Here Is Where: Discovering America's Great Forgotten History (57 page)

“Well, it’s got a Roman soldier’s helmet crowned with Native American feathers, so the confusion is understandable,” Megan says. “The original design actually called for a ‘liberty cap,’ but Jefferson Davis, who was secretary of war at the time, vehemently opposed the idea because it was associated with the antislavery movement.”

Sculpted in Rome by an American artist named Thomas Crawford, the plaster model for the statue arrived in 1859 and then sat around for several years because construction on the Capitol Building itself was delayed during the Civil War. Washington was under constant threat of invasion, and many able-bodied laborers were off fighting.

Clark Mills, the foundry owner in charge of casting the nearly twenty-foot-tall, fifteen-thousand-pound bronze statue, was facing his own personnel crisis; in 1861 the Italian craftsman Mills depended on to supervise the job realized that no one else had his experience and refused to begin unless he received an exorbitant pay raise. Infuriated, Mills fired him.

“Philip Reed was another skilled plasterer in the foundry,” Megan says, “and although he had never done anything as large and intricately designed as this, Mills entrusted him with the project. Using stress tests and pulleys, Reed painstakingly figured out how to disassemble the plaster model so it could be cast properly. If mishandled, the whole thing could have been ruined.” Thanks to Reed, the statue was assembled seamlessly and placed atop the Capitol’s dome in December 1863.

Megan shares with me a file containing Reed’s biographical information, including an 1870 census report that proves his D.C. residency and Clark Mills’s own handwritten records detailing how much he initially paid for him. Reed—one of the individuals most responsible for
crowning the U.S. Capitol with the Statue of Freedom—was a slave. In 1862, Mills wrote that he had purchased Reed for $1,200 “many years ago when he was quite a youth” and described him as “mulatto color, short in stature, in good health, not prepossessing in appearance, but smart in mind, [and] a good workman.”

“Mills spelled Reed’s name R-e-i-d,” Megan says, “and before Reed gained his freedom, official documents recorded it that way, too. But I prefer the spelling Reed—like
freed
—used, and I think he earned the right to name himself.”

Megan also tracked down Reed’s death certificate and hands me a copy. He died on February 6, 1892, at the age of seventy-five, from “erysipelas of face,” a painful skin infection that can now easily be cured by penicillin.

Washington’s Graceland Cemetery is listed as Reed’s original place of burial, but that was later crossed out, and the words “To Harmony June 21, 1895,” were written above. Megan explains that Reed’s body was disinterred—twice. The third and final cemetery isn’t recorded on the certificate.

“We’ll show you where he ended up,” Megan says. “And Stacy, I should emphasize, gets the credit for doing most of the sleuthing on this. She helps me with a lot of my searches.”

Stacy demurs, brushing off the compliment. “I love doing it.”

Within a few short minutes we’re pulling up at the intersection of Neal Street and Maryland Avenue NE, in front of a massive construction site for a new apartment complex.

“That’s where Graceland used to be,” Stacy says, “and you can see that it’s still in sight of the Capitol, which is fitting.”

We then drive to the Rhode Island Avenue-Brentwood Metro station, which is where the old Harmony Cemetery used to be.

“There
is
a marker here for Harmony,” Stacy tells me, “but nothing about Reed.”

“Can I take a brief look?”

“Sure,” Stacy says. “It’s above the newspaper stands.”

I sprint over and find the plaque. “Many distinguished black
citizens including civil war veterans were buried in this cemetery,” it reads. “These bodies now rest in the new National Harmony Memorial Park Cemetery in Maryland.”

That will be our next and last stop, directly across the D.C. border.

Meticulous attention to detail apparently runs in the family, and Stacy gives me a stack of papers she’s prepared about the three cemeteries, complete with full-color photos and maps.

“I do this type of research whenever we go on family vacations,” Stacy says. “I love taking my husband and kids on long hikes to find remote sites. My youngest son, who’s sixteen, calls them ‘the forced marches,’ but these have been some of our best times together. I want to create experiences they’ll remember, and hopefully the trips change how they see the world around them.”

Two hands clasped in prayer are etched in marble on the entrance-way sign to Harmony National Memorial Park, which bills itself as “Washington’s Most Naturally Beautiful Cemetery.” I might quibble with the geographical reference, since we’re technically in Maryland, but the spacious, sloping grounds certainly appear beautiful and well maintained. And according to one of Stacy’s documents, it was the D.C. government that contracted the removal of some thirty-seven thousand remains—most of them Washingtonians—from the old Harmony Cemetery and transferred them here.

“Where is Reed’s grave?” I ask.

Stacy did the legwork on this, too. When she first called the cemetery, they didn’t know his location but suggested she speak with their off-site historian, Paul Sluby, and he was able to map out the general area for her.

Megan slows her car down in front of a polished gray marker that references the old cemetery. Stacy points to an empty acre of grass and says, “Philip is somewhere in there. Mr. Sluby told me that before the bodies were moved from old Harmony, the descendants—if they could be found—were sent letters notifying them about the change. If nobody responded, the remains were buried here without a headstone. We don’t think Philip had any ancestors still alive then, and no one claimed him.”

Stacy goes on to remark how sad it is that Reed has been pushed farther and farther away from his most notable achievement. First, he was in a marked plot in clear view of the Statue of Freedom, and now he’s miles away, his bones lost under mounds of earth with no hope of ever being identified.

“What initially drew you to Reed?” I ask Megan.

“You know, we’re raised studying kings and presidents and generals, but I’m more interested in the historical underdogs, in slaves and immigrants and anyone who’s gone overlooked. Each story adds another pixel to the overall picture and gives us a better understanding of the past and a clearer image of who we really are.”

I press Megan and Stacy on why this matters.

“Our ancestors faced enormous hardships in their time,” Megan replies, “and their experiences remind us that we’re here because of what they endured.”

“And the more we recognize what they sacrificed, the more grateful we become for what we have in our own lives,” Stacy adds, echoing Ed Hrivnak’s sentiments to me on Mount Baker almost verbatim.

“Not to sound all ‘Kumbaya’ here,” Megan continues, “but from a genealogical standpoint, we’re all related, and we tend to treat others more respectfully when we realize that they’re part of our family. History reminds us how interconnected we are, and how much we’ve benefited from those who’ve come before us.”

This strikes a particular chord with me. Throughout my journey, nothing has surprised me more than discovering how personal and intimate history can be, that it’s not just some distant, abstract idea we study from afar. When I was trying to find Dr. Loring Miner’s house in Kansas to research the Spanish flu pandemic, by sheer coincidence the first person I called, Helen Hall, happened to own Miner’s old home. In Washington state, my close friend Ed Hrivnak was part of the recovery team that found the PV-1 lost on Mount Baker in 1943. And when I mentioned in passing to my mom about visiting Peoria to see where penicillin was manufactured, I learned that—through her father—she had gotten to know its inventor, Dr. Alexander Fleming, when she was only a teenager.

“For its significance alone,” I say to Megan after my mom’s story came to mind, “the place that probably most affected me was the lab in Peoria, where British and American scientists worked together to figure out how penicillin could be mass-produced. Their efforts have saved tens of millions of lives, maybe more, and when you think about it, we or people we love are alive today because of what they did.” The same could also be said of Maurice Hilleman, Joseph Goldberger, and countless other doctors, scientists, and innovators whose names are barely remembered.

Megan, Stacy, and I drive across the Maryland border back into Washington, and the U.S. Capitol emerges into view over the city’s rooftops. I’ve passed that building ten thousand times before and never paid much attention to the statue above its dome. Because of Philip Reed, I’ll never see it the same way again.

If learning about the past only infused our lives with a sense of passion and wonder by enriching our perception of the world around us, that alone would make it worthwhile. I realize, however, that more is demanded of history. We call upon it for guidance in times of crisis. We refer to it during national debates about when or if we should go to war, which economic policies to implement, how we conduct our foreign affairs, what restrictions we allow on individual liberties in the name of domestic security, and whom we elect to political office. Even if it fails to offer up definitive answers, a knowledge of past events and precedents helps us to engage in a more thoughtful and informed public dialogue.

But Megan and Stacy, I think, have articulated history’s most overlooked value: its ability to influence the way we live our lives and how we treat one another on a day-to-day basis. At its best, history nurtures within us humility and gratitude. It encourages respect and empathy. It fosters creativity and stimulates the imagination. It inspires resilience. And it does so by illuminating the simple truth that, whether due to some cosmic fluke or divine providence, it’s an absolute miracle that any one of us is alive today, walking around on this tiny sphere surrounded by an ocean of space, and that we are, above everything else, all in this together.

AUTHORS, LIKE TRAVELERS
, frequently depend on the kindness of friends and strangers alike, even if their endeavors seem to be mostly solitary affairs. This book, and my trip across America, would not have been possible without the generosity and assistance of a host of extraordinary individuals to whom I am forever grateful.

Beginning, first and foremost, with my editor, Rick Horgan, at Crown Archetype. Rick is a passionate history buff who understood
the spirit of this book—and the larger project behind it—from the very beginning. Rick is every author’s dream editor; he is brilliant and a sensational writer himself. This book became more ambitious than either of us had expected, and Rick helped me contain my somewhat peripatetic ramblings while maintaining its free-spirited style. Rick shepherded this book along with infinite patience and offered the necessary words of encouragement when they were needed. I truly cannot thank him enough. Along with Rick, there is Julian Pavia, who did much of the initial editing of the manuscript and saved me from careening too wildly from topic to topic. (I still careened more than Julian would probably have preferred, and I’m responsible for these unwieldy parts, but it’s in my nature to jump from topic to topic.) I also want to thank Nate Roberson, Rick’s right-hand man, who endured a barrage of e-mails and questions on a range of matters and deserves a medal for his patience and kindness throughout this whole process. Copy editors are the unsung heroes of the publishing world, and I am grateful for all of the labor Chris Tanigawa has put into fine-tuning the manuscript. On the publicity and marketing side, I’ve been especially fortunate to have Catherine Cullen and Christina Foxley help me spread the word about this book. They’re a joy to work with and a truly dedicated and creative team. I am also deeply indebted to Crown Archetype’s phenomenal publisher, Tina Constable, who has been enormously supportive. I can’t imagine a more caring or thoughtful publisher.

I wouldn’t have found Crown without my agent, Miriam Altshuler, who is not only the best agent but simply the greatest friend that a writer could hope to have. Miriam’s wisdom, sense of humor, guidance, integrity, and encouragement were indispensable throughout this process, and I never would have made it through in one piece without her. Words cannot express the extent of my gratitude and admiration for her. I am also indebted to her assistants Emily Koyfman, Sara McGhee, Cathy Schmitz, and especially Reiko Davis, who has helped me lurch (reluctantly) into the twenty-first century and set up a Facebook page and other social media.

And speaking of newfangled technology (at least it is to me), I’m
extremely grateful to my gifted Web designer, Tim Kopp, for setting up
www.HereIsWhere.org
.

Along with my parents, who have been incredible throughout this whole project, there are numerous family members and friends to whom I am extremely grateful for their words of support and, in many cases, their ideas for stories: Allison Agnew, Ted Alexander, Sharon Allen, Chris Aprato, Meredith and Monica Ashley, Scott Baron, Chris and Janet Beach, Kate Becker and Darell Hammond, Peter Benkendorf, Rob Berkley and Debbie Phillips, Bob Bergman, Margaret Bernal, Cliff and Anna Blaze, Ursula Bosch and Gerard Petersen, Todd Boss, Doug Bradshaw, Chad Breckinridge and Joy Drachman, Lawrence Bridges, Doug Brinkley, Chris Buckley, Jon Burrows, Allen Caruselle, Chris and Elizabeth Mechem Carroll, Lucinda and Sophia Carroll, Lisa Catapano and Bill Thomas, Ross Cohen, John Cole, Craig Colton, Alison Hall Cooley and Benjamin Simons, Frank Correa, Allan Cors, Dan Dalager, Dave Danzig, Richard Danzig, Connie and Tom Davidson Sr., Elissa and Tommy Davidson, Chris Davies and Stephanie Martz, Frank Davies, Riki Dolph, James Dourgarian, Ashley and Jono Drysdale, Chris Dunham, Tom Dunkel, Deanna Durrett, Chris Epting, Dave Felsen, Katia and Mike Fischer, Ken Fisher and Amanda Godley, Skyla M. Freeman, Dave Gabel, Joan Gillcrist and Will Strong, Larry D. Goins, Bill and Karen Graser, Dave and Debbie Grossberg, Erin Gruwell, Parker Gyokeres, Joyce A. Hallenbeck, John and Meredith Hanamiriam, Tom Hare and Liz McDermott, Mim Harrison, Mike Healy, August Hohl, Cory-Jeanne Houck-Cox, Linda Howell, Nick Irons, Kelly Johnson, Greg Jones, Steve Karras, Ryan Kelly, David Kennedy, Austin Kiplinger, Andrew Kirk, Yumi Kobayashi and Peter Sluszka, Mia Kogan, Chrissy Kolaya and Brook Miller, Jerome Kramer, Zoltan Krompecher, Gene and Joanna Kukuy, Henry Labalme, Greg and Maureen Lare, Simone Ledeen, Steve and Lori Leveen, Heather and Tom Leitzell, Jack Lewis, James Loewen, Jim and Kathy Lowy, John Madden, Peter Marks, John McCary, Pam McDonough, Mike McNulty, Jimmie Meinhardt, James and Meribeth McGinley, Sylvia Medley, Ann Medlock, Doug Meehan and Caroline Suh, Justin Merhoff,
Brad and Cori Flam Meltzer, Mike Meyer, John Meyers, Jay Michael, Nathan Mick, Allen Mikaelian, De’on Miller, Marja Mills, Felicia Norton, K.K. Ottesen and Matthew Wheelock, Jon Peede, David Pelizzari, James Percoco, Elise and Tripp Piper, Alice Powers, Gary Powers Jr., Pam Putney, Cheryl Richardson, Joe Rubinfine, Cathy Saypol, Jeff Shaara, Thad and Gabby Sheeley, Katie Silberman, Denis Silva, Albert Small, Lucy Roberts Smiles, Charles Smith, Kelsey Smith, Kerner Smith Jr., Kerner Smith III, Maggie Smith, Patty Smith, Adrian Snead, Steve Stevenson, Sean Sweeney, Adrian and Sandra Talbott, Chris and Becca Tessin, Chuck Theusch, Anne Tramer, Kyriakos Tsakopoulos, Erika Tullberg, Meg Tulloch, Todd Vorenkamp, Jamie Wager, Stephen Webber, Megan Willems, Don Wilson, Rob Wilson, Ellen Wingard, Martin Vigderhouse, Thomas Young, and Lydia Zamora.