From Joe Fronczak:

We saw unspeakable evil this afternoon and we walked unholy ground. I felt complicity. I don’t know why but I did – actually, I do know why but it’s one of those things I haven’t learned to put into words. As soon as we pulled in to the plantation I felt the power of our situation. The sign read: DESTREHAN PLANTATION GIFT SHOP. I was struck by the juxtaposition there. I think that’s where my feelings of complicity came from – the sign reminded how much of the world I live in, the world which rests upon the unmarked graves of women who were mothers of daughters, men who were fathers of sons, all unknown to us today, how much the world I live in was built with the sweat of their brows, their labor which they were forced to do and from which they received no reward, save another day, perhaps a day without a whipping or a beating or a raping.

Shortly past the sign, we started backing out and I thought we had decided to just turn around and run – and for a moment, I hoped that we would. [Charlie] Haden and [Hank] Jones were playing "We Shall Overcome" and that gave me whatever was necessary to go on. As we watched the video which opened our tour, I felt the horror, the self-hatred, the rage, the fear welling up within me. I had all sorts of emotions – I was overwhelmed but I was also concerned with how much of this pain should be mine. I felt like it wasn’t my place to be feeling all this pain – like I was disrespecting my Black brothers and sisters in our community by acting as if it was my last name which was given by someone who owned my ancestor. It was then, when I started crying in that darkened room, that I felt a hand on my back. It stayed there for the rest of the video. I turned around to see who it had been, assuming it would have been someone I’ve become close with, maybe Genella, Jake, Heather G., Tyina, Smilin’ Steve, whoever. I was moved to see that the hand was Michelle’s, whom I’ve hardly talked to, intimidated by her beauty and self-confidence. It helped me to realize how much of a community we are. I don’t think I’ve ever been more grateful to a person.

Steve, Craig and Tim had warned us that the folks working at the plantation would not see things as we do, that they might be defensive, but I was in no way prepared for what it was like. Our tour guide’s presentation was about prayer schools, parlours, ladies’ portraits on the wall, tall ceilings. It was surreal. My God was on the wall, near where a white lady prayed for her soul three times a day, probably once when she rose in the morning when the slaves were already hard at work, in the afternoon after a lunch served to her by slaves and in the evening before going to rest while her husband raped an enslaved woman. It came to a point where I could no longer put on a façade of interest in what her presentation was about so I just stayed in my thoughts, a room behind…

As I said before, it has been a day where I’ve seen and heard symbols at every turn. In addition to the fire, Jeff and Michael’s return, and Miles, a symbol that strikes home for me was one that I heard shortly before that cleansing late afternoon rain began its pitter-patter on the roof of the plantation. It was the crow of the rooster.

In one of my favorite books, Walden, Thoreau begins by saying that he wishes to act as chanticleer, to wake up his sleeping neighbors. Thoreau, among so many other things, was an ardent abolitionist. In "Slavery in Massachusetts," he reminded those neighbors that their concern for slaves in faraway places is spite for those at home. His point was clear – mere talk about the evils of the south is worth little without action at their northern homes.

I’ve never been around roosters so I had always been under the assumption that they only crow at the first hint of dawn. So when it was well into the afternoon when I heard the rooster begin to crow outside the window of the plantation parlour’s window, I couldn’t help wondering if it was attempting to awaken the people at the plantation, indeed, all of us, from our slumber.

From Jerome Dotson:

I wonder what to do with the anger I feel. I don't have an answer for that one, at least not a complete answer. It is an oversimplification to say I should do something. But I also know, thinking back to Diane Nash, that there is a way to deal with this anger so that it doesn't eat me up inside. Of course I had to smile a little as we left the plantation because I walked right out the front door so to speak and no one stopped me with threat of violence.

From Charles Hughes:

[My] sorrow peaked when I walked in the gift shop and saw the frilly dolls and jigsaw puzzles depicting a moonlit estate. All I could envision was a mother running away because the master sold her baby. All I could see was a man whipped for defending his dignity and humanity.

From Lexie Kasdan:

I cannot believe the glorification and romanticization of such a brutal history. I think about my own history -- of visiting a place where my ancestors were systematically brutalized and imagine those places presented in a beautiful and celebrated context. I try to fathom concentration camps with men dressed up in Nazi uniforms pretending to "entertain" and tend to the Jews they have imprisoned.

From Megan Vail:

While walking into the wooded area of the plantation, I met Leah. We took one look at each other and I started to cry. But now my tears were tears of sadness. I felt empty, helpless, and destroyed. When she asked me what it was I said, "I can hear their voices."

From Kate Jorgensen:

How do all of these white people react to a group like ours, with people of color crying? Do they realize why? How many black people ever visit this place?

A prayer offered by the Reverend Vernon C. Tyson, at the Destrehan Plantation:

Oh, Lord, we pray your blessing upon all those who lived and loved and labored and died in this place; for those who poured out their gifts on land that could never be their own; for women who birthed babies unattended; for children whose genius went unacknowledged; for all your children who struggled and sweated in the hot sun, and knew in their bones there was a better place. And we ask your peace and your healing for those on this bus whose cheeks burn with tears and whose eyes have been seared by sights that hurt them deeply. We ask your guidance that these pains might bring a harder wisdom. And we ask your help that we not become prejudiced against those who are prejudiced, or whose prejudices are not our own. For we acknowledge and confess to you that we, too, have been tempted to love things and use people, when you have called us to love people and use things. We ask your forgiveness for our complicity in these evils, and your healing for our hearts, and we thank you for journeying mercies and the love that binds us one to another and to our homes and families, and to you.