Every year on August 11th, around sundown, I go to the statue of Jefferson where people tried to kill us. One year I defaced the statue a little, with chalk. I broke a tiki torch. Most years I do not. Most years I just sit. There’s other people who were there that night who come every year, although there’s less and less. This year, around sundown, it was just me and another guy, and his partner. We only see each other in August. We follow each other on social media. He’s good people and so is his partner.

We sat off to the side on comfortable benches. I felt the brass plaque engraved with someone’s name, somebody rich, cool between my shoulderblades. We talked about how there were fewer and fewer people every year here at the statue, commemorating the date, talking about it. Less and less of us as the students who were involved have all moved away.

A large Indian family came up the stairs and took pictures of each other in front of the statue. They seemed to be a wedding party. The young bride was happy. The young groom wore a canary yellow Nehru jacket.

One of us said to the other, they have no idea at all, do they. And no, they didn’t. They were very happy. They were going to get married. At least they were in my mind. They gaggled up the stairs of the Rotunda and around.

We sat in silence. It wasn’t so hot tonight. Every year we sit here on these benches and watch people enjoy the August twilight, a couple of weeks before school starts. Kids are starting to come back. In 2017 I ran up to one, a young black kid, standing in the street over Nameless Field as the mob lit their torches. You can’t be here, I said. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. They’re racists. He said, but what do I do? Where am I supposed to go? I said, I’m sorry.

And in 2023 a father took pictures of a young man and his female companion in front of the statue. They were very happy.

I’m gonna go tell them, I said.

I walked up and told them, hey, do you want me to take a picture of all of you? The dad said yes. They were grateful. They were very happy. I took a photo.

Do you know what happened here? I asked.

They were confused. When?

I pointed to the chalked messages around the statue. August 11, 2017 small in number, mighty in spirit.

I said, right here where you had your picture taken, racists surrounded us and tried to kill us. They tried to set us on fire.

They were astounded. They did?

Do you know about what happened here in Charlottesville on this date in 2017?

I knew there was some sort of fight, the father said.

On August 11 students came here and surrounded the statue and fascists tried to kill us. I ran tto join them. The fascists threw fuel on us, and then lit torches.

Oh my God, said the kid.

You didn’t know about that?

I knew there was some sort of a fight, the father said.

The next day, they would kill Heather Heyer. They wanted to kill us. Are you coming to school here?

I’m coming to law school, the kid said.

It probably wasn’t on the brochures, I said.

It wasn’t, the kid said.

The University knew it was going to happen, I continued.

That wasn’t in the information either, the kid said.

Still, I’m glad you were ok, said the father.

I’m not. Someone hit me that night and I had a stroke a few days later and part of my brain died.

Oh, said the father.

Wow, said the young woman.

Yeah, I said.

Where were the police? the kid asked.

I pointed. Twenty feet away, I said. Right there. The fascists got a signal and all put out their torches and started walking away, and then the UVA police came over to us and told us to clear out, that we were an illegal assembly.

God, said the young woman.

They knew it was going to happen, I said. And they watched the fascists try to kill us.

That’s awful, the father said.

It’s awful, I agreed.

Still, you learned a valuable lesson, said the father.

No I really didn’t.

Sure you did, you learned that life is precious. You have to savor every day.

Nearly dying doesn’t teach you anything, I said, but I wasn’t really talking to anyone in particular.

Still, said the dad.

We talked a little longer. The details are hazy now, an hour later, but I recommended Nora Neus’s book and told the kid it was important that he knew. He seemed to take it to heart. He pulled the book up on his phone. He was coming to law school. He looked maybe 16. Maybe he was. We said our goodbyes.

I walked back to my bench, rubbing my eyes. No, they didn’t know, I said.

How long before someone does a walking tour? my friend who I only see in August asked.

About what happened here? UVA has shitcanned it.

We’ll all have to be dead, he said.

I started to say, well I’m 52, so… I didn’t though. We’ll all have to be dead, I repeated, agreeing.

Now I’m home, an hour later. An hour later, even with the details hazy, I know I did learn something that night, something about the calculus the powerful have. Not even calculus, basic math. How many dead and destroyed and maimed and blown is a good night’s sleep worth? The answer is, as many as it takes. How many days until it’s all forgotten? As many as it takes.

August 11, 2023