Of History and Hope
From The Raleigh News and Obeserver, May 25, 2003
Story by Kelly Starling-Lyons

Outside Hope Mansion, history hung in the air like wisteria blossoms. Windows bedecked with glowing candles beckoned guests for the Governor Stone Bicentennial Ball as they drove up the lonely road.Each breeze rustled memories of this place. The columns. The double-portico. The green sweep of land, barren of crops now, overwhelmed for a moment, recalling belles and beaus, laughter and moans, enslaved African-Americans who toiled on the surrounding acres and in the house -- the bittersweet song of the antebellum South.

But this night was different. The double doors at both ends of the main hallway framed the white and black board members of the Historic Hope Foundation as they greeted guests. An elegant white tent on the plantation grounds sheltered a black jazz band that jammed on Ellington's "Satin Doll" and Grover Washington Jr.'s "Mr. Magic." When the music changed to classic dance tunes, couples threw off their wraps and hit the ebony-and-white-checked floor, grooving away the evening chill.

Hope Plantation had never held a ball quite like this. Ollie Bond, a black woman in a shimmering seafoam-colored gown, danced the shag with Hope ball co-chairman Charlie Griffin III, who was white, to "Oh, What a Night." Bond, a member of the Historic Hope Foundation board, still has the program from the 1972 fund-raising gala and remembers what she wore -- a blue sleeveless gown with a slit and a mink stole. Her husband wore a tux. People received them warmly at the tour of Hope mansion and ball at the National Guard Armory. They had a good time. But other than the bartenders, they were the only African-Americans there, she said. She danced just with her husband all night.

For more than two centuries, Hope Plantation divided people by race and class, a symbol of white prestige and an emblem of black subjugation. The pain of history did not end with emancipation but continued into the 21st century. But now, on the 200th anniversary of the mansion's completion, this twin-edged landmark has the potential to be a catalyst for healing and reconciliation.

"It's moving in the right direction," Bond said.

Hope Plantation was born in the late 1700s when widow Elizabeth Hobson, who inherited the thousand-acre plot from her husband, married merchant Zedekiah Stone. Stone named the land in memory of Hope parish, where Hobson had been raised in England. They began a family and life there, in rural Bertie County, about 120 miles east of Raleigh.

In 1793, Zedekiah Stone deeded the land to his son David as a "gift of affection" and wedding present. David Stone, who became a Superior Court judge, U.S. senator, North Carolina governor and University of North Carolina trustee, envisioned the manor he would share with his wife, Hannah.

Hope Mansion rose from the ground as a grand dwelling that showcased Georgian and touches of Federal styles, a double house of sorts with a main hallway running through the middle of the first floor to court cooling winds. Upstairs held a drawing room and library with 1,400 volumes, one of the state's largest collections. It would be a home for raising a family and entertaining friends, a place where dozens of slaves raised cotton, wheat and corn, performed trades and supported the plantation and the Stones' way of life.

After Hannah's and David's deaths, Hope passed to their only son, David Williamson Stone, who sold it years later. The plantation changed hands over the next century until the mansion eventually became the home of tenant farmers.

At different periods, whites and blacks occupied the house and worked the land. Hope became a favorite place for children to cut school and scrawl graffiti. The exterior deteriorated into a shabby, tumbledown specter of its former self. The mansion looked a ruin in some eyes, but members of the Bertie County Historical Association saw hope. The mansion had once been an architectural treasure. In 1965, they chartered the Historic Hope Foundation, established a board of directors and arranged to buy the home and about 18 acres for $25,000, stretching payments over four years. They hired a historian and restorationist. Through painstaking research of David Stone's personal inventory and papers, they began bringing Hope back to life.

They had a lot of work to do. Some shutters, sections of porches, the exquisite furnishings that had once adorned the house were gone. The Historic Hope Foundation was a private nonprofit organization, so government money was limited, board member Clara Bell said. Accurately restoring the house came with a hefty price tag. The group got early grants from foundations, some money through the General Assembly and Historic Hope members. In 1968, the foundation kicked off its biggest fund-raiser, the Governor Stone Ball.

Guests came from across the state, and a new tradition was born. After that, the mansion came to life every two years with balls that helped pay for restoration work and furnishings. The events grew into social affairs that attracted people from hundreds of miles away. In October 1972, Hope was dedicated and opened to the public.

Something Was Missing

From the outside, Hope Mansion was like a phoenix, emerging renewed. The facade, with restored double porches and railings and fresh paint, recalled the grandeur of the wealthy from another time. Some in Bertie County celebrated the restoration of the historic dwelling. Others saw something painful and disturbing in its resurrection.

In a county with a history of separation between whites descended from wealthy plantation owners, lower-class whites and blacks, Hope slowly became a symbol of racial divide. Historic Hope board members were white. They served terms until death, Bell said. Membership in the foundation was open to anyone, but people who were interested in restoration work at the plantation tended to be white.

Hope itself was a reminder of a torturous past for some African-Americans, who make up more than 60 percent of Bertie County and 80 percent of the area's public schools. They were turned off by the effort to restore the plantation without any recognition of African-American contributions or pain. Some refused to step on the grounds though the plantation was just four miles west of Windsor and near Southwestern Middle School. The strain grew, but few people talked about the issue.

A few walls fell in the late 1980s. While continuing its other work, the board turned to education, a favorite cause of Gov. Stone and of Jack and Margaret Tyler, who are considered the mother and father of the restoration.

The foundation built an educational center with classroom space that Bertie County schools could use. The board invited Southwestern's principal, Norman Cherry, to join, and he became its first black member. About 1990, the board got rid of its self-perpetuating policy for one with term limits to allow for greater diversity in race and age on the board, Bell said. The board started a black history committee and the first celebration of black heritage.

Some African-Americans helped with planning. But many stayed away. Some argued that the changes were superficial. Others complained that the tour showed a sanitized version of history. Still others were repulsed at celebrating an institution that supported slavery. The passion swelled and the gulf widened.

"There's always an undercurrent that Hope should be telling African-Americans about their families and their history," Bell said, "but we weren't getting any feedback from them."

An Issue of Money

The Bertie County Board of Commissioners never had a woman chair until 1998 when Patricia Ferguson, an African-American, won the seat. Four of five commissioners were African-Americans, who were sensitive to the concerns about Hope. People had already begun to question whether the county should continue to support the historic site with the $22,000 the plantation had been receiving each year.

"Even with African-Americans [working with Hope], it seemed an internal clannish-type situation to some people," said Hope board member Dr. Benjamin Speller Jr., dean of the school of library and information sciences at N.C. Central University in Durham. "The perception was that it's an insular, parochial approach to this."

The 2001-02 budget brought the racial issue to a boil. These commissioners faced budget cuts from the state and had a different idea of what Hope meant. They talked about how best to meet the needs of Bertie County communities and families, Ferguson said. They evaluated money given to nonprofits and decided that Hope showed a lack of sensitivity to the black community and that the money could be better spent helping to bring the races together.

The commissioners rejected Hope's usual $22,000 budget. Instead, the board used $11,000 to start a human relations commission to help promote race relations in the county and promised the other $11,000 to Hope if it helped bridge the gap between whites and blacks, Ferguson said.

"It was a wake-up call to Hope," said Gail Perry, a fund-raising consultant. "They couldn't keep their heads in the sand about what was happening in Bertie County."

Hope hired Perry to examine its market and audience and to develop a strategic plan. She called Angela R. Bryant, a consultant for Visions Inc., a business that offers diversity training, to help mend the rift. Bryant asked for volunteers from the Hope board to participate in several days of discussions. She started with a small group of people from Hope and talked about slavery and oppression. Then she led a similar talk between Hope members and community leaders who had been critical and supportive of the plantation effort.

"Our mission was bridging the gap," Bryant said, "helping both sides see the blind spots of the other."

The mending began at Hope. Bryant's group toured the plantation and heard about Gov. Stone and the period furnishings. They saw the land that enslaved African-Americans once worked, harvesting cotton and corn, and where their humble quarters may have stood. For each person, the journey conjured different emotions.

At the heritage center, the plantation's educational center, people sat in a conference room in a circle and began to talk.

Some people struggled to find the words to express their feelings or carefully chose them out of fear of offending, Bryant said. Others were defensive. Then slowly, comfort grew and truth flowed. People shared personal stories of race and privilege. Blacks and whites talked about their perceptions of Hope. Some whites explained their interest in preserving architectural and cultural history and their admiration for Gov. Stone, a scholar and prominent politician. They asked why the symbol of Hope hurt so much. Some blacks shared their fear of what Hope stood for and how it helped keep alive an old system of inequity and dredged up painful reminders of the past.

"It's interesting how people view the same object," said John C.P. Tyler, Bertie County's clerk of superior court, president of the Hope board and the son of Jack and Margaret Tyler. "Everybody doesn't see the same picture when you put it up on the wall."

Dr. Nayland Collier, chairman of the human relations commission, said he was most moved by the whites who apologized for slavery and listened to blacks share what that legacy meant for them today.

"It was emotional for all sides," Perry said, "whites and blacks. You don't often get people like that in a room agreeing to be frank and open with each other. That's what has fostered a new level of acceptance and understanding."

After the last day, Bryant brought everyone together to brainstorm ways to sustain their momentum. How could they interpret the plantation's history and still respect the feelings and experiences of blacks in the area? They talked about ways to build appreciation for the lives of African-Americans through the Hope's tours and programs. They also discussed ways to use what they learned to help heal county divisions. In less than a year, Hope has already had some growth.

They won a grant to continue the Visions training through the early part of next year. In a couple of weeks, Bryant will run a new workshop for people in the county. The foundation, which is working with the human relations commission and other community leaders, hopes to reach out to at least 100 more people over the coming months. Tyler, a white man, was invited to join the human relations commission. Collier, a black man, became a member of the Hope board.

"It's good," Collier said. "No one is communicating through the newspapers anymore. If there's an issue they want to talk about, they meet face to face now."

The plantation's annual tourism numbers have grown from 10,000 to 14,000. The week before the ball 300 students visited, Speller said. At one time in Hope's history, few came at all. The Historic Hope board hopes to build tourism even more, drawing people from around the country. They're working to appeal to poorer whites in Bertie County, too.

"We're still viewed by some as those folks down there," he said. "Some people come out of curiosity. But once they get here, they realize what we have to offer."

Five African-Americans serve on the board. Speller, a black Bertie County native, is president-elect.

"History happened," Speller said. "It's not going anywhere, but it's what you do with it while you're here. It's nice to know the legacy but we can't become the legacy. We have to grow and become something greater than that."

A New Rhythm

On the morning of the ball, a guide led a visitor through Hope Mansion and pointed out where the slave quarters used to be near Stone's childhood home. In a child's bedroom, he talked about the modest bed a black nanny slept in and where she served the child's meal. He talked about how central African-Americans were to the plantation -- in the kitchen, on the grounds, in everyday existence -- and how the lives of black and white were woven together as they are still.

Inside the airy heritage center, visitors could see the whispers of change, too. Displays of historical information showing proud faces of whites who started the restoration were paralleled by displays of the contributions of blacks. One case showed the results of an archaeological dig -- fragments of Colonoware, ceramics that combine African and European styles and are believed to have been made by enslaved African-Americans -- financed by a state Department of Transportation grant to uncover early road networks and the location of slave quarters. Another displayed pictures of furniture crafted by skilled black artisans. The bookstore blended books on the black experience and white heritage.

Around the community, progress is harder to gauge. Questions about race bring uncomfortable silences and shuffles. In a local IGA, comments about Hope range from indifference to curiosity. Ferguson said she's heartened by the sincerity of the Hope board's president. But she said the verdict on Hope's progress is still out.

"It will take time to be the teller of this," Ferguson said. "I think it's too far to call to really test if there's a real commitment. The issues that existed since the county existed are issues of race and culture. You can't cure that in a year with two or three workshops. It's a good start. But changing culture takes time."

At the ball, hints of promise lived in simple gestures. There were about a couple of dozen African-American guests amid a crowd of about 400 that included a descendant of Gov. Stone. But blacks and whites introduced themselves to one another and talked, laughed and listened. Others danced the shag side by side.

"This is beyond my expectations," Speller said as the band, Too Much Sylvia, switched to "September" by Earth, Wind and Fire. "No one would expect this out here. The fastest thing they did at the first ball was a waltz."

The possibility of change whispered in every bar, every chilly wind that stirred around the mansion and the land blending history with the hope of something new. As people grooved to the funky sounds and dined, board member Holley Mack Bell II talked to Henry Britt of jazz band Mr. Tune. He thanked Britt for playing his favorite, "Stardust." Their hands, black and white, young and old, grasped in fellowship. A gesture of expectancy.

There's work to do. But there's hope of things to come.

"It's a real good beginning," Bell said.