On Saturday, we went to the Octagon House and the Shaker village. The Octagon House is the kind of place that you’d think wouldn’t exist any more. It’s too…too…exactly what it is, reeking of tobacco smoke and lost causes. And yet, what became clear to me walking around it is that a lot of the horrors of history get lost when the preservers of those horrors learn to be ashamed of the preservation.
This is the back of the Octagon House.
The Confederacy is not dead inside. Which, I think, is fitting, since the owner was a huge confederate sympathizer and hid guerrilla fighters in his house and in tunnels leading from the house.
But this, this I had never seen before and did not know was a thing. These are the metal tags–literally dog tags–that slaves who often had to leave plantations wore so that white people would know where and to whom they belonged.