Virginia Erases Lee: Barbara Johns Statue Redefines Capitol Legacy

Paul Riverbank, 12/18/2025 Barbara Rose Johns’ statue replaces Robert E. Lee’s in the U.S. Capitol, marking a powerful shift from Confederate legacy to a celebration of youthful courage and the enduring pursuit of justice—a testament to the lasting impact of her fight for equal education.

The Eastern Senior High School choir filled the cavernous space with gospel and protest anthems—“How Great Thou Art,” and, swelling in the air, “Ain’t Gonna Let Nobody Turn Me Round.” The music reverberated off marble and memory, invitation to both reckon with loss and imagine hope.

Not so long ago, in that very building, Virginia’s designated statue was not Barbara Johns. For over a century, it was Robert E. Lee in Confederate uniform—once iconic, later contentious, finally removed after years of unrest and a fresh reckoning sparked in 2020 by the murder of George Floyd. The state’s new symbol, unveiled in Johns’s likeness, marks not just a hit of progress but an overdue correction: a space once reserved for a secessionist general now affirms a schoolgirl’s drive for equality.

In 1951, what thrust Johns into the spotlight wasn’t an appetite for controversy; it was the shabbiness of her segregated school in Farmville. Tar paper for walls, wobbly desks, the sting of winter that never quite left the room. Barbara, then just sixteen, took up the cause—organizing her classmates in a strike that forced the nation to stare at injustice. The NAACP stepped in. What began as her plea for better conditions ended up woven into the landmark Brown v. Board of Education case. Three years later, the Supreme Court’s gavel knocked down “separate but equal,” clearing a path for integrated schools.

After those early triumphs, Johns opted for a quieter life. She married the Rev. William Powell, raised five children, and worked for years as a school librarian in Philadelphia. Johns died in her fifties, not quite seeing the long arc of her own impact.

During the ceremony, Terry Harrison, speaking for her mother, remembered a woman at once steely and warm—someone whose faith stood firm even as her spirit sought change. “She put God first,” Harrison told the assembly, offering an unscripted snapshot of the private courage behind the public figure.

The sculpture itself, shaped by Maryland artist Steven Weitzman, captures Johns as she once was—young, intent, holding a battered book over her head. On its base, an aching question: “Are we going to just accept these conditions, or are we going to do something about it?” Underneath, a biblical allusion—“And a little child shall lead them”—calls to mind the uneasy certainty that history often turns on the will of the very young.

Political brass from both parties—Governor Glenn Youngkin, Governor-elect Abigail Spanberger, Speaker Mike Johnson—stood in rare unity, bearing witness, searching for the right words. Johnson’s remarks sketched out the stakes: “We are here to honor one of America’s true trailblazers, a woman who embodied the essence of the American spirit in her fight for liberty and justice… the indomitable Barbara Rose Johns.”

The day was not just about looking forward. Minority Leader Hakeem Jeffries, not one to tiptoe around the truth, drew a sharp line between the old and new. The Commonwealth would now, he insisted, be represented not by “a traitor who took up arms against the United States” but by “an actual patriot … liberty and justice for all.”

Family memory ran through it as well. Joan Johns Cobbs, Barbara’s sister, picked up her journal and read from the days when hope was as fragile as the classroom walls. A prayer spilled out—“God, please grant us a new school, please let us have a warm place to stay… We are your children too.”

Statues in that hall aren’t easily changed. Each state gets two. Virginia’s are now George Washington and Barbara Johns. Lee’s likeness has gone to a museum in Richmond, the new space occupied by the memory of a black student’s activism.

About halfway through the ceremony, as the choir’s harmonies faded, it was hard to miss the weight of the moment. Barbara Johns, once dismissed as a troublemaker, is now cast in marble and recognized in perpetuity. Her former high school, now a museum, preserves the stubborn hope she sparked. Today, the Capitol’s stones ring with her legacy—a teenager whose faith and resolve unlocked doors that, for far too long, remained shut.

There’s a particular hush that falls in Emancipation Hall when history is being rewritten—not erased, but reimagined. On this day, under the vast, arching ceilings of the U.S. Capitol’s heart, lawmakers found themselves not just as witnesses, but as participants. Gathered with them were the descendants—over two hundred strong—of Barbara Rose Johns, whose quiet rebellion as a teenager changed the course of American justice.The Eastern Senior High School choir filled the cavernous space with gospel and protest anthems—“How Great Thou Art,” and, swelling in the air, “Ain’t Gonna Let Nobody Turn Me Round.” The music reverberated off marble and memory, invitation to both reckon with loss and imagine hope.Not so long ago, in that very building, Virginia’s designated statue was not Barbara Johns. For over a century, it was Robert E. Lee in Confederate uniform—once iconic, later contentious, finally removed after years of unrest and a fresh reckoning sparked in 2020 by the murder of George Floyd. The state’s new symbol, unveiled in Johns’s likeness, marks not just a hit of progress but an overdue correction: a space once reserved for a secessionist general now affirms a schoolgirl’s drive for equality.In 1951, what thrust Johns into the spotlight wasn’t an appetite for controversy; it was the shabbiness of her segregated school in Farmville. Tar paper for walls, wobbly desks, the sting of winter that never quite left the room. Barbara, then just sixteen, took up the cause—organizing her classmates in a strike that forced the nation to stare at injustice. The NAACP stepped in. What began as her plea for better conditions ended up woven into the landmark Brown v. Board of Education case. Three years later, the Supreme Court’s gavel knocked down “separate but equal,” clearing a path for integrated schools.After those early triumphs, Johns opted for a quieter life. She married the Rev. William Powell, raised five children, and worked for years as a school librarian in Philadelphia. Johns died in her fifties, not quite seeing the long arc of her own impact.During the ceremony, Terry Harrison, speaking for her mother, remembered a woman at once steely and warm—someone whose faith stood firm even as her spirit sought change. “She put God first,” Harrison told the assembly, offering an unscripted snapshot of the private courage behind the public figure.The sculpture itself, shaped by Maryland artist Steven Weitzman, captures Johns as she once was—young, intent, holding a battered book over her head. On its base, an aching question: “Are we going to just accept these conditions, or are we going to do something about it?” Underneath, a biblical allusion—“And a little child shall lead them”—calls to mind the uneasy certainty that history often turns on the will of the very young.Political brass from both parties—Governor Glenn Youngkin, Governor-elect Abigail Spanberger, Speaker Mike Johnson—stood in rare unity, bearing witness, searching for the right words. Johnson’s remarks sketched out the stakes: “We are here to honor one of America’s true trailblazers, a woman who embodied the essence of the American spirit in her fight for liberty and justice… the indomitable Barbara Rose Johns.”The day was not just about looking forward. Minority Leader Hakeem Jeffries, not one to tiptoe around the truth, drew a sharp line between the old and new. The Commonwealth would now, he insisted, be represented not by “a traitor who took up arms against the United States” but by “an actual patriot … liberty and justice for all.”Family memory ran through it as well. Joan Johns Cobbs, Barbara’s sister, picked up her journal and read from the days when hope was as fragile as the classroom walls. A prayer spilled out—“God, please grant us a new school, please let us have a warm place to stay… We are your children too.”Statues in that hall aren’t easily changed. Each state gets two. Virginia’s are now George Washington and Barbara Johns. Lee’s likeness has gone to a museum in Richmond, the new space occupied by the memory of a black student’s activism.About halfway through the ceremony, as the choir’s harmonies faded, it was hard to miss the weight of the moment. Barbara Johns, once dismissed as a troublemaker, is now cast in marble and recognized in perpetuity. Her former high school, now a museum, preserves the stubborn hope she sparked. Today, the Capitol’s stones ring with her legacy—a teenager whose faith and resolve unlocked doors that, for far too long, remained shut.