Every nation tells stories about itself. Some stories are polished. Some are patriotic. Some are repeated so often they become civic scripture. And then there are the stories buried beneath the monuments. Memorial Day is one of them.

Unburying this American truth helps the country realize that so much of its greatness has been shaped by contributions many Americans simply never learned about. Take, for example, the Kentucky Derby. Thirteen of the first 15 Kentucky Derby winners were Black jockeys, and Black riders won 15 of the first 28 races, dominating the sport during its earliest and most formative years.

Or consider the American West. Contrary to Hollywood mythology, many of the first American cowboys were Black men – not the sanitized commercial images often seen on sports logos, entertainment branding or Western folklore. Historians estimate that roughly 1 in 4 cowboys in the Old West was Black, many of them formerly enslaved men who became ranch hands, horse breakers, scouts, lawmen and trail drivers, helping shape the expansion of the American frontier. This pattern is not unique to sports, labor or Western folklore. It is part of a larger American habit of selective remembrance. The same is true for Memorial Day.

Today, Americans honor the fallen from every branch, every conflict and every generation. Flags wave. Families gather. Cemeteries fill with flowers. Politicians deliver solemn speeches about sacrifice, patriotism and freedom. Yet many Americans do not know this: one of the earliest and most extraordinary acts that helped give birth to Memorial Day was led not by generals, not by Washington politicians and not by wealthy veterans’ organizations, but by newly freed Black Americans in Charleston, South Carolina.

Yes, Charleston. The same state that fired some of the first shots of the Civil War also became the setting for one of America’s earliest and most profound rituals of military remembrance. That irony should not be lost on us. In May 1865, mere weeks after the Confederacy collapsed, formerly enslaved Black Americans in Charleston performed an act of breathtaking dignity and patriotism. This reminds me of what billionaire film producer, director, philanthropist and actor Tyler Perry did as he reformed an old Confederate building into a Black studio, Tyler Perry Studios. 

At a former Confederate racetrack that had been converted into an open-air prison camp, hundreds of captured Union soldiers had suffered disease, starvation, neglect and death. At least 257 Union prisoners had been buried hastily in unmarked graves. For many, this was simply wartime tragedy. For freed Black Charlestonians, it was a moral emergency.

So, they got to work. With their own hands, they exhumed the bodies, reorganized the burial sites into dignified rows, constructed a proper enclosure, and built an arch overhead bearing the words: “Martyrs of the Race Course.” Pause and consider that.

These were people who had only recently emerged from legal bondage; people who had been denied citizenship, dignity, education and autonomy. Yet when confronted with forgotten dead soldiers, they chose reverence over resentment. Service over silence.

Then came May 1, 1865. Nearly 10,000 people, most of them Black residents, gathered for what historian David W. Blight later described as one of the foundational acts in the birth of Memorial Day. Three thousand Black schoolchildren marched carrying roses while singing “John Brown’s Body.” Black pastors preached. Freed men and women prayed. Union soldiers drilled. Flowers covered the graves. Patriotic songs filled the Charleston air.

The New York Tribune described it as a historic procession unlike anything South Carolina, or America, had seen. That was not merely remembrance. That was citizenship. That was gratitude. That was nation-building. That was moral leadership. That was America being taught how to honor its dead by people America who had only recently denied humanity.

Scripture reminds us: “Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves…” — Proverbs 31:8. And: “There is a time to weep… and a time to mourn.” — Ecclesiastes 3:4. That day in Charleston was both.

People who had endured slavery chose remembrance instead of bitterness. They honored men who died fighting for a Union that had not always fought for them. That is extraordinary. It reflects a moral generosity that deserves far greater recognition in the American historical imagination.

And yet, like so much Black history in America, this story was pushed aside. Over time, the more sanitized narrative prevailed.

General John A. Logan’s 1868 call for a formal national “Decoration Day” became the dominant origin story. Arlington became the symbolic centerpiece. Official institutions took ownership of remembrance. Public memory shifted. But history is not always erased through dramatic destruction. Sometimes it is erased quietly. Through omission. Through selective textbooks. Through institutional silence.

Historian David W. Blight’s landmark scholarship in Race and Reunion helped recover this hidden truth, while more recent reporting has reminded Americans that Black Charlestonians were central to one of Memorial Day’s earliest observances.

Let us be clear: Memorial Day today belongs to all Americans. Blacks, whites, Latinos, Asians, Native Americans, men and women, the disabled, veterans, immigrants, Gold Star families, every race, creed, and generation touched by military sacrifice. That is exactly as it should be. But inclusion should never require historical amnesia.

Edmond W. Davis is an American social historian, international speaker and Amazon No. 1 bestselling author. He is a global authority on the Tuskegee Airmen and is the founder and executive director of the National HBCU Black Wall Street Career Fest.

Comments