She should leave but sat for a little while longer, slowly understanding that Celine had ignored what this place was so she could have what she wanted. What must it be like to not see what Mira did? To have the privilege of such a choice? Around her, all the guests had settled into such an easy narrative without even the hesitation of a questioning thought, and Mira wanted to know how they were able to do it—to enjoy a moment like this, drinking in contented peace, while admiring the view. To look out and say—oh, how lovely, and not think any more beyond the perceived beauty before them. To marvel at the twisted limbs of the surrounding trees, their branches climbing toward the sky, toward their heaven, and not see lynching trees. To have their drinks served and not wonder how many of those working for them were the descendants of slave owners. They sipped their drinks and talked among themselves, undeterred by the history of this land.

The bartender girl continued with her work, cleaning up after the messes patrons left behind, and Mira thought of all the workers she’d encountered as she passed through the grounds. Unnamed because they didn’t need names to do their jobs, not to the people who’d come. Each one of them smiling and serving everyone they saw, including her. The black man who’d given her the ticket, the black men and women performing their song and dance, the black hostess greeting diners at the restaurant, the black cooks and bussers and servers—they each had treated her the same as any of the other guests, and it made her question what her own role was in this place. She wasn’t Celine, no, but she recognized her own privilege in the moment. She watched what unfolded around her and did nothing, and because of that, who was to say she was any better? The dynamic that had been created was not lost on her, this replication of what once was, and because of this, a deep sense of shame came over her. It had been there from the beginning, but the feeling clarified itself as she finished the last of her drink. She felt shame for participating, for coming and being complicit. She felt shame for the circumstances that had led to a place like this existing. Shame for the realization that even after all these years of progress, this was where we’d come, to this corrupted version of the past we all thought we’d left behind.

V.