Some conclusions bring
no emotional satisfaction.
My father, John Carroll, was a masterful story-teller. As a child, I loved hearing his true-life
tales of what is was like to grow up in the Depression-Era South. (I will
always regret not having the foresight to tape-record my dad’s recollections
before he passed away.) While I can still remember the gist of his stories,
most of the details that made his words so vivid are lost to me. Part of a one
saga that I can remember, however, was actually handed down to my father from
his grandfather, Stephen Carroll.
It goes like this: My great-grandfather, a private in the
Confederate Army, along with a wounded comrade, had become separated from their company. With the Yankees closing in, the two soldiers managed to escape detection by climbing a tree. How they did this, with one of them being shot, I
don’t know. But I do recall my dad conveying his grandfather’s fear of being
discovered as the Union soldiers set up camp right below their hiding place. Holding his comrade in his arms, Stephen Carroll
had to remain quiet and motionless as the sun set and then throughout the
night—afraid the entire time that the wounded man would moan or cry out in
pain. I can imagine his relief as the enemy army moved out the next day. I recall nothing of the narrative about how
he got back to his unit or what became of the injured man. Whatever else happened,
it remains that Stephen Carroll came home from the war and fathered many
children.
This family story is one that long personalized the Civil
War for me. Most of my life, I have been able to see this bequeathed memory in
the fabric of the Confederate battle flag. But is that still possible? Though the recent
murder of nine people in Charleston had little (or nothing) to do with the
flag, honest horror has instigated controversy over the pre-eminent symbol of
the Old South. Prompted by the debate, I have re-examined my own regard for the
Stars & Bars.
Stephen Carroll, like most of the men who fought for the
Confederacy, was too poor to own slaves. “Rich man’s war, poor man’s fight,”
supposedly was the saying. Was he a
dupe? Perhaps. It’s hard enough to put a positive spin on fighting to preserve
an institution as evil as slavery, but what can you say about fighting for such
a way of life … and not even gaining benefit from it? Then again, I doubt if my great-grandfather
would have agreed that he was fighting for the right to own slaves. He probably saw it as a matter of protecting
his home from an invading army. Regardless
of individual motivations, one fact stands: If the Confederacy had survived,
slavery would have continued in Dixie. If
one can romanticize the South’s war effort, it’s only because the rebels were
defeated.
If you can romanticize
… that brings me to a vital point. For many people, romanticizing is quite impossible
to do. Seeing a Confederate flag might cause me to think of my ancestor fighting bravely (if misguidedly), but what
can African-American citizens see other than their ancestors’ degradation? Not asking this question has been my
ongoing failure. And now I must also wonder why those whose ancestors fought for
the United States, or were oppressed by slavery, should acquiesce to honoring my forebears’ treasonous insurrection. Maybe
there’s a place for memorializing family stories such as mine, or enjoying pretty
fictions like Gone with the Wind, but
it is a very small place … and certainly not at state capitols.
Once, it may have been possible to rehabilitate the Stars &
Bars into something innocuous. For example, think of it painted atop the
General Lee on The Dukes of Hazzard—symbolizing
fun-loving resistance to authority. Unfortunately,
the window for transformation was small and closed well before that silly TV
program aired. The Battle flag had
already been re-enlisted by the likes of Ku Klux Klan, segregationist
politicians and also countless petty racists in resistance to the Civil Rights
struggle. Today, those of us with an inclination to appreciate the Confederate
flag, find ourselves among vile companions.
The most painful question though, is whether bad people
(even creatures like Dylan Roof) wrongfully appropriated the flag … or was it
really theirs all along? Bravery in defense of hearth and home aside, I’ve
reluctantly concluded that any nobility in the Stars & Bars was ultimately
obliterated by the inherent corruption among the causes it served. Now, like
the aging portrait of Dorian Gray, the ugliness can no longer be denied. Sadly, I must accept that the Confederate
battle flag is not what I wanted it to be.
