Just before the European Day of Remembrance last week for victims of the Nazis and the Stalinists, someone vandalized and spray-painted a Holocaust memorial centered in a Bulgarian coastal town along the Danube. The mayor called the act despicable and sent crews out to clean the Thanksgiving Monument right away.

The Jewish community had erected the Thanksgiving Monument to honor those who in 1943 refused to transport over 45,000 Bulgarian Jews to Nazi concentration camps. Instead, the property of these Bulgarian Jews was confiscated, and they were forced into labor in the countryside, but they survived. The more than 11,400 Jews who were shipped out of Bulgarian territories before 1943 all died.

In my country, we are trying to reconcile the many parts of our history and make sense of our own wars. Historians claiming the American Civil War is primarily about economics make me angry. Of course that war and the Confederacy was about slavery. Careful reading of my own family history shows its fortunes rose and fell with the handful who owned slaves. They ran out of money when they ran out of forced labor. I have to see these ancestors for who they were: slavery is an evil that passes horrors down through generations. Like a lot of people in Kentucky, I descend from people who fought on both sides of the Civil War. These ancestors had one thing in common: they all died.

In a state of historical perplexity, I took my daughters to the re-enactment of the 1862 Battle of Richmond, Kentucky.  Marie could get a homework pass from school for attending, and so off we went. Yes, there was the expected Southern Pride paraphernalia for sale, some of it bordering even now on the treasonous, along with both Union and Confederate uniforms complete with hand-carved buttons. One shopkeeper described the event as a cross between a family reunion and a camping tFullSizeR[4]rip. We steered clear of the Sons of Confederate Veterans booth and its giant sign, “Protect our Confederate Monuments.” Instead, we sipped root beer brewed on site and got a battle history lesson with a sanctioned guide who led us to the Union camp.

It was hot. Not as hot as the drought-ridden summer of 1862, but hot nonetheless. Marie took off with the other middle schoolers leaving Kaili, our friend Kathy, and I to wander the battlefield. A cannon battalion of African Americans instructed a small white child on mechanics of gun powder. They let him pull the firing rope and commissioned him as an honorary Union cannoneer. His chin jutted out with pride as he was pinned.

She Dunn (R) portrays Belle Boyd and brings along her friend Kelly Burnham to the Union camp.

We stumbled on a Union tent and met a reenactor playing Belle Boyd, the Confederate spy. True to character, she slipped notes to the children asking them to take messages over to a man in a gray uniform. In real life, Belle got her slave to transport the messages in a hallowed out watch case. She also managed to convince not just one, but two former Union officers to marry her. Some called her the Siren of the Shenandoah and others the Cleopatra of Secession. Once, Belle found the remains of bullets shot through her hoopskirt after making a mad dash across enemy lines. The eight layers of clothing served a purpose, even on a hot day.

We left the tent when it was time for the battle reenactment to begin. Lines of soldiers in blue and gray shot blanks at each other. Cannons boomed. Calvary officers charged on horseback and clashed with sabers. For 30 minutes, infantrymen (and some women dressed as men) pushed their way back and forth across the field in front of us.


Kaili looked utterly bewildered and said, “This is what the Civil War was like: two sides standing across a field and shooting at each other?” I replied, “I told you everybody died.” And on cue, one soldier and then another fell. Well, not everybody, but a few. The rest engaged in hand-to-hand combat, then the Union surrendered. The Confederacy actually won the Battle of Richmond. Nobody made a big deal of that, though. The announcer had all the soldiers take a bow, then wept for all the boys who did not make it home. They all died for something they believed in, he said.

Kathy, the girls, and I started walking to our car. “Well, we can mark that off our bucket list,” Kathy said. Then we walked faster, shaking the gunpowder from our hair. The whole thing was just … surreal.

All the way home I tried to figure out how I was going to explain this to the Bulgarians, how we as Americans are still reenacting battles and fighting about monuments. Some are still fighting the Civil War. Then, I wondered: Do Bulgarians have reenactments, too? It turns out they do. I have found an unexpected commonality between Kentucky and Bulgaria, and it, too, is surreal.


Family · Kentucky


My ancestors were thieves and scoundrels, near slaves and certainly slave owners. They were also ministers and soldiers, farmers and bankers, homemakers and lots and lots of teachers. They sharpened knives in England, made leather boots with Lewis and Clark as they hunted for the Northwest Passage, and fought on both sides of the Civil War.

IMG_5284They were an American complexity that I tried to figure out as I stood in a dry creek bank next to a dilapidated bridge, staring into the sunlight at two haystacks not a hundred yards away. This was the promised land.

“There where those hay bales are. That was where they lived. The road ran in front the house. It was a cabin. A log cabin. James and Sarah lived there first and then their son Benjamin. They are buried on that little knoll there, or that one,” said Monty Bryant, a local historian and an incredibly distant cousin I had met an hour earlier.

He stood at the creek’s edge and would go no further. A no trespassing sign was nailed to a tree above the moss-covered bridge, light showing through its cracks. I edged closer to the far bank. The current owner was in local parlance “not right.”

“Can’t I talk with him and see if he’d let us look closer. You know I’m good at talking to people,” I pleaded.

“He has a gun,” Monty replied. Even I know better than to trespass on a Kentucky landowner with a gun.

Our ancestor James Whitehouse was the first of our people to arrive in Kentucky. Born outside of London, his parents and most of his siblings died in an 18th Century tubercular epidemic that killed millions across Europe, “particularly amongst the poorer classes,” according to the Journal of Military and Veterans Health. James was at loose ends when his father, a cutler, died, and he joined what could only be called a gang. The Old Bailey Court records state that he and a buddy came across a woman carrying a silk gown in a bundle. He asked what a whore was doing with such nice things and smacked it from her hand. The clothes were found pawned. For awhile, he hid out at his grandfather’s house, but eventually turned himself in. He was convicted of theft, branded, and sentenced to transportation, 14 years working in Virginia. He was 15 years old.


Loaded with 94 convicts, the Tayloe set out in 1774. Capt. John Ogilvie was a cruel master, chaining prisoners in groups of six and rarely letting them out of the hole during the two-month slog. Somewhere out over the Atlantic, he shot a bird off the deck, who fell into the water. Ogilvie offered freedom for the man who could retrieve it for him. The prisoner who swam out to fetch it was attacked by a shark, lost an arm, and died just after returning with the bird. A sadistic captain wasn’t the only threat.  Lightening destroyed the mast as it pulled into Chesapeake Bay, shaking the ship to the core. All this was recorded in the Virginia Gazette once the vessel landed. But, here is the odd thing about transportation: it likely saved James’ life. He either would have been hung as a thief or died from the White Plague had he stayed in England.

Records of what happened to James in Virginia and the end of his indentured servitude are unclear or lost. More than one historian believes his grandfather may have paid a bond to end his sentence early. Regardless, legal marriage for such men was rare and unlikely, and no matrimonial proof exists. We do know that James arrived in Kentucky in 1783 with a woman named Sarah whom he called his wife and their three children. We do know he served in the military and from that earned a land grant. They eventually settled along Scrubgrass Creek, the dry bed in which I was standing.

Some of their children would be literate. Joseph would write a diary of his account trekking with Lewis and Clark, though much effort was spent complaining about the experience. Monty’s ancestor Benjamin would marry into Abraham Lincoln’s family. My ancestor Joel would never learn to read and would bounce around Kentucky for awhile looking for land of his own before settling in the next county over.

James himself became a respectable and honored man in the community. He served as constable, sort of the law in that edge of the woods. By the time he died in 1819, he owned two horses, five cows, two mules, two pigs, two plows, a flock of sheep, and five yards of silk. A crop of flax was ready for market.

“I love these people, the Whitehouses,” Monty said. “They scrapped a life out of land that nobody wanted.”

Except of course the Shawnee who were driven off from here, but it seemed rude to bring that up. “They worked hard, so hard.”

James’ estate settlement lists a churn, table and chairs, his iron tools, his sundry old books. There would not be a high school for the children living along this road toward Forkland until 1927. Electricity would arrive in 1947. Cell coverage still does not reach this far.

And yet, the people buried over across this creek made the way for my grandfather to become a small town banker, for my father to become a minister, for me to become a college professor. The life they carved out made my life possible. They arrived here with nothing, not even good character. They rebuilt their souls and planted their very DNA into the ground. I had to come here, to see the spot where they settled, even if I had to stand in a creek bed to reach across time.