice for all, even with all its cracks, is still there. The vision in our founding documents was truly revolutionary. We just have to decide to actually build the country we claim to have built—one that truly lives up to the values and ideals it professes for all people.


This article first appeared five years ago.

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