Dr. Rex Ellis
Smithsonian Institution

Words are so inadequate. They are beautiful things when used correctly, but I, like you, have seen words, spoken eloquently, delivered with passion and commitment, fall short of the mark because the one who spoke them didn't believe in them. I have seen ministers who have the power to convert every soul in the church, engage in practices that the meanest sinner would avoid. I have seen people at the institution I work at, convince the world of their brilliance in the books they write, the lectures they present, the exhibitions they mount, the objects they collect and, the research they conduct; yet they use those gifts to deceive, abuse, malign, belittle and betray those around them.

I have spoken before countless numbers of people of all races, creeds and backgrounds. They all seem to enjoy my presentations but I often leave wondering if my words last the span of time it takes them to get to the parking lot. We all deceive ourselves into thinking that there is something we will say or do that will make a difference, and most of us continue making the effort in hopes that we will make a contribution, no matter how small ... but it's hard.

It's hard to believe anyone can have a lasting impact in a day and age when America On Line, CompuServe, Genie and Prodigy can give you information and services from around the world and you don't even have to leave your home to get it. It's hard to think that mere people talking can make a difference, when I can fax a document to Paris, from my laptop computer as I sit in my backyard watching my son cut grass. It's hard to believe I can make a difference or say something significant without a slide projector, overhead projector, video, or interactive monitor that can provide you with vivid color images supporting my discussion.

We can receive over 80 channels on our cable now. We can beep anyone around the world. We know more about O.J's trial than he does and we have so much information, I'm convinced we can make a better decision, based on the evidence, than the sequestered jury. We are in the midst of a technological revolution that is changing the way we live in drastic ways, no matter where you live. Native Americans in Alaska, Oklahoma and Arizona have downlink sites on reservations that allow them to receive information on everything from AIDS to alternative irrigation systems. The Black College Satellite Network is broadcasting teleconferences to literally every black college in the nation, exposing them to individuals, concepts and ideas that are on the cutting edge of what's happening around the world. But none of the technology is worth a tinkers damn if the motivation is one that glorifies profit instead of empowerment; says more about what you can do for me rather than what I can do for you; is more fantasy-driven instead of reality-driven.

We are inundated with smooth talkers, do-gooders, moralists, and a host of people who think they know more about what's best for us than we do. There are many people who make a living doing this. They say what you want to hear, the way you want to hear it and then they ride off into the sunset, they leave you pumped up and ready to conquer the world, (at least until you get to the parking lot) with no other ammunition than a desire to make a change. We're a strange and dangerous lot, we speakers.

So what gives me the right to come here and speak before you? Especially after I've begun on such a cautionary note. other than an invitation from Hugh and Valerie and the information they have sent you, along with the little you already know, what can I possibly say that will comfort, inform, persuade or even entertain you?

Another thing I have learned in my travels, is that people, no matter who they are or where they come from, love their children (most of the time), want to be safe, want a better life, respect their history, and need more money than they have. I also haven't spoken to a group yet that does not feel they are misunderstood, misrepresented or oppressed. Even the oppressors feel oppressed, so sharing information about how anyone triumphs over any of these issues is sure to at least generate some thought, on the way to the parking lot.

I was born, not too far from here in Surry County. When I was a year old my family moved to Williamsburg. My daddy was a brick mason, carpenter, plumber, you name it he could do it. He felt he would be more able to find work on the other side of the river so we moved to Williamsburg.

For as long as I can remember, we lived on the "Old Fort Road" in a house that my father built himself from the ground up. I knew it as Queen's Creek Road. When someone asked where you were from in those early days, you generally replied "East Williamsburg"; never "York County" or "off Penniman road", that connoted a lower class neighborhood that most of my contemporaries and I did not wish to align ourselves with. In other words, it was too country.

I grew up, like most of you, in the vicinity of what many consider the world's foremost outdoor history museum--a fact that many of my friends and I never understood or appreciated. Ironically, I never knew or even suspected that Colonial Williamsburg's significance had anything to do with me as an African American. To those of us who lived in the black community during the 'fifties and 'sixties, it was simply a place to work; it was our McDonalds; our Pizza Hut. It was where you worked during the summer or after school to earn extra money. The significance of it as a place to visit was never even talked about, except by a few well-meaning teachers, who were careful not to mention that it was the capital of a slave-holding colony.

I remember once, during my elementary school years in the late 50's, our class was marched to a nearby highway leading to the association of town to wave at Queen Elizabeth II, who was on her way to Williamsburg. I knew she was a special person, but it never dawned on me that she was coming to visit a special place.

To us, Colonial Williamsburg was simply the place out-of-town visitors were trying to find as they blocked traffic. The "Restoration", as most people in town called it, was a hindrance, nothing more.

Almost everyone I knew worked there at one time or another. My brother worked as a dishwasher, my father once laid bricks at Bassett Hall, Mr. Rockefeller's hangout; my Uncle was a bell hop at the Williamsburg Inn, and my next door neighbor was the housekeeping supervisor for the Motor House. Full-time, part- time, after school, on weekends, during the summer or following retirement, black people of the town flocked to Colonial Williamsburg to pursue the almighty dollar. No one I knew was getting rich there, but no one was refusing to work either.

Once I even worked as a bus boy at the Motor House Cafeteria, (it's called the Woodlands now). I left after about three weeks--frustrated by the low wages that were offered and tired of cleaning up after "white folks".

Even then I sensed that there was something different about Colonial Williamsburg. It always had a special aura about it. Whether you acknowledged it or not, it was there. It was as close as my best friends father, who was a chef in one of the restaurants until his retirement. It was in the faces of all who worked there.

Whether you worked as a janitor, waiter, busboy or maid, working at Colonial Williamsburg made you feel ashamed. The way people looked at you; a flippant gesture; a caustic look; a condescending smile, each took a toll no matter how subtle.

Each family handled that shame differently. My uncle justified it by bragging about the tips he made. others asserted that their jobs were easy; that they were just collecting a check. Still others mentioned fringe benefits like bringing home extra food given to them that would have otherwise been thrown out. My father simply refused to take us there to visit and since he was a brickmason he could simply avoid accepting jobs there.

I would be a full time employee before identifying the source of what that feeling was. It was slavery; Colonial Williamsburg constantly reminded us all of a place and time that flourished because we had been slaves. That was why my dad and most black people who lived on the periphery of the town felt the way they did. They were (economically) forced to work at a place that reminded them of a time they were desperately trying to forget; a time that was responsible for their continued dependence. No one maligned those who worked there. After all, Colonial Williamsburg was one of the area's largest employers. But anyone who went there to visit, I grew to learn, had to be white or crazy.

Now, my knowledge of slavery and its legacy was equal to the rest of those living in my neighborhood; we knew virtually nothing about it. We understood what a slave was and knew only too well that we were not enjoying the rights of full citizenship-- even I knew that. That was all we knew. So anything that brought up the institution responsible for our present condition was to be avoided like the plague. Grown-ups never talked about it, except to say how bad it was, and we never dared bring it up except when it served to illustrate what "they" did to us.

So when I began working in Colonial Williamsburg years later in 1979, I should not have been surprised (as I was) to find that that old feeling had also returned; that slave feeling. I was reminded anew of a 200-year-old condition that for some reason still lived and flourished in the colonial capital. Most blacks were still holding the same kinds of jobs and relegated to the same status they had when I was a bus boy years before. Slavery itself was no longer legal and no one was forced to work, but the same psychological forces that began the initial conflict (i.e. economics, racism and the need to create a dominant social order) could still be seen.

So on top of all this, like most of you, I grew up being a controversial figure just because of who I was. In addition to worrying about puberty, finding a girlfriend, being cool, wondering what I was going to wear each day, doing homework, dealing with hygiene problems, sex problems and parents who didn't understand me, I also had to deal with being black. And a black male at that. I didn't know I was controversial until very recently, but I always knew, from the first time I was called a nigger, that I was different.

Throughout my formative years we only had one television and that was black and white. I remember watching television shows like Howdy Doody, Mickey Mouse, My Friend Flicka, Rin Tin Tin, Mighty Mouse, Roy Rogers, Space Ghost, Clutch Cargo, Zorro, I Love Lucy, Superman and Our Miss Brooks. Later in the sixties it was Leave it to Beaver, Dennis the Menace, My Three Sons, and when mama wasn't watching, The Twilight Zone or the Outer Limits. Then there was Bonanza, there was always Gunsmoke, Our Mission Impossible, Petticoat Junction, The Beverly Hillbillies, Peyton Place and The Wild Wild West. In the seventies it was Dark Shadows, Star Trek, The White Shadow, The Jeffersons, All In the Family and Good Times. Cable was unheard of.

I was almost out of my teen years before I saw a commercial acknowledging that black people had bad breath, body odor, or used Tide and Cheer to wash their cloths with too. We simply were not to be found on any commercials that talked about these things.

We were taught by television, the radio, local newspapers, magazines, as well as the stores and shops we patronized, that a beautiful woman was blonde, brunette, or redheaded. She had to have shaved legs, painted fingernails, wear make-up, tweeze her eyebrows, dress well and have a fine figure. Handsome men had to be white, clean shaven, well-dressed. I can even remember with many black males tried to look like whites by putting processes in their heads and buying instant status symbols like cars and clothes they couldn't afford.

Our white heroes were Harry Truman, Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt, and Dwight D. Eisenhower. Our black heroes were Lena Horne, Paul Robeson, Wilt Chamberlin, Bill Russell, Sammy Davis Jr., Diahnne Carol and a host of entertainers and athletes who had "made" it.

I was an adult before I knew that civilization began in the continent of Africa; that Africans, our descendants, had Universities of learning that were attended by famous Greek scholars. I never knew that people like W. E. B. DuBois, Charles H. Wesley, Carter G. Woodson, Luther P. Jackson, and John Hope Franklin were writing about our history before I was born, or that African writers like Cheikh Anta Diop, were being read by European scholars before America was America. I didn't know about Granville Woods, or Edward Hawthorne, of Archie Alexander or Alain Locke or Jupiter Hammon or any number of Africans and African-Americans who were vacant from the history, math, science and literature books we studied during my years in public school. That has affected the way I view the world. Even more important, it has affected how I feel about myself. Because I couldn't see myself in the American experience, I like many successful black people, have had to overcome the power of negative thinking; to affirm who I was in a society that, at best, ignored me constantly suggested that because I was black I would never quite measure up. Or that if I was successful it was just a matter of simple blind luck. And all because of a decision someone made before I was born to exclude some pieces of my history and play up others, even though both were a part of the historical record. That has indeed affected my view of myself and my relationship to the world around me.

At Williamsburg, we tried to set the record straight. But not without causing great trial and tribulations. There was dissension from visitors who witnessed our programs, and there was also dissension from within the Colonial Williamsburg staff. See, we were not bookbinders, carpenters, silversmiths or cooks, we were portraying slaves. Blatantly and publicly we were saying, look at us, then come on over here and listen to the other half of this story about America and how it began. we got all kinds of reactions. The kind that build character. For instance:

Dateline: Fall of 1985, place The George Wythe House. Mr Wythe was a Mayor of the town, a professor at the College of William and Mary, and mentor to Thomas Jefferson. A newly hired historical interpreter begins her first day. She has had three months of extensive training that includes considerable information on blacks in Williamsburg. Excited about the possibility of including this subject in her very first interpretation, she discusses the varied life of Mr. Wythe with her first audience. She then includes information about his slaves, in her brief introduction to the house. Feeling a sense of accomplishment, as the group leaves, she catches sight of the building coordinator--someone she perceives as a mentor--to get feedback on her performance
The building coordinator looks at her with a deadpan stare and replies, "it was o.k. but you can leave out the slave shit!"

Dateline: Summer, 1984, place, Robertson's Windmill. A veteran historic trades interpreter is approached by a male visitor. The visitor, who takes on an aggressive and confrontational posture, begins with this question, "Let me ask you something, don't you think that your people are better off, and have done more to better themselves since you've been here in America? All right, you were bought here as slaves, but you have to admit that you are better off because of it. You're coming from a primitive society, where you have no since of government, community, economics or civilization. We bring you here, educate you, civilize you--granted it was under system of slavery, but all things considered, don't you think you're better off today because of it?" The interpreter, too angry to speak, walks away in disgust.

Dateline: Summer, 1987, place, outside the Courthouse of 1770. A historical interpreter is waiting to meet a group of youngsters. With her is a young black boy dressed in 18th century costume. A male visitor and his wife pass them and the male approaches the little boy. Hefting him up into the air, he growls, "well we know what you would have been back then don't we?" His wife, embarrassed and obviously more sensitive than her spouse says, "Ralph, put him down and stop that". Placing him back on the ground, the husband replies, "oh he knows I was just kidding". The interpreter, genuinely shocked by the incident, proceeds through the entire day with the young man without mentioning the incident.

Dateline: Summer, 1989, place, Wetherburn's Tavern courtyard. A white couple have just witnessed an African American interpreter play the role of one of Henry Wetherburn's slaves. The interpreter has been witty, jovial and playful. The couple, seemingly appreciative of the portrayal, thank the interpreter and begin to leave the area. After a few minutes they return. The Husband approaches the interpreter and proclaims he is interested in buying him. Then, as an after thought asks to see the interpreters hands. As the interpreter obliges him, the visitor replies, "nope I can't buy you, because you're a house nigger'!!

Dateline: December 1990. Place Carter's Grove Mansion. A white female interpreter has just finished a tour. She has pointed out along the way that the house could not have run as smoothly as it did without the help of the servants, some of whom she has mentioned by name. As she finishes her tour, she is approached by a middle-aged couple. The female questions the hostesses comment during their walk through the kitchen area, that there was social closeness a well as social distance between the races. She disagreed with that statement and proclaimed that there was no physical closeness whatsoever. The interpreter explains how masters cared for their slaves and then prepares to greet the next group. As she thanks them for coming and walks away, the female responds, "You must be a nigger lover"

Providing the information, the setting, the artifacts and the exhibits is hard, but finding ways to talk about things that people are uncomfortable with and don't want to hear no matter how "important" it is, is even more difficult.

And then before you know it, our communities began to make other changes that make the difficult work of rewriting the master narrative of our historical past even more difficult. Not in terms of the material presented but in terms of the audiences we try to reach.

a year ago, I attended a wedding of one of my employees. She had asked me to sing for her. The wedding rehearsal was on a Friday and right after work I met her at the church, which was located in Northwest Washington DC. Because I had taken a cab to the church, after the rehearsal, she asked her best man to take me to the nearest metro subway stop so that I could go home. I live in northern Virginia. She asked him to take me to a particular stop, but I paid no attention because I assumed he knew the area. As we drove along the streets making small talk, he questioned, "Why did she want me to take you to the Pennsylvania street station. There's a subway station just around the corner?" I said, I don't know, any subway will be fine. I can find my way no matter which one it is. So he took me to the nearest station. As we were heading to the station, I noticed a young black male running along a sidewalk in front of a series of row houses, much like many of the Brownstone and frame houses you encounter in Washington. After every five or six steps held look back and then run again, as if he were running from someone, but I saw no one pursuing him. He looked about 20, was dressed fairly conservatively and did not appear to be dangerous, at all. The man driving the car was so busy talking about his truck that was in need of repair, that I don't even think he noticed the young man running. I said to myself, if he is not concerned and he lives in this area, I'm just being foolish and showing my suburb mentality, so I simply did not focus on it any further.

As we rounded the corner, I could see the subway station and a lot of people milling around. This was a major stop for city busses as well, and people were heading for the subway and waiting for the bus. As he let me off, I closed the door and began walking toward the subway entrance. Just then, two young black boys passed by me running. one on each side. The one on my right, had a large bulge in the sweatpants he was wearing, and he awkwardly ran while he held it in place. I was convinced it was a gun. Just then, something said, "look behind you" , as I did, I saw a third black man directly behind me looking as if he was just about ready to pounce on me. As I turned to look at him, he slowed down his movement in my direction, as if because I had now noticed him he was going to pretend he wasn't thinking about me at all. As I continued to watch him he looked beyond me in the direction of a large group of people and began to run as if he had seen someone he recognized. I watched him and then realized he was with the other two who had passed me and they were all, at this point, surrounding the young man I saw running when I was in the car. He had tried to lose himself in a crowd of people but they had seen him. As the last young man reached him, he hit him in the back of his neck. The shock of being hit from behind unexpectedly stunned the young man for a moment and instead of him turning to fight or defend himself, he took off running. As I got on the escalator leading down to the subway, I watched the three men as they continued to pursue him across the street and on into what looked like a local park. The crowd of people continued to go about their business as if they had witnessed nothing out of the ordinary. My heart was beating so fast I wondered if anyone noticed the fear that I felt mounting in me. I immediately became super aware of my surroundings. The subway seemed to take longer than usual to arrive. Each person I saw seemed dangerous and untrustworthy. Finally the Subway came and I got on. Even as I sat on that Subway heading out of harm's way, it seemed as if people were staring at me. It was after hours by now, and to see someone dressed in a suit with a leather briefcase must look enticing, I told myself. It took about thirty minutes for me to reach the stop, in the suburbs of Northern Virginia, where my wife was waiting to take me home. I cannot tell you how I felt. This was a different kind of fear. This was a fear born of helplessness that I had never felt before.

I have prided myself, most of my life for trying to do the right thing. I have spent a considerable part of my life trying to help the museums I worked at be more responsible and inclusive in dealing with the history and experience of my people, and here I was just as likely as anyone else, of losing my life. But the major surprise for me was that these young men seemed to think of what they were doing as a game. I have no doubt that I would have been harmed had I not turned around to watch that young man. When he hit that other victim from behind, even that seemed like a game. He didn't seem angry, upset or bothered in any way; it was as if he just wanted to play; to see if he could attack someone in a crowd and get away with it. It was a game, a game of life and death and they were like predators. That hurt. To see my people acting that way and to see them with no regard for life or respect for individuals, hurt.

As you struggle to make Weyanoke even more of a reality, be aware that we cannot afford another monument to dead, rich, white men whose lives are in no ways reflective of the people and times in which they live. We can no longer aspire to the heights of aesthetic sensibilities when we, and our children, our wives and husbands, our friends, and those we love, cannot walk down the streets safely. We can no longer have a lively discussion about ladder back chairs, Chippendale tables, and candied violets when we may not make it back to our homes as we leave this place. I am not interested in a museum, cultural association, or any other educational institution, that sees artifacts, objects and things as sacred and the visitor as secondary. I am not interested in pure research that does not seek to enhance the quality of our lives. I am not interested in any institution that displays, exhibits or showcases hate, bigotry, violence, genocide, abortion, drugs, oppression, slavery or AIDS and not take a stand about their affects on our society.

And I certainly am not interested in museums who avoid such issues giving such excuses as, it does not relate to our collections; our such issues are not a part of our museum's our mission; we're a science museum and science and technology is neutral, or we're an art museum and only special people can appreciate art.

Our children are carrying guns to school, marijuana use is on the rise, life and death are no longer sacred and you want me to believe that museums, the traditional mirrors of culture and tradition should simply state the facts jack? Maybe your museum, but not mine. Take me to the Museum of the Confederacy, the Valentine, the Holocaust Museum, Greenfield Village, Colonial Williamsburg, The DC Children's Museum, The Museum of History and Technology in Seattle, the Museum of Flight, The Field Museum, the Strong, the Chicago Historical Society, The National Civil Rights Museum and thousands of other museums who are no longer satisfied with scholarship that does not teach, collections that don't evoke thought, and exhibitions that don't challenge visitors to consider and reflect upon the world they live in.

Museums and institutions like Weyanoke represent in the things they collect, the research they perform, and the programs they offer, a mirror of who we were, what we are, and even what we may be. They house the puzzle pieces of our world, what we know, what we think we know and what is yet to be discovered. We cannot blithely use them to satisfy our own selfish need to showcase our expertise so portions of the world can marvel at how smart we are. If we really want to show our brilliance, we can do it by investing in the only thing that will live after us, the children of tomorrow. I choose to believe that we can do that; I choose to believe that the power to improve the quality of life on this planet is infinitely greater than the equations, artifacts, experiments and hypotheses that will exist long after we have become extinct.

I applaud what you are seeking to do here at Weyanoke. I wish you Godspeed. Thanks for listening.