permits. Though a previous as-
sessment had determined that
no sites of historic or cultural sig-
nificance were imperiled by the
planned groundbreaking, the ex-
cavators uncovered nails, coffins,
and bones. The land had once
been part of the Buena Vista
estate, which had relied on hun-
dreds of enslaved laborers—some
of whom were likely buried there
in unmarked graves. For mosa’s
archaeologists recommended a
fence to protect the area from
any disturbance during construc-
tion. Alternatively, their report
concluded, the company could
exhume the remains and rebury
them somewhere else.
In the mid-1800s, this stretch
between Baton Rouge and New
Orleans was home to the country’s
highest concentration of million-
aires. Their fortunes were made
possible by the sweat of enslaved
Africans and their descendants,
whose lives—and deaths—went
largely unrecorded, though they
had a profound influence on Amer-
ican culture. They played music
that laid the groundwork for blues,
jazz, and rock ’n’ roll. They spoke
of the trickster characters from
West African folklore that mor-
phed into Br’er Rabbit and Bugs
Bunny. They cooked gumbo and
jambalaya, which became essen-
tial parts of local cuisine.
Many were buried in plots that
are invisible today, and the con-
flict in St. James Parish reflects a
nationwide problem. Abandoned
and overgrown Black cemeteries
turn up during construction of
highways, housing developments,
and industrial plants, prompting
calls for greater protections and
new efforts at documentation.
In add ition to helping archaeol-
ogists study America’s hidden
history, these sites are also sa-
cred spaces for descendants.
“Failing to show respect for the
dead is in essence telling a com-
munity they don’t matter,” says
Joe Joseph, former president forON a 90-degree
day in June 2020,
a few dozen people
walk across a field
in Louisiana’s St.
James Parish on the west bank of the
Mississippi River. Tall grass brushes
their waistbands as they head for a
plot surrounded by a chain-link fence.
They block the blazing sun with um-
brellas and fan themselves with
paper stop signs. Some hold bou-
quets of roses. With COVID-19 still
a threat, all wear masks. When they
reach their destination, they break
out into song—“Oh, Freedom”—
accompanied by a lone trumpet.
It’s Juneteenth, a holiday commem-
orating emancipation in the United
States, and the group is standing
among what they believe are the graves
of enslaved sugarcane plantation
workers, discovered during Taiwan-
ese plastics firm Formosa’s planning
process for a new petro chemical
complex. In 2019 the company hired
archaeologists to check for remains,
a required step in obtaining federal62the Society of Historical Archae-
ology. “If we want to start healing
the racial injustice in this coun-
try, we’ve got to recognize that
places of the African American
past are significant resources
that need to be protected.”
The Juneteenth visitors are
supporters of a coalition called
RISE St. James, which formed in
2018 to oppose the Formosa com-
plex on the grounds that it might
harm community health. The dis-
covery of the graves, however,
opened a new front in the battle.
“Formosa’s not gonna come here
and dig up our ancestors,” RISE
founder Sharon Lavigne tells her
small audience from the micro-
phone. The parish, she says, “is our
home. We’re not going anywhere.”
Before closing the festivities
with “Victory Is Mine,” Lavigne
addresses the crowd once more.
She had been praying over the
site regularly until Formosa
threatened legal action. A judge
ruled that RISE could hold this
celebration just hours before.
“Well, I’m here today,” she says
with a fist pump as the audience
cheers. “I’m here today to put
roses on the graves.”LAVIGNE has lived in St. James
Parish all her life, and her eyes
get dreamy when she talks about
her childhood. Her family raised
chickens, ducks, cows, and pigs,
and picked their own figs and
butter beans. Today Lavigne has
six children and twice as many
grandkids, but they haven’t
grown up with the same reli-
ance on the land. The fig and
orange trees on her 20 acres
have stopped producing. Her pe-
cans are often hollow, fruitless
shells. She sees very few birds.
Some of Lavigne’s children have
moved away, complaining of
headaches and sinus problems.
Over the past century, planta-
tions have made way for facilitiesLAVIGNE
Parish all her lif
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butter beans.
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