Getting your Trinity Audio player ready...

There’s been a lot of conversation about a monument burning down. And the question that keeps echoing is: a monument to whom?

Just walk with me for a moment.

I’m an eighth-generation descendant of a love that defied everything — between George Fitzgerald and Mary, a woman of Jamaican descent. On paper, she was listed as enslaved. But we have her manumission papers — proof that Mary was a free woman of color.

For all intents and purposes, she was George’s wife. But back then, society wouldn’t dare recognize that kind of love. And when George died, Mary was forced back onto the property with her five children — children marked as “mulatto,” as if that label could define their worth.

This is my story. And I carry it with pride.

I’m blessed to walk in the footsteps of those who came before me, to honor them through the life I live and the work I do.

On my father’s side, our roots trace back to a plantation in Sibley-Kingston, Mississippi — deep in a place we called “Egypt.” That land holds more than history. It holds memories. It holds the spirits of those who endured. We are the children of survivors.

As someone who offers heritage food experiences, I don’t just cook — I tell stories. I’ve stood in grand antebellum homes and felt something deeper than architecture. I’ve felt presence. Sometimes I feel peace — like my ancestors are letting me know they’re proud that I’m telling the truth of who we are. Other times, it’s heavier — a restlessness, a whisper that not everything was healed. That trauma lives in us. Even if science can’t fully explain it, we feel it. We carry it in our blood.

So when I see people celebrating the fall of a plantation house or monument, I understand.

I really do.

It’s not racist to feel joy when a symbol of pain is gone. That relief is valid. We don’t know what people carry. We don’t know the silent grief, the inherited scars they’ve had to swallow just to keep moving. Those systems were never right. Those monuments were never just.

But still… It’s okay to mourn, too.

Because even though those places were built on injustice, they were also built — literally and spiritually — by the hands of our ancestors. Their brilliance is in every brick, beam, recipe, and garden. And when those places are gone, it can feel like another piece of their legacy disappears with it.

Take Nottoway Plantation, for example. It wasn’t powerful because of its columns or wide porches. It was powerful because it stood as proof of what our people built in spite of the chains. Our ancestors were more than laborers. They were architects, seamstresses, engineers, agronomists, chefs, inventors. They were visionaries. They were excellence.

Their labor was not in vain.

That’s why people pour libations. That’s why we reflect. Not because we mourn the structure — but because we honor the souls who moved through it. It’s not just about what burned down. It’s about the stories that lived there. And yes, it’s complicated. Some people feel relief. Some feel loss. But it’s always bigger than just the house.

This isn’t about choosing sides — it’s about making space. For grief and for joy. For pride and for pain. We can celebrate the fall of injustice and still honor those whose hands built the very things now gone.

And let’s not overlook the economic truth: These sites often bring in millions through tourism. But the descendants of the people who built them? We’re rarely the ones who benefit. We’re rarely invited to the table. Our ancestors’ genius created these places, yet too often we’re written out of the profit and the preservation.

Honoring our ancestors must include equity.

It’s about more than memory. It’s about access, ownership, and truth.

In my hometown, we may have more standing antebellum homes than anywhere else in the world. I hope this moment becomes a spark — not for shame or division, but for healing and honesty. I hope communities like mine begin to see these homes not just as relics, but as sacred spaces — places still rich with stories waiting to be honored.

Every time I step into one of those Big Houses, I say quietly:

“Your sacrifice was not in vain. I see you. I thank you.”

And now — people pay to come see me in the Big House.

I wear my royal regalia with pride because I know my ancestors couldn’t fully embrace their culture — but I can. And I do.

I’m grateful that I get to tell the story.

Ashe. Ashe. Ashe.

Jarita Frazier-King is a Natchez resident, an award-winning entrepreneur and executive director of Alcorn State University’s Women’s Business Center.