Here Comes The Flood

I'm in Richmond, the capitol of Virginia and (for about four years) the capitol of the Confederate States of America. It's also the first southern city I've been to - and though many of my California colleagues have told me not to bother with the region, I have yet to see much difference between this and a similarly sized west coast city. The locals I've spoken to (all friendly) have given me a handful of recommendations, the most promising of which is a park built on historic Belle Island. An excitable college kid working in a comic book store tells me that the island was once home to the city center, and was burned down by Union forces after a decisive battle, with no purpose except to teach the Confederates a lesson.

A quick tour of the internet proves this story to be quite false. The island certainly has its place in civil war history, but only as a prison camp. The north tried to capture it once, and failed - and that's about the most decisive event the island was part of. I am still curious to see it - not only am I intrigued by a city park built in the middle of a river, but I'm curious about where this kid's fascinating but fictional story may have come from.

Is it some deep-rooted southern pride, subconsciously crafting a story which attempts to cast the north in a less heroic role than history has?

Not likely. Probably, he simply heard the story and remembered it, solely because it was more exciting than the truth. I myself would prefer to believe it, only because the ruins of a city center would fascinate me even more than the ruins of a military prison. Any attempts by my mind to cast this guy as a "the south will rise again" touting proud southerner would just be due to my own pre-existing stereotypes of the south, which I will have to cast off if I intend to pass a fair judgement on this town.



I take one look at the bridge to the park, and am sold instantly. A walkway suspended by a towering overhead freeway, it's exactly the type of oddball architectural choice that I love most. And as if it weren't enough, the James River below is currently flooding, its now muddy waters high enough to swallow its smaller islands. The tops of trees can be seen poking out along the way, shaking as they resist the flow.





As I had hoped, there are a handful of ruins in the park, though they aren't the most impressive I've seen. I'm more fascinated by the people here - are they all flag-waving confederate sympathizers, here in remembrance of some fictitious military travesty?



Of course not. I've seen more of those Johnny Reb flags back home in California. The people here are just people in a park. There's a thirtysomething couple walking their dog, a cute hipster girl on a bicycle, some hyperactive young boys playing in the wreckage of what may have once been a stable. The same types of people you would find in Portland or Chicago, proving that the stereotype of southerners as loud, ignorant racists is just that, a stereotype. Perhaps it exists in some isolated cases, but to lump this entire corner of the country in with that due to some now-ancient history is foolish.



Crossing the bridge back, I look at Richmond's modern skyline, safe from the ugly ancient waters which rage beneath me. I consider using this scene as an extended metaphor - "water under the bridge" and all that - but I realize that it would be a pretty stupid literary device.. And besides, if it really is ancient history, why dwell on it? Better to just forget the whole thing, and move on.