In 2023, I wrote about the flood wall murals in Covington, Kentucky, and the stories they tell have stayed with me. Robert Dafford, a historical muralist, led the team that painted scenes capturing the city’s development along the Ohio River as well as similar projects in Paducah, and in Portsmouth, Ohio. From the first Americans to call the region home and the colonists who displaced them, to the influence of German immigrants and religious communities, Dafford’s artistry can turn even the most disinterested onlooker into a history lover.

Dafford’s murals are more than decorative—they’re acts of historical recovery. The Meeting at the Point initially seems like a typical scene of early American exploration, but a closer look reveals a Native American figure in the background—a silent witness to the coming displacement. Kennedy's Ferry and Landing celebrates economic prosperity, but if you zoom in, Dafford quietly acknowledges the labor of African-Americans powering the region’s boom. These subtle inclusions tell a fuller story—exactly the kinds now being scrubbed from classrooms, parks, and other public spaces.

This trend is not abstract. For example, in Florida and Texas, new curriculum laws restrict how teachers can address slavery, systemic racism, and the civil rights movement. Florida even blocked an Advanced Placement African American Studies course, declaring it “lacking in educational value.”

At the federal level, the National Park Service recently stripped Harriet Tubman and slavery from its Underground Railroad webpage, reframing the Underground Railroad not as a network for escape from slavery, but as “one of the most significant expressions of the American civil rights movement” that “bridged the divides of race.” This effort to obscure the harsh realities of slavery and downplay the profound struggle for freedom reflects a broader trend: sanitizing painful aspects of history.

This erasure of difficult truths is even taking place in The U.S. Naval Academy, whose library removed hundreds of books on civil rights and the Holocaust under new guidelines targeting so-called “divisive” materials.

In Washington, D.C., the words “Black Lives Matter” have been scrubbed from the street outside the White House—wiped out not by the hands of vandals, but by city officials, likely in response to shifting political winds. What began as a powerful public statement now serves as a reminder of how quickly symbols of justice and accountability can be erased.

In today’s partisan political climate, with interest groups trying to reshape what version of history we pass down and how we understand our cultural roots, I sometimes wonder if these murals would even get the civic green light today. Would Dafford’s quiet insistence on including inconvenient truths survive a public meeting?

As a travel writer, my work often takes me on a journey through history, inspired by the places I visit and the people I encounter. A small historical marker can spark deep research as I unravel stories of where people lived, fought, or died. History feels more real to me when it’s tied to specific places and personalities, and the murals invite us to engage with history in the very places where it unfolded, offering a powerful, accessible form of education. They serve as a reminder that history is not just something to learn from books, but something we can experience firsthand—woven into the fabric of the spaces we inhabit. No admission fee. No curated exhibit. Just layers of story, waiting for someone to pause and take it in.

These murals stand in sharp contrast to the ongoing debate over Confederate monuments. I’ve had many conversations with people who argue that these statues should remain—not as celebrations of the Confederacy, but as tools for teaching history. They view them as reminders of a painful past, something we shouldn’t forget or remove from public gaze. On the surface, that sounds reasonable. How can we learn from history if we don’t confront it?

But here’s the problem: Confederate monuments don’t just teach history—they glorify a past rooted in white supremacy and the brutal exploitation of human beings. These statues were often erected not in the immediate aftermath of the Civil War, but decades later, during the height of Jim Crow and the Civil Rights Movement, as assertions of white dominance. They are not neutral. They were designed to send a message—and they still do.

Removing Confederate monuments has nothing to do with erasing history—and everything to do with refusing to honor a legacy of inhumanity.

If our goal is education, there are better ways. Germany offers a powerful example. The country teaches the history of the Holocaust in depth and with gravity, but you won’t find statues of Hitler or Goebbels in public squares. Instead, you’ll find memorials to the victims—stumbling stones set into sidewalks, museums, and plaques that acknowledge the horror without glorifying its architects. The Germans chose to remember without revering.

That distinction matters. We can and must preserve history, even the darkest parts. But we don’t need to place the dark stories on pedestals—literally or figuratively. That’s why I find Dafford’s murals so powerful. They don’t scold or preach. They don’t demand a single takeaway. Instead, they offer layered stories—some easy to spot, others tucked into the background—waiting for a curious eye to catch the Native figure or the Black laborers on Kennedy’s dock.

One mural in particular, The Flight of the Garner Family depicts a quiet moment: Margaret Garner, an enslaved woman, crossing the frozen Ohio River with her family in 1856, fleeing toward freedom. It’s a tense and quiet scene: bundled figures on the ice, with Covington in the distance. Dafford doesn’t portray the tragic aftermath—Garner’s desperate act to prevent her daughter from being returned to slavery by taking the girl’s life. By illustrating the moment of flight, he invites viewers into a fuller, more complicated narrative.

As we grapple with what should be preserved in our public spaces, the murals in Covington remind us that history is more complex than we often admit. It’s not always about celebrating heroes; it’s about giving voice to the forgotten, the marginalized, and those whose stories have been silenced. By doing so, we learn not just about the past, but about who we are and who we want to be.

Stories of real people make abstract lessons tangible and relatable. They allow us to emotionally connect with history, see ourselves in the past, and better understand the world we live in today.

Here’s a video explaining the history and nuances of all the murals by author and historian Karl Lietzenmayer. Enjoy!

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