One thing 'not right' on the 50th anniversary of the Selma

Host: The evening air hung heavy over Selma, carrying the faint hum of distant traffic and the echo of something historic still breathing in the dust. The Edmund Pettus Bridge stood like a ghost, its steel ribs glowing in the orange sunset, the river below whispering the same tired stories of pain and resilience.
Jack leaned against the railing, a cigarette flickering between his fingers, while Jeeny stood a few steps away, her eyes locked on the nameplate of the bridge, the letters spelling “Edmund Pettus” with a kind of cruel permanence.

Jeeny: “You know, Douglas Brinkley once said — ‘One thing not right on the 50th anniversary of the Selma marches is the sad fact that the Edmund Pettus Bridge hasn’t been renamed the John Lewis Bridge.’”
Her voice trembled slightly, caught between anger and sorrow. “Every time I see that name, it feels like history still hasn’t finished what it started.”

Jack: “Names don’t change history, Jeeny. They just paint over it.” He exhaled, the smoke drifting toward the dying light. “You rename the bridge, sure, but the blood, the beatings, the brutality — they’re still in the concrete. Pretending otherwise feels… cosmetic.”

Host: The river wind pressed against them, cool and persistent. Somewhere a church bell rang, slow and hollow. Jeeny’s hair fluttered in the breeze, her eyes never leaving the bridge’s arch, that steel scar against the sky.

Jeeny: “It’s not about pretending. It’s about healing. About honoring someone who bled on this bridge — who almost died on it — so people like us could stand here today and argue freely.”
Her voice sharpened. “John Lewis didn’t walk across that bridge for the name of a Confederate general to remain carved in steel forever.”

Jack: “And yet, that name is part of the story. Edmund Pettus wasn’t just a name; he was a Confederate officer, a Klan leader — a symbol of the power that once ruled this place. If you erase that, you erase the context. You turn history into comfort.”

Jeeny: “Maybe comfort is what people need sometimes, Jack. You don’t heal by staring at a wound forever.”

Host: The sun dipped lower, its light stretching long and red over the asphalt. A truck passed slowly, the rattle of its engine echoing off the metal girders. The bridge seemed to listen, patient, ancient.

Jack: “Healing doesn’t come from rewriting what happened. It comes from facing it. You can’t fix America’s conscience by changing a sign. That’s symbolism, not substance.”

Jeeny: “Symbols are substance, Jack. They tell people what we stand for, what we value, what we refuse to glorify.”
She turned toward him, her eyes fierce. “Look at Germany — you don’t see Hitler’s statues still standing in the center of Berlin. They understood that memory isn’t erased when you remove the monuments; it’s clarified.”

Jack: “Germany also didn’t rename every street or building that carried some trace of its past. They turned many of them into memorials — reminders of what went wrong. That bridge, with its ugly name, is a living memorial. It tells the story honestly.”

Jeeny: “Honestly?” Her voice cracked slightly. “You call it honesty when a bridge celebrating a white supremacist still carries the footsteps of those who fought against his beliefs? That’s not honesty, Jack — that’s neglect. That’s society saying, ‘We moved on,’ without ever truly facing what it means.”

Host: The light dimmed further, the river now a sheet of black glass reflecting the fading fire of the sky. Jack’s face was unreadable, his jaw tight, his eyes shadowed by thought. Jeeny stepped closer, her silhouette outlined against the glow of the streetlamps that had begun to hum alive.

Jack: “You want to rename it the John Lewis Bridge. Fine. But tell me this — does it change the economic divide in Selma? Does it fix the underfunded schools, the hospitals, the forgotten neighborhoods? Or is it just something that makes people feel righteous for a week?”

Jeeny: “It’s not an either-or. You change symbols and systems. But one without the other is hypocrisy. Keeping Pettus’s name up there doesn’t fund a single school either. So why cling to it?”

Host: A pause fell, thick and heavy. The air smelled faintly of iron and river silt. A group of tourists passed by, their voices soft, reverent, taking photos as if the bridge were a church.

Jeeny: “Do you remember the photo of John Lewis that day, March 7, 1965? His head bleeding, his coat torn, yet he still stood. That image moved the conscience of a nation. That’s what names can do — they carry meaning. A name like John Lewis tells every child who walks this bridge: courage once crossed here.”

Jack: “And what happens when we start renaming everything? Jefferson’s statues, Washington’s, every street, every building tied to someone flawed? History becomes a blank slate — polished, politically correct, but hollow. Don’t you see the danger in that?”

Jeeny: “The danger isn’t in remembering — it’s in celebrating the wrong things. You don’t honor history by protecting the symbols of oppression. You honor it by choosing whose legacy leads the next generation forward.”

Host: The tension between them hung in the cool night, electric and fragile. The bridge lights blinked on one by one, casting long pools of pale gold across the roadway. Jack flicked his cigarette into the river, the spark vanishing into the dark.

Jack: “You talk like renaming a bridge is redemption. But redemption comes from what people do, not what they label. Pettus’s name doesn’t define this bridge anymore — the marchers did. The blood did. John Lewis already transformed it by crossing it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly — he transformed it, and we should acknowledge that transformation. Otherwise, we leave it half-finished. We tell the next generation that courage is temporary but power — even corrupt power — endures forever.”

Jack: “You’re assuming people forget. But maybe remembering Pettus’s name alongside Lewis’s story is the most powerful contrast we can have — a bridge named for a racist, sanctified by those he sought to destroy. Isn’t that poetic justice?”

Jeeny: “Poetic? Maybe. But still painful. It’s like living in a house named after your abuser. Some poetry cuts too deep.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes glistened now, catching the faint reflection of the streetlights. Jack looked away, his expression softening for the first time. The river sighed beneath them, carrying the echoes of marching feet, of shouts and hymns long gone.

Jack: “You know, I once met an old veteran here — a man who said he marched that day. He told me he didn’t want the name changed either. Said he liked that every time someone asked, ‘Who was Edmund Pettus?’ it opened a conversation. Maybe that’s the point — to keep asking.”

Jeeny: “And maybe the point is to finally answer that question by changing the narrative. By choosing a name that honors love over hate, courage over cruelty. Don’t we owe that to the people who bled here?”

Host: The bridge loomed above them, vast and solemn, its steel curves glowing faintly under the moonlight. A train horn echoed in the distance, deep and mournful. Time itself seemed to pause, as if listening.

Jack: “I guess what I’m afraid of, Jeeny, is forgetting what this place really was. If we rename it, maybe one day kids will walk across and never know who Pettus was — never realize how far we had to come.”

Jeeny: “Then it’s our job to teach them — not through the name of a bridge, but through the stories we tell. Through the truth we preserve and the hope we build.”

Host: Silence again — long, stretching across the water. The night had grown deep, the stars faint behind a thin veil of cloud. Jack’s hand rested on the railing, Jeeny’s beside his, close but not touching.

Jack: “Maybe there’s a middle ground,” he said finally. “Leave the structure, change the sign. Keep both names — the Edmund Pettus Bridge, also known as the John Lewis Bridge. Let them coexist — the oppressor and the redeemer — side by side. A permanent tension that tells the truth.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the only honest way. History and hope sharing the same space.”

Host: The river wind rose again, gentle and cool, wrapping around them like an old memory that refused to fade. The bridge stood silent, its arches glowing faintly — a monument not just to what was, but to what still could be.

Jeeny looked out across the water, her voice barely above a whisper.
Jeeny: “One day, they’ll cross this bridge again — not to protest, but to celebrate. And when they do, maybe the name won’t matter as much as the courage that carried them here.”

Jack: “Maybe.” He smiled faintly, eyes on the river. “But I still think names have power — not because of what they say, but because of what we choose to remember when we hear them.”

Host: The camera of the world pulled back — the two figures small against the vast curve of the bridge, the night folding gently around them. Below, the river carried their words downstream, mingling with the memories of a thousand marching footsteps, a thousand songs of freedom.

And as the last light flickered out over Selma, the bridge remained — half shadow, half promise — suspended forever between remembrance and redemption.