Charleston, South Carolina
My first stop in Charleston was to pay my respects to Denmark Vesey—a formerly enslaved carpenter who had bought his own freedom in 1799 with the winnings from a lucky lottery ticket. He was hanged in 1822—along with 34 other accused men—for his role in planning a revolt that prosecutors claimed was to involved the raping of white women and the execution of white enslavers. Though it never came to pass, the plot haunted slave holders for decades.
Americans talk way too much about hatred—or love—when discussing the history of this country’s race relations. Fear and greed have always been more critical determinants of how whites have treated blacks throughout U.S history. Greed is what created slavery and subsequent forms of economic subordination. Then came the fear. Whites feared the wrath of those they subordinated. The extent of their fear was often determined by demographics. During and after slavery, regions with black majorities—like the Mississippi Delta—were generally the places where whites were most fearful of black revolt, which therefore justified—in their minds—the more brutal treatment of African Americans.
Charleston, the capital of American slavery, was another such place. From the early 18th to the mid-19th-century, African Americans made up the majority of Charleston residents. The social hierarchy was pyramid-shaped with a thin layer of high-living whites at the top, a free black community in the middle, and a broad base of enslaved blacks at the base.
Those facts alone help explain the hysteria that whipped through Charleston when Vesey’s rebellion was revealed. It also sheds light on white South Carolinians’ hysterical response to John Brown’s raid and why the Palmetto State was the first state to secede after Abraham Lincoln was elected.
But there was something more intimate occurring beneath the numbers. Slaveholding was so widespread in Charleston by the mid-19th century that 3 out of 4 white households owned at least one slave. That meant, as historians Ethan J. Kytle and Blain Roberts elegantly put it, “that most white residents interacted on a daily basis with someone who had every reason to despise them or even wish them dead.”
Vesey was a sixty-year-old carpenter when he was executed for plotting an insurrection. News of the foiled plot led whites to tighten slave supervision and further limit whatever meager liberties free blacks had enjoyed. In short: Subordination led to anger, which led to fear, which led to insurrection, which led to fear, and even more cruel subordination, which led to fear.
According to one contemporary observer, after Vesey’s execution Charleston “seemed to be in a permanent state of siege.” Less than forty years later, the start of the Civil War further heightened fears of slave insurrections.
But there’s a wrinkle in this story. In 2020, historian Michael P. Johnson, a professor emeritus at Johns Hopkins University, published a paper questioning whether the insurrection wasn’t a fantasy concocted by Charleston’s ambitious mayor, who became quite the hero for conducting what Johnson calls ‘the deadliest civilian judicial proceedings in American history.”
Whatever the truth, it wouldn’t have been the first or last time whites projected their own sins onto African Americans and conjured up hypothetical black revenge to justify the further tightening of their control.
Erected in 2014, the statue of Vesey, which was vandalized in 2021, now stands in the middle of a park named after a Confederate general.
