In 1811, Charles Deslondes, a mixed-race slave driver from Saint-Dominique, Haiti, led what would become the largest slave rebellion in American history. Composed of 500 men, many of whom had participated in the successful Haitian revolution only a few years prior, Deslondes’s army advanced on New Orleans with a military discipline that surprised many of their adversaries. As they marched along the Mississippi River—drums rumbling, flags held high above their heads—they attacked several plantations with an assortment of scavenged weapons. Within 48 hours, local militia and federal troops had suppressed the rebellion and Deslondes was ruthlessly executed—his hands were chopped off, he was shot in both legs, and then burned to death in a bale of straw.

The rebellion’s import has changed over time. In the immediate aftermath, the backlash was brutal. Alarmed slaveholders in Louisiana invested resources in training local militia, and slave patrols began surveying slave quarters with increasing frequency and ruthless violence. Meanwhile, the federal government realized that in order to defend Louisiana, it would also have to defend the institution of slavery. It formalized this commitment in 1812, when the United States officially granted Louisiana statehood. Louisiana remained a state until 1861, when it seceded from the Union. There is no doubt why it did this, as its leaders said so explicitly: “Louisiana looks to the formation of a Southern confederacy to preserve the blessings of African slavery.”

Today, the rebellion of 1811 is a historical cornerstone in an ongoing attempt to foster an honest reckoning with the past. Last week, a statue of Confederate leader Jefferson Davis, originally erected in 1911, was removed in New Orleans. This week, an equestrian statue of the Confederate general P.G.T. Beauregard was also pulled down by authorities. Along with the removal of a monument to the Battle of Liberty Place, which commemorated a Reconstruction-era insurrection by white supremacists, three of a planned four monuments have been taken down. At the forefront of the effort to have the statues removed is a group of young, black activists known as Take ‘Em Down NOLA.



He says they pointed to those monuments of Davis and others and told him, “‘Okay, this shows you what the state thinks about you.’”

Michael “Quess?” Moore, an educator, poet, and playwright, has become one of the faces of this movement. On a recent evening in his New Orleans home, his long dreadlocks draped over his shoulders and chest, he told me what had inspired him to get involved in this project, his stories moving fluidly between past and present. When he moved to New Orleans, Moore, originally from Brooklyn, attended a lecture by two black New Orleans historians, Malcolm Suber and Leon Waters, to whom he attributes the development of much of his political education. Suber and Waters, who run a tour in New Orleans called “Hidden Histories,” have made it their mission to bring to light the parts of black history in the Crescent City that you won’t find in your typical textbook, including Deslondes’s rebellion.

“Malcolm and Leon had this kind of pedagogy that was integrated into organizing work and a Marxist/Leninist framework … then taking that and integrating it with black history and what it meant for black people to live under systemic oppression,” Moore says, shaking his head as if he should have made the connection himself long ago. He says they pointed to those monuments of Davis and others and told him, “‘Okay, this shows you what the state thinks about you; this shows you what the state thinks about the system that oppressed your ancestors and how they still feel about it to this day.’” He pauses and raises his hands on either side of him. “Long story short, it just all clicked for me.”