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Home , Marian Anderson, My Old Kentucky Home

Monuments, Narratives, and "My Old Home"

Teresa Reed, Ph.D., Dean School of Music

July 2020

In 1923, a bill was introduced in Congress on behalf of the United Daughters of the Confederacy to erect in the nation's capital a statue honoring the countless southern slave "Mammies" who had spent their lives in faithful service to the households of their white masters. Supporters of the monument favored a design for the sculpture which pictured a black woman nursing a white infant at her breast. The Senate approved its construction on Massachusetts Avenue, and the proposed monument would be captioned "The Fountain of

Truth."1 The nature of any truth depends largely upon who tells it. The "Mammy" monument, like all monuments, was to have presented a particular historical narrative, its agenda being to signal, not only what to remember, but how to remember it. For the Southern, white elite who were nourished, nurtured, served, and sustained by Mammy's faithful care and tireless service, the sculpture seemed a good idea and a fitting tribute to the virtue of unwavering loyalty. But for Mammy herself, who was stripped of both her identity and her agency, who suffered the unwanted sexual advances of her master, the resentful and retaliatory abuse of her mistress, the forced detachment from her own children, and a lifetime of round-the-clock work with no pay, the "fountain of truth" was profoundly bitter and horrendously painful. To Mammy's descendants, all heirs to her trauma, the planned statue told a very different story. The image they saw was not a black woman nursing a white infant, but a slave sustaining the life of her oppressor. While the United Daughters of the Confederacy–all white–relished both the nostalgia of the image they suggested and the social order it portrayed, opponents of the image–overwhelmingly black–found in the proposed artwork a painful history, a biased narrative, and the conspicuous absence of their point of view. The United Daughters of the Confederacy, still in existence, has endorsed other monuments celebrating the glories of the Old South and its antebellum social order. According to the Southern Poverty Law Center, there were more than 1500 Confederate tributes in public spaces around the as recently as 2016.2 Current news has reported on the removal or destruction of some of these monuments, as public opinion has begun to decry the mismatch between the narratives these artworks embody and the modern sensibilities of an increasingly racially and culturally diverse American populace. Narratives matter. Whether explicit or implicit, the narratives embodied in artworks are told from a particular point of view. All artistic narratives--be they monuments, or sculptures, or images, or stage works,

1 or musical pieces--are fair game for critique. Like a stone-hewed monument, a piece of music can also signal, not only what the believes we should remember, but how we should remember it. Responsible scholarship requires transcending cognitive comfort to examine the narratives embodied in both the aural and visual images we consume. Recent critiques of Confederate monuments call into question a variety of modern- day symbols and traditions, particularly those rooted in nineteenth-century racial norms. We are forced to ask this question: As advocates of diversity, equity, and inclusion, how should we regard artworks conceived in accordance with the unfortunate racial norms of a bygone era? Should we allow them to stand, or should we, metaphorically speaking, topple them from their pedestals? A highly cherished tradition here in Kentucky is the performance, at many of our major gatherings, of 's "." Composed in 1852 and published in 1853, the has undergone multiple adaptations, renditions, and arrangements over the past 168 years. The song is a treasured institution of the Commonwealth of Kentucky, of the , and of the University of Louisville. "My Old Kentucky Home" was adopted as the state song in 1928. The song's clearest tie to the racial sentiments of an earlier era was the use of the terms darky and darkies in its original lyrics, derogatory and archaic references to enslaved Africans. In 1986, the state adopted a revision to these lyrics, removing the inflammatory terms. Today, words like "people," "old folks" and "loved ones" are sung in their places. The offensive language removed, we might argue that current performances of the sanitized "My Old Kentucky Home" proceed to the enjoyment of thousands with the awkward problem solved. There is more to know, however, about "My Old Kentucky Home" and about how music and art serve us in the telling of historical narrative. If we check off the revision box and walk away, we've not only glossed over the complexity of its narrative, but we've missed an important opportunity to deepen our understanding of the history and context that gave rise to the song's creation. All creative output happens within social, cultural, political, and economic contexts, and ultimately, all of art tells the story of that interconnectivity. The song "My Old Kentucky Home" was born during a critical historical moment, originating in the vortex of thought that would ultimately spell the end of slavery in America. The year 1850 saw the passage of the Fugitive Slave Act, a brutal law that criminalized harboring escaped slaves, even if they lived in free states. This law incentivized not only the capture and re-enslavement of blacks who made it to freedom, but also the abduction and sell into slavery of even free-born blacks who had never known slavery at all. A famous case of the latter is the story of Solomon Northup, whose memoir, Twelve Years a Slave, inspired the 2013 academy- award-winning film by the same name. Outraged by this law, New England native picked up her pen to write. On June 5, 1851, the first installment of Beecher Stowe's story appeared in a newspaper called The National Era. Published in serial form in the newspaper over the next several weeks, her story became a powerful anti- slavery message, the impact of which she could not have possibly fathomed. In 1852, the completed work was published as the novel, Uncle Tom's Cabin.

2 Written in the parlance of its times, the book certainly contains language and stereotypes that, without question, are unacceptable according to modern standards. This notwithstanding, there is absolutely no way to argue against the fact that Uncle Tom's Cabin spoke powerfully to nineteenth-century sensibilities about the evils of slavery in a way that no other book did. This book became, not only the single most important anti- slavery publication of the antebellum era, but one of the most influential American literary works of that century. Harriet Beecher Stowe's argument favoring freedom for black people, as expressed in Uncle Tom's Cabin, was her most impactful and enduring legacy. Uncle Tom's Cabin changed the entire national discourse on blacks in America. It exposed the horrors of slavery and sparked new critiques of the slave-holding South, igniting powerful new arguments in favor of abolition. The defenders of slavery hated Harriet Beecher Stowe, and they went to great lengths to discredit her work. Nonetheless, the essential message of the book--that slavery is wrong--was delivered with resounding success to a public ready to hear it. And Uncle Tom's Cabin inspired a bevy of other artistic creations, from plays, to other literary works, later, to movies, and to , including "My Old Kentucky Home." Uncle Tom's Cabin was set in Kentucky. Drawing inspiration from the novel, Stephen Foster composed these original lyrics:

The sun shines bright in the old Kentucky home. 'Tis summer, the darkies are gay, The corn top's ripe and the meadow's in the bloom While the birds make music all the day. The young folks roll on the little cabin floor, All merry, all happy, and bright. By 'n by hard times comes a-knocking at the door, Then my old Kentucky home, good night.

Weep no more my lady, oh! weep no more today! We will sing one song for the old Kentucky home, For the old Kentucky home far away.

They hunt no more for the 'possum and the coon, On the meadow, the hill and the shore, They sing no more by the glimmer of the moon, On the bench by the old cabin door. The day goes by like a shadow o'er the heart, With sorrow where all was delight. The time has come when the darkies have to part, Then my old Kentucky home, good night!

Weep no more my lady, oh! weep no more today! We will sing one song for the old Kentucky home, For the old Kentucky home far away.

The head must bow and the back will have to bend, Wherever the darkies may go.

3 A few more days and the trouble all will end, In the field where the sugar-canes grow. A few more days for to tote the weary load, No matter 'twill never be light. A few more days till we totter on the road, Then my old Kentucky home, good-night!

Weep no more my lady, oh! weep no more today! We will sing one song for the old Kentucky home, For the old Kentucky home far away. 3

Artworks, by their very nature, lend themselves to multiple meanings and interpretations.4 Today, a song like "My Old Kentucky Home" has evolved in its meaning with the times, and can evoke a variety of interpretations, associations, and emotions that have absolutely nothing at all to do with Stephen Foster's original intent. Although thousands today associate the song with , or with the University of Louisville's performances of the song at Cardinal football games and other events, the reality is that these associations came about much later as a matter of tradition; to suggest otherwise is to ignore the fact that "My Old Kentucky Home" predated the Kentucky Derby by 22 years (the Derby began in 1875), predated its adoption as the state song by 75 years, and predated the Cardinal Marching Band's performances of it by several decades (the UofL School of Music was founded in 1932). Stephen Foster's lyrics fit the story conveyed in Harriet Beecher Stowe's novel, and his nineteenth- century contemporaries would have readily made the connection. Foster crafted the lyrics from the point of view of the fictional character Tom for whom the novel is named. A quick summary of the novel is as follows: In order to resolve his master's debt, the faithful slave Tom is sold South to Louisiana, away from the familiarity of his Kentucky home. He suffers a series of cruelties and hardships, none of which, however, compromise his dignity. Near the end of Tom's life, the Kentucky plantation owner goes to Louisiana, resolved to buy Tom's freedom, but he arrives too late. Tom dies, and to honor Tom's memory, the slaves on the Kentucky plantation are freed. The fictionalized account of Uncle Tom's migration from Kentucky to Louisiana is grounded in historical fact. In his eloquent and well-researched book The Half Has Never Been Told: Slavery and the Making of American Capitalism, Edward Baptist provides a scholarly and compelling analysis of the degree to which slaves born in states like Kentucky were driven South to Louisiana to garner for their owners the enormous profits to be made in the booming cotton industry there during the early 1800s.5 Widely thought of as chattel and tools for profitmaking, enslaved Africans became human beings in both Beecher Stowe's novel and in Foster's song. And it was the humanization of blacks in American popular thought that shattered the line of reasoning in support of slavery. American popular-cultural artifacts of a century or more ago commonly feature cringe-worthy racist language; yet, the evidence is overwhelming that even many African Americans of this earlier period had a different view of these types of terms than we do. Famed 's recording of "My Old

4 Kentucky Home" retains, in superb diction, Stephen Foster's original lyrics. Similarly, 's recording includes a clearly audible pronunciation of the term "darkies." James Bland's "Carry Me Back to Old Virginny" (c. 1878) included the term darky in its lyrics, and Marian Anderson's 1941 recording of that piece is also sung with this original text. 6 Chronologically speaking, African American and artists like James Bland (1854–1911), Ernest Hogan (1865-1909), Bert Williams (1874–1922), Marian Anderson (1897– 1993), and Paul Robeson (1898–1976), all of whom wrote or performed what we would consider to be racially-charged lyrics, lived and worked in a time period impossible for us to fully imagine. They were contemporaries of the last surviving generation of former slaves, a generation for whom the normalized usage of these racist terms, images, and stereotypes was much more widespread. The lives of African American artists born in the nineteenth century were belabored by the day-to-day, existential hardships of Jim Crow segregation. For many of them, the drive to find artistic success against a tsunami of discrimination left little space for the luxury of retrospection and critique that we take for granted today. It fell to scholars and activists to challenge, condemn, and reject racist and demeaning labels, images, and stereotypes, and it fell to younger generations of black artists to expunge demeaning representations from their creative work. The narratives embodied in "My Old Kentucky Home" are intriguing and complex. Stephen Foster intended for its most salient narrative to echo the sentiment of Uncle Tom's Cabin. In its day, there was no question that the song was considered an anti-slavery ballad, and it was applauded by himself. But the song also conveys other stories, like that of the evolving conscience of a nation in the nineteenth century, and the evolving conscience of the Kentucky state legislature in the twentieth century. And for the hundreds of thousands who sing it on Derby Day and during football season in Cardinal Stadium, the narrative is less about Harriet Beecher Stowe or Stephen Foster, and more about some essential and heartfelt devotion to a Kentucky symbolic of the securities, comforts, and nostalgia that we commonly crave, and that one finds only upon returning home. Art and humanity exist in a dynamic and transactional relationship. While artworks lend themselves to multiple meanings and interpretations, humans get to select how they engage with the artistic experience. As an African American woman, I can easily choose to surgically detach "My Old Kentucky Home" from its historical and literary contexts, subject it to twenty-first-century scrutiny, and give it a failing grade based on its inability to pass the muster of modern-day norms of equity and diversity. I could topple the song from its pedestal of Kentucky tradition based upon my laser focus upon the word "darky" or upon other decontextualized lines in the lyrics. In fairness, however, I would have to bring similar indictments against Marian Anderson, Paul Robeson, and the other African-Americans who sang and recorded the offensive lyrics just as Foster wrote them, similarly detaching these artists from the contexts in which they lived, ignoring the profound ways in which they moved Black America forward, challenged the status quo, and advanced the American ideal of equality for all. Like all professional , Stephen Foster was in the business of making money, so he certainly had his finger on the pulse of whatever was trending, and he wrote to the tastes of the market. To be

5 sure, Uncle Tom's Cabin was not only trending, but was viral; and in all things the novel inspired, there was certainly money to be made. This notwithstanding, Stephen Foster's narrative agenda in "My Old Kentucky Home," was abundantly clear. He signaled, not only what we should remember, but how we should remember it. Using the only linguistic toolkit at his disposal, Foster preached Beecher Stowe's gospel, one that contradicted the prevailing assumptions about blacks that made slavery possible. As long as enslaved Africans were deemed subhuman and bereft of intellect, spirit, and soul, their treatment as chattel, as property, and as beasts of burden could be justified. The narrative embodied in Foster's lyrics humanized the slave, depicting him with a voice, with emotion, and with a longing for the security and familiarity of home to which, generally speaking, all humans can relate. When our Cardinal Marching Band or Cardinal Singers perform "My Old Kentucky Home," I pay silent and grateful tribute to Harriet Beecher Stowe, and to the nameless, faceless slaves in my own ancestral line whose emotions were never considered, whose perspectives were never regarded, whose voices were never heard, and whose lives–apart from the material gain they enabled–never mattered. The United Daughters of the Confederacy never saw the erection of "The Fountain of Truth." The very suggestion of such a monument was an insult that sparked African American leaders to mobilize against it. More than simply a wet nurse to white oppression, Mammy's sacrifice and story have yet to be fully told.

But the UDC would go on to win other battles.7 Today, in 2020, on some 1500 pedestals in public spaces, there remain statues in tribute to Confederate figures, men who fought against equality, who were bitter enemies to Harriet Beecher Stowe and diehard opponents to her abolitionist message. These statues–majestic, stately, imposing masterworks–are themselves narratives, each one posing this question: How should we regard artworks conceived in accordance with the unfortunate racial norms of a bygone era? A century from now, scholars will look back on our artistic discourse and, from their more enlightened lens, they will subject our twenty-first-century sculptures, novels, and songs to scathing critique. With the benefit of their hindsight, they will likely find awkward and cringe-worthy labels, terms, and images in our creative output, offenses to which we are currently blind. They, too, will likely wrestle with how to regard artworks conceived in accordance with the unfortunate social norms of a bygone era. At the very least, we should study these creative works. We should understand them in terms of their times, their histories, their agendas, the biases they represent and the perspectives they ignore. We should measure those artifacts with the long and transcendent yardstick of justice considering, above all, the lived impact of the narratives that those artworks convey. As both creators and consumers of art, we should keep that yardstick close at hand, holding each other accountable, appreciating that monuments matter. Narratives matter. And lives matter.

NOTES

1. See Tony Horwitz, "The Mammy Washington Almost Had" in The Atlantic, May 31, 2013.

6 2. Southern Poverty Law Center report, Whose Heritage? Public Symbols of the Confederacy, 2016.

3. Foster, Stephen, "My Old Kentucky Home, Good Night." The Current Publishing Company, , 1853. (Reproduction of sheet music below.)

4. See Luther Adams, "My Old Kentucky Home: Black History in the Bluegrass State" in The Register of the Kentucky Historical Society, Spring/Summer 2015, Vol. 113, No. 2/3, Building A History of Twentieth-Century Kentucky (Spring/Summer 2015), pp. 385-419.

5. See Edward Baptist, The Half Has Never Been Told: Slavery and the Making of American Capitalism (New York: Basic, 2014).

6. Marian Anderson's recording of "My Old Kentucky Home" is on Victor SD-4/18314 B. and her recording of "Carry Me Back to Old Virginny" is on Victor 18314-A. Renditions by Anderson, Robeson, and other black artists of these and other nineteenth-century parlor songs and ballads are readily available online.

7. See the website of the United Daughters of the Confederacy at https://hqudc.org/

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