Y ears ago, I was having a long lunch with a group of graduate school classmates at one of the most legendary restaurants in New Orleans’ French Quarter. Memorabilia hung on the walls nearby and inside rooms. While I enjoyed my gumbo, I noticed my friends kept looking over my shoulder. The paintings, old menus, and other objects told the story of a mythical south where happily enslaved people worked at the beck and call of the kindly landed class. I had seen these images my whole life, so I was