I wasn’t in Charlottesville during the upheavals in this summer of discontent, but I know some who were. They sent videos, photos and witness’ accounts – thanks to which, I followed those threads of reasoning on which truth is frequently suspended. That is, I formed an idea of what happened, and, perhaps more important, of what the event means, symbolizes, suggests and foretells.
Given the turn taken by subsequent events a clarification is on order. Lest any of my twenty-five readers suspect that I am suddenly seething with lust for right-wing ideologies, I am not. But that slice of road scholarship in me – “road” not a spelling error – revolts against the re-writing of history, especially when the motives are devious, obvious and diabolical, as we will see later. And my heart for anger burns.
For whatever we have collectively deposited in the sacred treasure of the past, should be out of the reach of accident, or violence, nor should it be lost by our own weakness, or another’s malice.
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