Historically speaking, Sextus Congenius Verus was nobody special.
He died nearly 2,000 years ago in what is now Italy. He was a sailor in the Roman navy, serving on an oar-powered warship called a trireme. He didn’t lead a legion, seize a throne or start a new worldwide religion.
Verus’ story, such as it is, is only known to us because his heirs, Atilius Carus and Vettius Longinus, commemorated his life in several lines of Latin text on a stone when he died. That stone, in a remarkable series of events, was uncovered earlier this year in a New Orleans backyard. But for this text, we might never know anything about Verus, who died when he was 42.
It would be easy to dismiss the story of Verus’ tombstone as a quirky tale of an artifact’s rediscovery. But it illustrates something important about history.
Most history that people learn in school is about wars, kings, battles and leaders. They memorize dates and administrations, movements and eras.
Those are elements of history, but they don’t tell the whole story. A real history tells not just of the few (usually) men at the top of power structures, but also investigates and recounts the lives of the masses. Those like Verus.
And that brings me to the present. There are those now who seek to erase history of some of the masses in American history, especially those victimized through our national sins, like slavery and racism and other related violence.
They would rather we focus on the few (mostly) men at the top who did say, think and write some incredible things. That’s the only story they like to hear.
The Trump Administration has issued edicts to the Smithsonian museums, promising to “restore truth and sanity to American History.” The goal, according to a White House news release, is to counteract the “distorted narrative driven by ideology rather than truth.”
In Louisiana, there are worries that signs recounting racist events and enslaved people’s lives — such as those at Cane River Creole National Historical Park — will be altered or taken down.
To borrow a football analogy, those who would like to take them down want to pretend like the highlights are the whole game.
An honest telling acknowledges that our national and state histories are filled with stories of heroism, bravery, moxie and intellectual brilliance. They are also filled with violence, prejudice, cruelty and malevolence.
To tell one without other is more than a disservice; it’s an intense form of hubris. It’s intellectually and morally cowardly.
An honest confronting of our past is what enables and equips us to do better. To go back to the football analogy, if we only look at our good plays, we will never address our shortcomings.
Verus is not in any Roman historical highlight. No great poems were written about him, no epics are dedicated to his exploits. He is not remembered as a hero. His picture is not required to be posted in classrooms.
But Verus’ story is an essential part of Roman history. It’s a window, a very small one, into the world of normal people in his time. At least some thought he was worth remembering: In the engraving, his heirs referred to him as “most deserving.”
There is a lesson for us there. We can and should remember the Veruses of our own history. Our heroes are worthy of study and commemoration, but so are the people who served, who struggled or who were victims. They, too, are “most deserving.”
