With Liberty and Justice For All, a permanent exhibit at the Henry Ford in Dearborn, Michigan, sets out to do more than weave a narrative or artfully display a collection.
It accomplishes both of these, to be sure-telling stories of individuals involved in the Revolutionary War, the Civil War, the women’s suffrage movement, and the struggle for civil rights. It uses text and audio and video. There’s a timeline, effective lighting, interactive computers. Artifacts include celebrated pieces like George Washington’s camp bed and the chair in which Abraham Lincoln saw his last play. Other items carry a different weight, things like shackles and a bullwhip and an iron collar.
If it were only these things, it would be worthy of discussion. This is our history, warts and all, and it is good to remember. But this is not only about remembering.
The Henry Ford has created an experience that resonates with and extends history.
To fully appreciate the impact, you have to picture the installation within the layout of the whole. The primary space is wide and high and warm. It boasts a 40-foot ceiling and the world’s largest teak floor. Two laps around the interior perimeter equal about a mile. From the main entry point, there is more than the eye can absorb. There are tractors in front of rockstar outfits, an exploded Model T and a moving assembly line, a suspended plane and a diner, neon signs and cars, presidential limos, and a steam engine.
In the middle of this barrage, a boundary of grey walls sets apart what may be the greatest treasure – the Rosa Parks bus. Restored, painted yellow and green, covered with the ads of the mid-1950s, it is surrounded by a buzzing crowd.
It is the reason I came. I sadly had not been here since its acquisition, let alone its restoration or its home in as the centerpiece of this section. My most recent visit was a whirlwind of children, including two preschoolers and two kindergarteners, more interested in skywalkers and the shiny, round Dymaxion house.
As I move closer, I realize that the bus is not just for looking. Folks are climbing aboard. They are sitting, looking out the window. I was excited. I wanted to get on that bus.
I was almost there when I saw, for the first time, the glass. It is a huge pane; about as long and as tall as the bus itself. I half expected it to slide over like at a drugstore or supermarket door. For a second I thought maybe the guide had to let you in. But he can’t – the glass is a divider, and you must walk through the exhibit.
It starts at the battle for independence: the Stamp Act, Common Sense, the Declaration of Independence, George Washington. Next, tools of brutality that were wielded against men and women in the name of economic need, and the ways people fought back. You consider Lincoln, his struggle to keep our nation together but extend freedom to slaves. It has been a winding, but relatively clear, path.
Coming out of the Civil War, past artifacts connected to the 13-15th amendments, you turn the corner and are confronted. It is the back of a figure in the full uniform of the KKK. The path forks. You may choose to go back, or turn toward the women’s suffrage display, or walk past it and the clansman and into the Civil Rights era.
In this hallway, displays line the left wall. To the right, a mini-theater plays a Jackie Robinson documentary. Mini-theaters similar to this are a part of the fabric of the Henry Ford. But this one replicates a public waiting area in the South prior to the civil rights movement. You have to choose a door – the entrance for Whites, or the entrance for Coloreds.
The first door was the one labeled “Colored,” and I stepped through it partway through the film. I was behind glass. On the other side, the movie played and an American flag hung. I sat on a bench, and as others entered in the door in front of me, they looked back and stared. I was on display; I was a curiosity. One family looked at me a long time, particularly a little girl in a pink top. She disappeared when her mom became engrossed in a conversation that I couldn’t hear. She reappeared next to me on the bench, and we sat silently for a few minutes until she was spotted and motioned away.
I was ready now, and went to the bus. You can sit right where Rosa Parks sat on December 1, 1955 and listen to her recorded version of the story. It is so much worse than I remember from history class. The norms of this route reserved the front 10 seats for whites – she wasn’t sitting there. She was sitting in “her” section, accepting her “station,” but the bus was crowded. The bus driver warned her that if a white wanted her seat, she would need to move back. It happened. She didn’t move. The driver threatened to call the police. She didn’t move. The cops came, and she was moved – and so was an entire people.
On my way out, I noticed two things. One was an interactive board. Sticky notes and pencils were available, and people responded to four questions about freedom and justice. I was not surprised by what I found. On my drive to the museum, I saw scores of people in a wealthy community protesting against healthcare. Healthcare was the focus of the majority of yellow stickies. People responded not just to the questions, but also to the responses: arrows pointing, stickies stacked on stickies. As I sat and thought about this, a woman pointed out someone else’s answer to a question about modern threats to freedom and justice. She ripped it down and crushed it; later, I saw the same answer reposted.
It is a challenge, I thought, to balance these values. Emotions and rhetoric blaze, and we have become so accustomed to polarization and bias that it has become the norm. Minds are made up by reflex, like when the old-time doctor tapped under your knee and your foot would kick.
On good days, arguments and counter-arguments fly. On bad days, people wave signs wherever it’s convenient so they can feel like they’ve done something, and anger-mongers spew the froth of exaggeration, hyperbole, and lies. How will this nation manage, I wondered?
I stepped away from the board and walked the back wall of the display. I was met with the faint white script of the Declaration of Independence on the same grey walls. Their line was broken by four windows. Through the first, I could see a sign within the exhibit – “The Coming Storm.” The second framed Lincoln’s chair. From the third, I could see the women’s suffrage jail cell.
The last window looked dark. As I drew closer, I realized it was on purpose. How will this nation manage? In the last window, all you can see is your own reflection.