Author: Irina Rogova

Retelling Stories with Proper Language

Irina Rogova Uncategorized ,

by Elizabeth Mejía-Ricart 

How many times have you employed the term “slave” to refer to individuals whose identities would seem to rely on their status as property? Even I have been guilty of using this term multiple times to describe what really are “enslaved people.” Before my first encounter with founder of Untold RVA and community historian, Free Egunfemi, I would have never come to realize the ease with which I used what she calls “the language of the oppressor,” instead of that of the “oppressed.” Indeed, employing words such as “slaves” and “masters” to define groups of people allows for a dehumanization of the institution of slavery, and at the same time, reduces enslaved individuals to the position they held in society, treating them as property instead of people.

As part of Team 2 of the Race & Racism in the University of Richmond project, I have the opportunity to collaborate and work directly with Egunfemi, who aims to spread history throughout the Richmond community about the oppressed. In particular, I have paid close attention to the language she utilizes to empower those whose history has been silenced. As I began conducting research, I have kept Egunfemi’s careful wording in mind, and at the same time her themes of self-determination, resistance, and intersectionality in order to continue her mission of retelling history from the point of view of the oppressed.

My initial involvement in the project has included a close reading and examination of the book Rearing Wolves to Our Own Destruction by Midori Takagi. Fortunately, I was pleased to read stories of the oppressed uncovered by the aforementioned author. Takagi’s text clearly fits the guidelines given by Egunfemi for conducting research, giving enslaved persons a leading role in the history of slavery in Richmond. At the same time, her book highlights enslaved people’s self-determination, resistance, and the different ways slavery affected individuals according to their gender and other identities.

Although to the naked eye this book might seem a perfect example of what our team members are trying to document as activists and archivists, there is an important aspect which the book is lacking— the use of the language of the oppressed in the retelling of this group’s history. While I read Tagaki’s text, I could recognize that even though the author was narrating the story of an oppressed group through their own lenses, she was employing the language of the dominant race. Thus, my job as an archival activist was not done. It was my duty to tell the stories of marginalized groups such as enslaved persons, and document their histories of injustice using the terminology of the oppressed. I continued to document the anecdotes uncovered by Takagi in her book, but the keywords associated with the narrative were those that would paint a more vivid picture of the institution of slavery and that would portray these marginalized groups as people whose identities extend beyond their position in society.

Keywords such as enslaved person, human captor and human trafficker are the ones being used by Team 2 in an active effort to replace terms commonly employed in portraying the history of slavery, such as slave, master/owner, and slave trader. The language we are trying to perpetuate is one that not only emphasizes the severity and solemnity of the institution of slavery, but also acknowledges the individuals’ identity beyond the latter institution. Through our understandings of critical race theory, we recognize the prevalence of white privilege in the American society. The dominant classes have shaped the archival records for centuries, and therefore, they have imposed the language commonly used nowadays to refer to these stories. It is only fair for us, as collaborators of Untold RVA, to communicate those narratives that have been buried and unrecorded by the privileged groups, in a way that will honor the marginalized and resist the systems of dominance and oppression.

Ultimately, language is a powerful tool that can shape our conception of society, including the perpetuation of systems of oppression. In order to effectively challenge these structures and bring about social justice we need to start with a change in our expressions, supporting and validating those that have been silenced and oppressed. So, before you use the word “slave” or “master” again, ask yourself: Who am I empowering?

Elizabeth Mejía-Ricart is from Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic. She is a rising sophomore at the University of Richmond who is planning to major in Economics and minor in Mathematics. Elizabeth is a Boatwright and Oliver Hill Scholar, who is part of the University Dancers Company on campus. This is Elizabeth’s first experience as an A&S Summer Fellow, however, she is excited to discover more about the University of Richmond’s history and about the city itself through Untold RVA and her collaboration with Free Egunfemi.  

Basements and Bontemps

Irina Rogova Uncategorized ,

by Cory Schutter

We’re halfway through the summer and I’m proud to say that I’m mastering the lost art of finding books in the library basement. Surrounded by the smell of forgotten books, I’ve learned that there’s something sacred about moving bookshelves, running my finger along book spines, and finding the right call number.

Black Thunder. PS 3503 .0474 B5x 1968.

I’ve found Arna Bontemps’ fictionalized 1936 account of Gabriel’s Revolt, and I start thumbing through the pages. I have to pause at the first words: “Time is not a river. Time is a pendulum.”

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I imagine the way these swaying narratives sketch a harmonograph of stories with geometric relationships to us and each other. As students learning the work of activist archivists, we have a burden to bring the immaterial world into the physical one. This work triangulates forgotten stories, spreadsheets of metadata, and the creation of new spaces of memorialization. The pendulum is always swaying between the past and the present – stories meeting spaces.

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An Ironic Approach

Irina Rogova Uncategorized ,

by Catherine Franceski

Powhite Parkway, Matoaka Road, Appomattox Street… These are just a few Richmond area streets named after indigenous peoples. As part of my research for the Race & Racism Project, I read Thomas Mustian’s Facts and Legends of Richmond Area Streets. While reading, I was surprised by the number of street names in the Richmond area that have been named for indigenous tribes. To understand the irony and oddity of this phenomenon, it is important to have and understanding the group’s history and legacy in the city of Richmond.

The indigenous population and white settlers in Virginia have had an icy and, at many times, bloody relationship. According to Virginius Dabney in his book Richmond: The Story of a City, the struggle between whites and indigenous peoples started as early as the very first English incursion on the James River into the area that we know as Richmond today. This expedition, led by Christopher Newport, was immediately confronted by indigenous peoples at Richmond, where Newport decided it would be too dangerous to continue further onto land. The explorers left for Jamestown, where many of them were consequently murdered by indigenous peoples. This was the beginning of a hostile relationship that continued for many years. One of the most violent episodes occurred “in 1675 when a Stafford County man and his son were murdered. The treachery by white leaders, who slew several Indian chiefs contrary to a solemn agreement, caused the redskins to go on a wild orgy of killing in the frontier settlements. The slaughter lasted for months, and some five hundred men, women, and children were slain, often after the most dreadful tortures” (7). Here, Dabney, the author, uses outdated terminology such as “redskin,” even while writing in the 1970s, when sports teams were already beginning to change their names and symbols from Native American iconography. More interestingly, Dabney was a liberal writer and opponent of segregation who served at the editor of the Richmond Times-Dispatch for many years. Perhaps his word choice is indicative of sentiment towards indigenous peoples in Virginia at the time due to the enduring legacy of this violent history.

It is important to remember that the white settlers engaged in land theft from indigenous tribes, creating power structures which have dispossessed and subjugated those populations and kept them in marginalized positions for centuries. Because it is rare that oppressors names things after the groups they have oppressed, this, coupled with the violent relationship between the two groups, further raises questions about the abundance of streets named after indigenous tribes. Although I began conducting my research simply looking for stories of self-determined marginalized persons, I noticed these peculiarities and began looking at my research through the lens of irony, trying to find any details that seemed to contradict what I would expect based on facts I had gathered. I found that by focusing on history through the lens of irony, more questions arise and more subtleties are added to an already nuanced history.

Perhaps the streets were just named indigenous names because that’s what the area was always called. Or, perhaps we will never figure out why exactly the streets are named the way they are. Nevertheless, it is ironic that the white people who named these streets would name them after a group they engaged in such violent struggle with for so long. In any event, noticing the irony in this event provokes even more questions, such as, what exactly is in a name anyways?

Catherine Franceski is a rising sophomore at the University of Richmond majoring in Philosophy, Politics, Economics & Law. She is working on the Race and Racism Project in partnership with Untold RVA during Summer 2017 as an A&S Summer Fellow.

Site in the Spotlight: A Displaced Church and an Erased History

Irina Rogova Uncategorized , ,

by Dominique Harrington

Before beginning my fellowship, I sat down and researched sites of black history in Indianapolis in order to prepare for the community engagement aspect of the project.  However, despite the size and rich history of the city, I only found three sites: The Bethel African Methodist Episcopal (AME) Church, Crispus Attucks High School, and Indiana Avenue & The Madame C.J. Walker Theater  (I will be visiting each of them over the duration of this summer).

Bethel AME Church
Bethel AME Church
Crispus Attucks High School
Crispus Attucks High School
Madame CJ Walker Theater
Madame CJ Walker Theater

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Protecting Its Values: Impact of “Lost Cause Ideology” in Virginia

Irina Rogova Uncategorized ,

by Joshua Kim

June 5, 2017. Today, I voted on a poll hosted by the Richmond Times-Dispatch in regards to whether or not the monuments on Monument Avenue  — that honor several key Confederate figures — should be taken down.

This debate has fired up again, recently, after the removal of similar Confederate statues in New Orleans, the question being: Does dismantling these statues erase parts of our history?

Heritage not hate.

The phrase above is popular phrase used to defend the Confederate flag. With it, supporters make the claim that to wave the Confederate flag is to celebrate their forefathers and mothers, their ancestors who lost their lives fighting for their beliefs and pride. This depicts the South in a glorious fashion; as a center of sweet tea and honeysuckles, butter biscuits and warm sunbathes on big green lawns.

What this imagery lacks; however, is the stark reality that the South, specifically, Richmond, Virginia, was one of the leading slave markets of its time.

More so, what this depiction fails to tell us is the active offensive maneuvers Virginia politicians, businessmen, and everyday citizens made in order to create a racial hierarchy that continues to disenfranchise black people today.

“Before the rubble had been cleared from the devastated business district of the capital city, Richmond’s press began to campaign against voting rights for its freed black citizens” (Campbell, Richmond’s Unhealed History, 131).

A key figure in this campaign was Edward A. Pollard, wartime editor of the Richmond Examiner. Pollard is most famous for his book, The Lost Cause (1866), which created a narrative of the South that focused on its intellectual superiority and cultural influence and encouraged the South to retain its pride:

“(The South’s) well-known superiourity in civilization…has been recognized…by the intelligent everywhere; for it is the South that in the past produced four-fifths of the political literature of America, and presented in its public men that list of American names best known in the Christian world. That superiourity the war has not conquered or lowered; and the South will do right to claim and cherish it” (Campbell, quoting Pollard, 131-132).

This ideology resurged during the 1890s.

According to Campbell, “Monuments in Richmond show the power of Confederate themes in that time. The first…the Lee Monument, was unveiled on May 29, 1890. The ceremony began with a procession of 15,000 Confederate veterans leading a crowd which eventually totaled more than 100,000…” (Campbell, 136).

Immediately following the war, Richmond made it a political priority to reinstate dominance over its black population, and part of that process was the creation of these statues celebrating and commemorating Confederate war-time heroes.

But this is not just about statues, but actual laws that were put in place to limit black citizens from moving up the social ladder.

For example, on January 15, 1866, an extreme vagrancy law was passed which made unemployment illegal.

This was later prohibited nine days later by General Alfred Terry; however, its effects were still in place. Campbell notes that during this time “…white employers had already made agreements not to hire freedmen at normal wages, thus forcing wages to be depressed and providing an opportunity for the enforcement of the vagrancy statute” (Campbell, 132).

By denying black workers living wages, white employers were able to maintain economic dominance and establish a pseudo-slavery:

“The ultimate effect of the statue will be to reduce the freedmen to a condition of servitude worse than that from which they have been emancipated a condition which will be slavery in all but its name” (Campbell, 132).

In addition to economic oppression, white people also made it extremely difficult for black citizens to vote/gain power in office. They did this through poll taxes, literacy tests, intimidation, etc. Yet, despite these tactics, from 1867-1868, black people made up the majority of Richmond’s registered voters (Campbell, 134).

To combat this, the city government began to create segregated neighborhoods through “urban renewal:”

“From the very beginning, urban renewal focused on ‘blighted Negro housing.’ By this was meant the black neighborhoods of town. …Beginning with the establishment of the housing authority, white Richmond tore down Jackson Ward block by block… Over the next thirty-five years, in the name of urban renewal, the city council pursued a plan that destroyed or invaded every major black neighborhood in the city.” (Campbell, 152-153).

These residents were often relocated to projects, or they were forced into white neighborhoods. Then, the whites that had been “displaced” were sold housing in new suburbs in other counties, thus, effectively segregating white and black citizens.

White Richmond created a system in which black citizens suffered economic, social, and geographic oppression for the last century. We see the effects of it today when we look at how our community is still segregated by race, how black people are disproportionately in poverty compared to whites, and how we still have statues of Confederate leaders in our city.

When we discuss these monuments and the sentiments placed on them, let us not forget those who were most deeply affected by these men — black people.

Everyday those statues stand as a reminder of the deep rooted hatred and oppression white Richmond citizens have against our black population. They are reminders that, although at face value our city has grown, deep down, we are still the capital of the Confederate south.

Heritage is hate.

Joshua Hasulchan Kim is from Colonial Heights, Virginia. He is a sophomore at the University of Richmond who is double majoring in Journalism and French. Joshua is involved in various clubs on campus: He is the co-president of Block Crew dance crew, the opinions editor for the Collegian newspaper, and is the Co-Director of Operations for the Multicultural Lounge Building Committee. Joshua joined the project as part of the Spring 2017 independent study (RHCS 387) and is currently expanding this research with the support of an A&S Summer Research Fellowship.

Monumental Research

Irina Rogova Uncategorized , ,

By Karissa Lim

Though I had ventured into Philadelphia countless times before, I had no idea where I was going. I walked up and down 19th Street, trying to find Logan Square Park and the two war memorials I wanted to see. Logan Square Park is located in Center City Philadelphia; it is a circular park surrounded by various historic sites such as the Franklin Institute and Central Library. One of Philadelphia’s major roads, the Benjamin Franklin Parkway, turns into a roundabout with Logan Square Park at its center. Flags from different countries line the sides of the parkway. Figuring that the park was a well-known site, I asked a police officer for help; however, he sent me in the wrong direction. After a moment of panic, I looked at my phone and realized my mistake. Once I turned around and walked a few blocks, the crowds thinned out and I finally found the park. My next challenge was to find two memorials: the Civil War Soldiers and Sailors Memorial and the All Wars Memorial to Colored Soldiers and Sailors. I walked around the large, circular fountain in the park, desperately searching for these two monuments. A few homeless people were laid out on park benches and a small group teens were walking around the fountain. Finally, in the distance, I spotted the white stone of the Civil War Soldiers and Sailors Memorial. With cars whizzing past on the Benjamin Franklin Parkway, I began running towards it and hoped that I would not get hit.

Blog1.Photo5_Lim_052917
Civil War Soldiers and Sailors Memorial with a view of the Benjamin Franklin Parkway

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Bringing Suppressed Voices to the Light

Irina Rogova Uncategorized ,

By Benjamin Pomerantz

Preface: Part of this blog will focus on the active racism created and perpetuated by southern white politicians, and part will suggest that even more voices need to be heard in these stories.

Upon reading Benjamin Campbell’s Richmond’s Unhealed History, what stood out most to me was the blatant racism that white Richmonders systematically implemented within the city’s laws. Often times, when we think about racism, it deals with circumnavigating language and actions that might be offensive to those of a certain race. This more “commonplace” type of racism is extremely important to have discussions about, because for many people, their race is a major part of their identity. At the same time, however, there exists a more overt type of racism in the US: institutionalized racism. As evidenced in Campbell’s work, racism isn’t just something that exists and permeates our American society; rather, it is something that people actively create, perpetuate, and legitimize within our institutions.

In response to the 13th Amendment, which outlawed slavery in the United States, many powerful white people in Richmond and in greater Virginia sought to suppress Black opportunities and freedoms. For example, in 1866, the Virginia General Assembly proposed a law that “essentially made unemployment a crime” (Campbell 132). That, combined with the fact that a large number of white business owners had already agreed not to hire Black workers, essentially implemented an overtly racist system of mass incarceration. As put by General Alfred Terry, a former Union general who took over the occupation of Richmond after the Civil War and later overturned this bill, “The ultimate effect of the statute will be to reduce the freedmen to a condition of servitude worse than that from which they have been emancipated” (Campbell 132). During Virginia’s Constitutional Convention of 1901-1902, lawmakers met with the purpose of “discrimination…within the letter of the law, and not in violation of the law” (Campbell, 139), in order to perpetuate the legal oppression of black people. Similarly, J. Fulmer Bright, the mayor of Richmond from 1924-1940, ran (and was elected) on a platform that used the slogan “No Negroes on the city payrolls–city jobs for hard working white men” (Campbell 148). Under Bright’s leadership, according to Campbell, the only government employees hired by the city of Richmond were “black teachers in black schools” (148).

Clearly institutionalized racism has been an active component of Richmond’s history, and the blame placed on the white leadership responsible for this racism should not subside. Now, while placing blame where it is due is a responsibility of historians, it is also important to note that many stories of the post-war South do not provide sufficient information about the lives of those who were affected by the racist laws that were passed. The examples that Campbell gives about racist policies in the city of Richmond and the state of Virginia are important to the region’s racial history, but they leave out key voices–Black people who were affected by those laws and their acts of resistance in spite of those laws. Even though those who perpetuated racism should be held accountable, the fact that the white-focused history of racism is the only one that is told does not seem right. The lives and stories of Black Richmonders need to be a part of the city’s history, because who’s to say that stories of white racism are more important than stories of Black oppression? Because of that question, I am excited to work with Untold RVA in order to bring to light the self-determined history of Richmond’s Black communities.

Benjamin Pomerantz is a rising junior majoring in American Studies and minoring in both Rhetoric & Communication Studies and History. This is his first time working with the Race and Racism Project, and he is very happy to be able to join the team for this summer as an A&S Summer Research Fellow.

Prolonged Consequences of Segregational Structures in Richmond’s Urban Planning

Irina Rogova Uncategorized ,

by Elizabeth Mejía-Ricart 

Segregation, discrimination; these are words that describe a problem that seems long resolved in the privileged American mind. But is it really the case? Unfortunately, the city of Richmond attests that racial prejudice still persists nowadays, due to a failure to address its segregated foundation. In fact, according to Benjamin Campbell in his book Richmond’s Unhealed History, “the troubles that still afflict the culture of metropolitan Richmond have their roots in problems long denied, changes not attempted, prophecy unheeded, injustice unacknowledged.” (p. 150)

Urban planning in Richmond is just one of the many examples of how the segregational policies of the early 20th Century have prolonged consequences that extend to present times. As Campbell contends, in 1929 the city passed an ordinance that required that persons whom the state prohibited from marrying could not live next to each other. Essentially, segregation of neighborhoods was established between black and white individuals. This law had two main consequences. First, it determined housing quality, namely, housing for Richmond black residents was described as “disgraceful, inhuman, pestilential and in a civic sense entirely too costly to be tolerated by the people of this city”(Campbell, 143). Second, it led to redlining by all major Richmond banks. In the 1930s, the federal Home Owners’ Loan Corporation (HOLC) under the direction of the Federal Housing Administration (FHA) rated American neighborhoods for their creditworthiness, using race as one of the major criteria to delineate between neighborhoods. Therefore, as Campbell highlights, every single African-American neighborhood was given the lowest rating and was redlined for mortgages.

Some people may argue that these segregational and discriminatory practices have no relevance nowadays, especially since urban renovation took place between 1955 and 1972. However, we must ask ourselves, who carried out these policies? As Campbell suggests, Richmond’s urban renewal project was in charge of white individuals “with little participation or input from the African- American community” (p. 159). More importantly, with the fragmentation of metropolitan cities into non-related segments, these policies continued to perpetuate segregational systems in Richmond. Nowadays, as a consequence of this urban renewal, we can observe a marked distinction between urban and suburban neighborhoods, which is mainly determined by the racial and class differences. Furthermore, as studies from the Richmond Urban Institute have demonstrated, great disparities in mortgage activity between black and white neighborhoods have persisted even after the discriminatory policies were reversed in the Mortgage Disclosure Act of 1975 and the Community Reinvestment Act of 1977.

However distant words such as racial discrimination, inequality of opportunities and favoritism may seem to privileged Americans nowadays, it must be understood that these practices are still present in our society. It may not seem evident to some, but the truth is that remnants of a segregational foundation deeply affect Richmond’s spatial, social and economic structure. Thanks to the city’s fragmenting planning based on former racial and social characteristics, the interactions that take place are primarily homogeneous and its opportunities continue to be inherently unequal.

Elizabeth Mejía-Ricart is from Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic. She is a rising sophomore at the University of Richmond who is planning to major in Economics and minor in Mathematics. Elizabeth is a Boatwright and Oliver Hill Scholar, who is part of the University Dancers Company on campus. This is Elizabeth’s first experience as an A&S Summer Fellow, however, she is excited to discover more about the University of Richmond’s history and about the city itself through Untold RVA and her collaboration with Free Egunfemi.      

Highways of Meaning

Irina Rogova Uncategorized ,

by Cory Schutter

It’s difficult to wrap my head around Richmond’s provenance. I don’t want to repeat what has already been said. So many individuals have put pen to paper or voice to air and expressed the history of Richmond. They’ve challenged what we know, forever altering the way we have driven down streets and tried to manufacture a city of meaning.

This city comes to life through the pages of Dr. Benjamin Campbell’s Richmond’s Unhealed History. I’ve been reading selections from the book in the process of indexing self-determination narratives in Richmond with Untold RVA. The metanarrative of Richmond’s Unhealed History presents me with a new way to interpret this city. I can no longer look at these streets with a macro perspective, I have to consider the stories I don’t know.

I want to ask questions all along bustling Cary Street, and ask strangers if they’ve heard of Lott Cary, the self-made missionary and physician (Campbell 2011). I want to drive to the corner of 15th and Broad and see where insurrectionists were hanged on the gallows. I want to hear these whispered stories – but I don’t know if such silences can be broken.

This summer, I’ll be reading against the grain: looking for omitted narratives, coloring outside the lines, creating vocabulary to describe worlds that we haven’t discussed. But I struggle to find a word that describes Richmond – my tongue wants to use the word paradox, but I know this is too flimsy to describe a city with such a multifaceted history. Perhaps palimpsest would be a better descriptor, but my heart finds this too analytical and inaccessible. I want a word with a visceral connection that evokes blood and memories and conspiracy.

I want to know more about Cerelia Johnson (2011). Her story is one of resistance. Cerelia served as an elevator operator in City Hall and brought information to her pastor about the city planning to destroy her neighborhood. I have so many questions about Cerelia – I want to know her story of challenging power. I want to know if she’s still alive. I want to know if she has a nickname, what inspired her, and if she continued her resistance. I want to put a face to her name. I want her story to be celebrated – she is more than just a line of words on a page.

How can I describe a city that served as a panopticon for black bodies? How was it that the same fluid soil that gave life to Maggie Walker’s business empire was the same soil turned to mud by bulldozers gashing a highway through the heart of Jackson Ward?

I want to know the stories of power. When male city planners in the 1950’s sliced open the veins of Richmond to create the I-95 highway, did they know that they would destroy the city’s soul? In what ways can I symbolize the fingerprints they left on a city older than them – the way they constrained infinity with sketches of concrete ribbons?

The interactions and improvisations upon Richmond’s body have forever changed the way I view this city. Is there any way to emancipate the city that I have begun to know, to liberate it  from the dominant narratives that have constrained its being? I believe the stories that I’ve heard are more than locally situated nostalgic musings on the past – they have the ability to rupture understanding. How can you build a highway of knowledge on top of a highway of death?

I want a word that makes your eyes water, and you don’t know if its because of the smoke and mirrors or the pride in your heart. I want to describe Richmond with a word that smells like the rain that poured down on Brother General Gabriel’s revolution, with a word that describes the silence of parking lots and superhighways that cover slave yards.

I want to know how these questions of civic identity can be complicated, and I know that my work with Untold RVA will unpack these questions. I look forward to being confronted with more questions, more stories, and a more personal understanding of this city. This summer will be a search for more questions, and a process of learning to be content with some of those questions going unanswered. Because, when I read Richmond, my hunger for answers is often met with the silence of the historical record.

This city is not a conclusion in search for a cause, or a question that has to be answered. This city is self-determined, by gross injustices and glorious reawakenings. It is a city of constrained narratives that asks for liberation.

And so I can only describe this city with its name: Richmond.

Cory Schutter is a rising junior at University of Richmond, a double major in Rhetoric and Communication Studies and Women, Gender, and Sexuality Studies. He is a Bonner Scholar, a Center for Civic Engagement Ambassador, and a Student Coordinator at UR Downtown.

Rethinking Community

Irina Rogova Uncategorized ,

by Catherine Franceski

Have you ever thought about how unique college dormitory community living is? And no, I don’t mean to conjure up memories of messy roommates, or those funky things called “shower shoes.” To me, the community that creates the dorm building is unique and unreplicable in that all types of people, of all races and identities, are living in such close proximity that tends not to happen too often in other residential communities and neighborhoods. I know that personally my neighborhood back home is somewhat diverse, but not to the extent that college campus dorm living is. Unfortunately, the legacy of racism and segregation has endured into many neighborhoods and communities in the US, and especially so in Richmond, Virginia.

Although Richmond had been residentially segregated since the end of slavery, in the early 1900s the Richmond City Council began codifying racial segregation into law. Although some of these laws were struck down by the Supreme Court, clandestine laws with different, more allowable stated purposes other than segregation continued to rule the land. For example, during this time, people whom the state prohibited from marrying could not live next to each other, and at the time, Virginia prohibited marriage between black and white residents. (Campbell, Richmond’s Unhealed History, 143).

Other tactics such as “redlining” continued to keep areas racially segregated. “Redlining” consisted of assigning a grade to different neighborhoods. One of the factors used to assign this grade was race. This made it harder to acquire credit for mortgages in these areas, further contributing to the segregation problem. These wrongdoings only began to be corrected in 1971 when a non-profit organization, Housing Opportunities Made Equal (HOME) of Virginia, began challenging segregated sale and rental properties (143). Structural racism in housing has constructed the geography of metropolitan Richmond, the effects of which are concerningly enduring.

From UR’s One Book, One Richmond’s book of the year, Evicted: Poverty and Profit in the American City, I had been aware of the racial discrimination and segregation in real estate that occurs all over the US. Although this particular book focuses on several housing segregation issues intertwined with race in Milwaukee, the book also addresses other factors such as gender, domestic violence, socioeconomic status, drug abuse, sexual violence, and educational opportunities which also play a part in keeping residential areas racially segregated. This problem is not isolated to specific cities or specific institutions, but rather covers a large amount of area because of its intersectional nature. Segregation in housing is not only because of race, but also, for example, because of socioeconomic strata that have separated different groups of people for decades. When former enslaved persons were emancipated, they could not afford housing amongst white people, if they could potentially afford housing at all. Today, people of color own homes at a staggeringly lower rates than white people. In 2014 in Virginia, 72.7% of white people were homeowners compared to 48.8% of people of color. Housing is a symptom of broader issues such as racial and economic inequality.

Although some of the issues listed above prevent people from attending the University of Richmond in the first place, the university does attempt to get students from a broad array of backgrounds to contribute to a diverse community, including in dormitory living. Although students may begin to self-segregate as sophomores and upperclassmen because more choose to select their roommates than did as freshman, I personally have not noticed this trend emerging. Perhaps the assorted living-learning communities available to sophomores allow for the continued integration of diverse students in residential dormitories beyond freshman year. So, next year when I’m thinking about how much more comfortable my bed is at home and how I wish I was there, I may pause for a second to think about what an unreplicable experience dorm living really is.

Catherine Franceski is a rising sophomore at the University of Richmond majoring in Philosophy, Politics, Economics & Law. She is working on the Race and Racism Project in partnership with Untold RVA during Summer 2017 as an A&S Summer Fellow.