Come Back, Selma

During a 2023 visit to Selma, Alabama, I spoke with one of its public library employees—a librarian recognized for his knowledge of the city’s history. When I made a comment about the Civil War and Federal troops, in particular—a generalization I positioned as “fact” and assumed he would agree with —the young man’s expression became strained as he continued to search online for the answer to a question I had given him earlier. When I asked about the change in his demeanor, I received an entirely different response from the one I had expected. Fifteen minutes later, I walked away from that conversation with an expanded, far different understanding of what exactly had happened to Selma in the spring of 1865. And more specifically, of an event that occurred one week before Confederate General Robert E. Lee surrendered to Union General Ulysses S. Grant at Appomattox Court House on April 9.

Unless you live in Selma, you probably don’t know that on April 2, 1865, as Confederate soldiers fled the city, Federal troops moved in and set the ten-square-block downtown ablaze. A metal sign now located next to St. Paul’s Episcopal Church in downtown Selma features the words of E.N. Gilpin, a member of Iowa’s 3rd Cavalry, who described the Battle of Selma and the burning of St. Paul’s (see photo at bottom). It’s the age-old story of how wartime victory never seems complete until the losing side’s civilians have been raped, tortured and murdered while helpless friends and family members watch their loved ones die and their homes burn. It’s still happening today in Ukraine and across the Middle East.

Not too long after my return to Minneapolis in the summer of 2023, I attended a neighborhood soiree and attempted to describe what I had learned about Selma’s history from its librarian. I was halfway through my first sentence when two people cut me off with loud generalities about the South and references to horrible stories we’d all heard a million times. Translation: the South wasn’t worth discussing, nothing there had changed and, as a result, the region did not deserve our sympathy or consideration.

There’s nothing quite like a Northerner’s expression of superiority and righteous indignation in regard to places in the South they’ve never visited and events they don’t understand—sometimes the ideas and impressions people hold onto from childhood take my breath away. But that night, I didn’t let their ignorance go unanswered. Decades earlier, I had learned how to be heard above my favorite class of rowdy high school seniors. My neighbors didn’t have a chance once I used my teacher voice to drown out theirs.

Looking back on that alcohol-fueled discussion, I’m struck not by its content but by the communications dynamic within our small group. Even though the most painful election season of my lifetime has finally ended, I fear our human tendency to despise those with different values and priorities never will. And I’m admitting that I was as guilty as my “opponents” were on that night in the backyard. Instead of asking—once I calmed down—for more clarification about where those views I didn’t want to hear came from, my own anger prevailed and I ended the conversation as soon as I, myself, felt heard.

That makes me wonder whether deep, decades-old conflicts might still be affecting Selma, a city struggling to survive. Could ancient differences around race, class and politics be buried in the city’s psyche, informing why its leaders still can’t seem to listen to each other?

One sultry morning in September of 2024 I explored Selma on foot, despite warnings by several of its residents that I was courting danger by walking alone through the city’s famous but decaying streets. On Water Street, a block or two down from the Edmund Pettus Bridge, the abandoned National Voting Rights Museum & Institute building looks sad beside the beautiful Reflections Coffee Shoppe, which is connected to the newly renovated Selma Times-Journal building, home to the recently opened Foot Soldiers Park & Education Center and the newspaper’s second-floor offices. (The National Voting Rights Museum & Institute has moved to a nearby location.)

A few blocks away on Broadway, a homeless woman known to solicit residents and tourists alike settles each night into her public boudoir, right next to the new African-American Literary & Art Museum Gallery and kitty corner from the 5 & Dime—an art studio and boutique. This woman spends her daytime hours across the street from her sleeping quarters, in front of another historic building that features an eye-level sign about the boutique hotel “opening in 2024.” Behind that particular pane of glass are the abandoned beginnings of a rehab. Step a few yards to the right in front of the same building and you’ll be peering through broken, taped-up glass at the bottom of the building’s front doors.

This trash-strewn space is just a few yards away from a door leading up to six lovely, sun-filled lofts; I know they’re lovely because I stayed in one. And directly across from the lofts is a true Selma gem: its public library, which hosted my final event as I launched Selma’s Mayor.

That day, I walked past several spots where buildings nestled side by side spoke to me of death and rebirth, despair and hope. When I asked about how and why that happens, a friend told me that major restorations to this or that building are made without adherence to a city plan—because there isn’t one. The plan former Mayor George Evans and his administration put together was never used and the current mayor and city council seem to be constantly at odds, as per frequent letters written by both sides that appear in Selma’s two local newspapers.

I wonder: What would happen if the managers of Selma’s many restoration projects actually got together and listened to each other’s plans and ideas and tried to develop a coordinated strategy—what would that take? What if the mayor and city council employed a professional mediator who could help them listen first, then plan together instead of bickering—would they agree to do it?

These ideas aren’t new; someone, somewhere, must surely have come up with similar and better plans for Selma. But I’ve fallen in love with this city, and its problems have become personal. I want Selma to survive. I want the world to understand the significance of her history beyond the bridge; to see her vast potential; and to learn from her mistakes. I want visitors to experience what I feel when I visit my Selma family.

I want Selma to come back—for them, for me, for all of us.

The Battle of Selma sign outside St. Paul’s