Faith Works 8-4-23

Faith Works 8-4-23
Jeff Gill

Historical memory in community life
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When Steven Spielberg made his magisterial movie "Lincoln" in 2012, he and scriptwriter Tony Kushner made some changes to the strict history of the period they were depicting, in the first months of 1865.

There is much to praise, historically, in the narrative and the acting; politically, the story as we get it squishes together (as films always do) multiple conflicts with more complex issues behind them than you would get just from the story around log-rolling and patronage and moral suasion, even if Tommy Lee Jones's Thaddeus Stevens is the spirit of the man to a T. Dickinson College has some wonderful resources online in their "House Divided" webpage that helps to unpack what's historical and what's literary license.

A particular and peculiar set of changes the filmmakers employed was to obscure the names of most of the opponents to the Thirteenth Amendment, the formal and legal abolition of slavery in the United States.

With 183 House seats at the time, 122 would have to vote "yea" to secure passage of the resolution; with 8 Democrats abstaining, passage required 117. The amendment received 119.

Opposing the measure were Fernando Wood of New York City, and Ohio's George Pendleton, while the floor leader for the Republican majority was James Ashby. Ohio was strongly on both sides of the debate, in fact. The two Democratic leaders are given their own names and accurately their own words and demeanor. But for the dramatic final roll call, almost every "nay" vote was given to a fictional name.

Why? The filmmakers never said; there was controversy after it came out, but it was around descendants, politically as well as by actual lineage, who wanted their ancestor's "yea" votes more prominently featured.

Which would support the idea that they knew giving a "nay" to someone whose descendants were still around to object would raise some issues they could just as easily sidestep.

I know how they felt. If you've been reading my columns the last few weeks, let alone the series I put forth early in the spring, you know I'm trying to tell a painful story and seek modern day lessons from an often obscured part of our local history: how the Ku Klux Klan a century ago gathered thousands in Newark, a hundred thousand at Buckeye Lake from around the state, and in November of 1923 literally took control of county government, as well as the county seat's governance. It didn't last, but not because anyone thought better of their decisions or renounced hate and division. It would take the revelation of corruption by the movement's top leaders, and misuse of state and national funds, to cause the Klan to fold its hoods and tents and recede back into the darkness where their rallies by torchlight were held. The beliefs? Those didn't just vanish.

As someone said when I was showing earlier drafts of my writings on this subject: "you better be careful about calling someone's grandfather a Klansman." I've not done so, but after the first columns ran, I've gotten many messages from people whose grandfathers, in fact, were. And they've asked that I not use their names even when they invited me to retell parts of their stories, which I understand.

But you see the dilemma? There are organizations and institutions and churches, let alone persons, who gave themselves over to the Klan ideology and agenda, openly and avidly. In 2023, they would I think all disavow the Klan's perspective. Does that mean I should, like Spielberg in "Lincoln," keep their names out of historical consideration?

People yes; institutions, perhaps not.


Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and preacher in central Ohio; he's still wrestling with the ethics of past practice and present discrimination. Tell him how you would tell the story at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.