This interview with Professor Amrita Chakrabarti Myers comprises part of The 1701 Project, a venture led by The Yale Historical Review.

1. mrita Chakrabarti Myers is the Ruth N. Halls Associate
Professor of History and Gender Studies at Indiana
University. Holding a Ph.D. from Rutgers University, she is
a historian who studies the black female experience in the United
States and whose research focuses specifically on the intersections of
race, gender, and power in the Old South.
INTERVIEW
FESTERINGAmritaChakrabartiMyersonthewoundofracism
Interview by Henry Jacob Transcribed by Cynthia LinJULY 21, 2020
You opened your recent op-ed, titled From slave pa-
trol to storm troopers, America's police have an ugly
history, with the statement: “America has been set on
fire.” This is a striking sentence in both its syntax and
word-choice. Could you break this passage down and
discuss its layers of meaning? I wrote that version of
the op-ed for the Courier Journal. I've only told two or
three people, but I have a longer piece that will come
out in the Washington Post later this week. I only had
800 words for the Courier Journal; The Washington Post
gave me 1400. With more space, I can contextualize the
slave patrol from 1704—the founding of the slave pa-
trols in South Carolina—to the present.
Originally, I used the line “America is burning” because
I began the piece when the protests had just started and
fires raged around the country. When the article was
ready to come out, it made more sense to write: “Ame-
rica has been set on fire.” It’s been set ablaze physical-
ly and metaphorically. White people have lined up in
front of Black and brown bodies to protect them right
to the gates of the White House.
I'm happy that people are active, but I’m also puzzled.
I found George Floyd's murder horrifying, but what
made it more horrifying than the other cases I could
sadly recite to you? Too many have been needlessly lost
to police violence.
During Memorial Day weekend, the NY Times ran a
poignant, front-page piece on the 100,000 dead mark.
20,000 of those 100,000 were Black people. George
Floyd was murdered that weekend. Black people are still
being shot to death like dogs in the street in the midst of
this pain and suffering. The powerful don't care if Black
people live or die.
On that point, you spoke at the “Enough is Enough”
protest on June fifth. In your speech, you call for the
end of America’s exercise of domestic and foreign
power through acts of state-sanctioned violence. You
also describe the importance of reallocating funds
from the police and DOD to healthcare, education,
and reparations. We've talked about how this cur-
rent crisis has made this necessity even more visible
A
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1701 Project

2. to Americans. Could you discuss strategies to disen-
gage the police from institutional power? We can't even
conceive of a future without the police. The first formal
police force was created in the 1830s in this country. It’s
the same with the carceral state. Formal prisons didn't
exist in the U.S. until the late 19th century. It didn't always
look this way, and it doesn't have to look this way. If we
can expand the military’s budget, then we can invest in
healthcare, education, and infrastructure. We’ve always
had the money; we just need to choose where to put it.
This pandemic has also shown us that we need to disen-
gage healthcare from employment. Millions were laid off
within weeks and lost their health insurance when they
needed it most. To me, “right to life” means access to me-
dical care, affordable housing, clean water, and food. We
need to reallocate resources from destruction and put
them towards things that will give us life.
Also, I know you mentioned that you “didn’t know this
many people lived in Btown” a couple of days after the
demonstration. How have you maintained your com-
munity’s energy both in person and online in the past
weeks? What advice do you have for young historians
and students? When I went to the “Enough is Enough”
protest, I looked around and said, “I didn't know there
were this many people in Bloomington in the summer-
time!” I've never seen that many people come to a protest
in Bloomington, especially in the summer. There has not
been a protest in Bloomington that large in forty years.
We had a near lynching on the Fourth of July that made
the national news. Five white men attacked Vauhxx Boo-
ker, an African American man who sits on the Human
Rights Commission, at Lake Monroe, a mere ten minutes
from my house. Everybody hangs out there, particularly
in the summertime.
This incident was vicious, but not isolated. A sixteen-
year-old African American man was attacked at Lake
Monroe over Memorial Day weekend. One young man
was profiled in his own neighborhood just for taking a
walk. He was born and raised in Bloomington, graduated
from Bloomington South High School, and profiled for
taking a walk. Some IU football players boating at Lake
Monroe had the DNR law enforcement called on them.
This has been a summer of continual agitation in Bloo-
mington.
Other communities feel unwelcome here. Muslim wo-
men in hijabs have been harassed. Black students on any
given Friday or Saturday night coming out of restaurants
and bars get called the N word. Swastikas have been
painted on overpasses in town, and the Jewish Commu-
nity Center has been the target of vandalism. Twenty-
one years ago, an Asian student was gunned down on the
streets of our town. We celebrated that terrible anniver-
sary two weeks ago.
People pat themselves on the back and say, “we’re so pro-
gressive because of Indiana University.” No, we are racist
just like every other place in America. An openly pro-
fessed white supremacist sells goods in our farmers’ mar-
ket.
Malcolm X warned that “Anything below the 49th pa-
rallel is the South.” He is still right. Of course, Canada
isn’t perfect. I was born in Canada, and I can tell you that
it’s a settler colonial nation. It has perpetuated genocide
against Indigenous people. But, they have set up Truth
and Reconciliation Commissions with First Nations
peoples. Canadians have begun to acknowledge their
wrongdoing, and they're trying to move forward. The
Myers' next book, The Vice President’s Black
Wife: Resurrecting Julia Chinn, looks at the
interracial relationship between US Vice
President Richard Mentor and Julia Chinn.
Photo courtesy of Abra Clampitt
ON THE NEXT PAGE
2 AMRITA CHAKRABARTI MYERS
“I hope students
come out of
my classes as
thoughtful,
justice-oriented
citizens who want
to make the world
a better place.”

4. wound has yet to be purged here.
I’m going to dwell on your phrase: “the wound has yet
to be purged.” It's festering.
You were born and raised above the 49th parallel but
have stayed in the US since graduate school. As you
mentioned, Canada carries its own troubled past. How
has living below the border changed your perspective
on your home? My family still lives in Canada. I haven't
gone home this year, which I normally do. The difference
is striking. I relax and breathe in a way that I'm not able
to here. My family regularly—and especially over the last
four years—begs me to come back home. They worry
about gun violence.
Canada is polite, but it hides things. It's only just now be-
ginning to acknowledge its own history of slavery. There
were no African-Canadian history courses when I grew
up. That’s one of the reasons I came to the US to get a
PhD. I couldn't get a PhD in Black women's history and
slavery in Canada back then, because nobody had a pro-
gram.
You've won awards for your teaching and mentoring.
Could you speak a bit about how you disseminate this
message to your undergraduates and graduate stu-
dents? In addition, how do you envision your role as
both a scholar and a mentor? How do you train the
coming generation of historians? Do you have any
particular advice you offer them that you are willing
to share? It's certainly not an easy message, and it's not
one that every student appreciates hearing. Studies from
the American Historical Association and the Organiza-
tion of American Historians show that people who look
like me face more difficulties standing at the front of the
classroom, teaching certain kinds of history.
It doesn't matter if you work at a small liberal arts colle-
ge or a major research university. My evaluations in my
upper level classes—like Wenches, Witches, and Welfare
Queens; Sex, Lies and Diaries; and From Mammy to Mi-
chelle—are over the 90th percentile.
In freshman, general education courses, a contingent of
students say: “She hates white people”, “She’s a reverse
racist”, “She should go back to where she came from.” I
found these comments very hurtful when I was a brand-
new assistant professor. Then I realized that I was part
of a larger statistical demographic. They called me a lot
of really terrible names that I will not repeat because I
don’t use those words, but I have simply learned to ex-
pect these things over the years, especially now that I’m
about to finish my second book and go up for promotion
to full professor.
On the first day, I carefully go through the syllabus. I tell
them I have a doctorate in US history, but my fields are
African American history and women’s history. I specia-
lize in Black women's history in the Old South. I tell them
that we’re going to focus on gender, sexuality and people
of color, the voices left out of the traditional narrative.
It's not that the master narrative of the dead white pre-
sidents isn't important. They set up the structures with
which we live today. But what about the other 99% which
most of us are? We need to know those people's stories
too: the indentured servants, the regular people, enslaved
people, women, Indigenous folks, everybody.
I let the documents do the work. Students need to hear it
from those who lived it. These are books written by folks
on the margins—the least, the last, the lost in society.
Transgendered Black women have the lowest life expec-
tancy of any demographic in the United States. That’s
why I've decided to include Janet Mock’s memoir this
year in my “Mammy to Michelle” class. I could discuss
how horrifying it is to be a Black, transgender woman in
America, but I couldn't do it better than Janet Mock.
Iseemyselfasafacilitator.Idevelopdiscussionquestions.
I work with them in small groups. I provide context for
the readings and the materials, but I want them to do the
work. I lead, but I don’t lecture. I assign papers, short as-
signments, and think pieces because I want them to de-
velop reading and writing skills. I hope students come
out of my classes as thoughtful, justice-oriented citizens
who want to make the world a better place.
I like your use of the word facilitator. It captures not
only a central task of the educator, but also of the his-
torian. Just as you mediate among your students so
do you massage past events into a singular narrative
that informs the present.
Let’s shift to the topic of citizenship. On the second
page of Forging Freedom: Black Women and the Pur-
suit of Liberty in Antebellum Charleston you pose the
central theme of your work through a question: “It is
this larger issue of the contested meaning of freedom
4 AMRITA CHAKRABARTI MYERS

5. that interests me. Exactly how are meanings of free-
dom crafted by different groups of people, and how
are the rights of citizenship negotiated, and renego-
tiated, between people and the society in which they
reside?” Citizenship means many things. What does
it mean for you as a dual-citizen? I could have taken
citizenship here a long time ago because I've lived here
for twenty-four years. I didn't take it until shortly before
the 2016 election because I wanted to vote.
I think that these are fluid terms. Words like “freedom”
and “citizenship” change over time. It also depends on
one’s life experiences. I ask my students what freedom
means to them. I tell them that they can't use phrases
like “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” I want
them to think deeply about their own lives. What does
it mean to them to be free? If someone took away their
freedom tomorrow, what would they miss most? How
does that help them to define what freedom really
means to them?
For me, citizenship is the same way. The concept can
change over your lifetime. My definition of citizenship
has evolved since my 20s. I struggle with the word be-
cause I'm a Canadian, that’s my first identifier. I've li-
ved here for a long time, but Canada remains my home.
To me, citizenship is wrapped up in these feelings and
meanings of identity.
A very good friend of mine told me how painful it is
when people yell, “Go back to where you came from!”
She's African American, and tells them, “I'm not leaving
here. My ancestors built this country.” She's fiercely
Afro-centric, but she is an American, not in that false,
patriotic, flag waving way, but in a powerfully, intima-
tely, emotionally connected way. I have that concept of
citizenship in mind. I have papers here, but you can't
pull me up from where I’m rooted.
You can take the girl out of Canada, but you can't take
Canada out of the girl. People will give you much more
sophisticated answers about law, policy, and rights. I
could give you all of that, but there's something integral
about one’s roots.
I couldn’t give a better answer. Home never leaves
you no matter where you go. I didn't expect to go there
on that question, but it's been hard this year, not being
able to go back. My parents are seventy-five and eighty-
four —time is precious.
This makes me think about all of those who struggle to
come here. They pay all this money and walk thousands
of miles across incredibly dangerous terrain, risking
their lives because they want to make this their home.
They've left everything, and yet we close our doors. We
put our guns on them, turn away children, and lock
people up in cages simply because they want to have
a home. that is the most heartbreaking thing of all. We
lock them up for the crime of wanting to put down
roots. This just hurts my heart. We have a lot of work to
do on so many levels.
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