Бывший президент Национального фонда сохранения исторических памятников США описывает уроки итальянского наследия

In 1615, the Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi—the Fountain of the Four Rivers—was unveiled on the Piazza Navona in Rome. Designed by renowned sculptor Gian Lorenzo Bernini, it features four godlike male figures representing the Danube, Ganges, Nile, and Río de la Plata, each converging in one of the world’s most iconic cities. In the fall of 2025, I found myself there, gazing up at them. It was my first time in Italy, on sabbatical from my 20-year career in cultural heritage work at the National Trust for Historic Preservation to complete a residency at the American Academy in Rome. I wasn’t expecting to see myself represented in Roman antiquity, but I was shocked to find the figure chosen to embody one of the great rivers of the Americas, the Río de la Plata, was a Black man. I have always believed that history, and historic places, have the power to ground us. After founding the National Trust’s African American Cultural Heritage Action Fund, the nation’s largest resource dedicated to preserving historic Black places, I was in Rome preparing to take on a new challenge. In June 2026, I would be taking the helm of the National Trust itself as president and CEO. I was there to learn, to immerse myself in a vast landscape of ancient sites, in a country where the preservation of these treasures is enshrined as a national value in its constitution. What lessons will emerge for a relatively young country like ours, having just rung in its 250th year? Peter N. Miller, president of the academy, encouraged me to explore the city at night. There was something magical, he said, about Rome telling its story in the shadows of dimly lit streets. He was right. Out walking one evening, I turned a corner to find the Colosseum looming before me, glowing from within. I was amazed by its sheer size, so sudden in the middle of the city, where it has stood for almost 2,000 years. I could practically hear the echoes of the roaring crowds it once held, and my mind was immediately transported to Hinchliffe Stadium in Paterson, New Jersey. An Art Deco take on a grand colosseum, it was built of formed concrete with an outer ring studded with rectilinear columns featuring terra-cotta inlays and tile mosaics. Completed in 1932, the stadium was home to the New York Black Yankees and became a centerpiece of Negro League Baseball history. When spectators entered, they gazed down into rows of seats for 10,000 people. It was a monumental achievement at a time when segregation meant most Black Americans, of my parents’ and grandparents’ generations, were legally barred from enjoying public spaces and resources that were freely available to others. Hinchliffe was a celebration of Black athleticism and an affirmation of Black joy. Yet when the stadium closed in the 1990s, it was allowed to fall into severe disrepair despite its historic value. The risk of generations of sports history being lost was so dire that in 2010 the National Trust added Hinchliffe to its annual list of the 11 Most Endangered Historic Places in America. Through a collective effort, it has since undergone an over $100 million restoration and is once again an active community sports facility. Part of the field’s original pitch has even been incorporated into the new turf, materially connecting the past and present. There is always tension between what societies preserve and what is allowed to fade into obscurity. As I ventured beyond Rome to visit Florence, the presence of history and the impact of change were inescapable. Heritage buildings exist alongside ones that have been rebuilt, reused, or replaced with entirely modern structures over time. Few buildings exemplify this powerful mix of past and present more than historic churches. It’s easy to lose your way along Florence’s winding streets, but I soon learned a trick. Each of the city’s neighborhoods is anchored by the unique, elaborate spires of a church—from the Cattedrale di Santa Maria del Fiore to the Basilica di Santa Croce—landmarks that I quickly learned to navigate by. While many remain active religious sites, some, like the Museo Marino Marini (a museum housed in what was once the Basilica di San Pancrazio), have taken on new life in an economy driven by cultural heritage tourism. Stepping inside, I was struck by how the power of the sacred lived on through its architecture, through memory, even as the building served an entirely new purpose. As I took in the beauty and diversity of these churches, the crisis of underinvestment in the U.S. hit home. Costs of materials and labor are rising, and congregations are growing older and losing members over time, becoming too small to manage the needs of buildings that, in some cases, date back to the Revolutionary War. But opportunities for revitalization, and protection, are everywhere. For instance, Brown Chapel AME Church in Selma, Alabama, was at the heart of the civil rights movement. Built in 1908 by a formerly enslaved Black builder, A.J. Farley, it is a gorgeous building that, due to a lack of funds, was in danger of being lost despite how critical it was to our nation’s history. Today it’s undergoing a multimillion-dollar restoration supported by the National Trust and the National Park Service, which will preserve the site and lay the groundwork for a future cultural heritage tourism program that will provide jobs and sustainable income for the church. My time in Italy further affirmed that preservation work is not just about preservation for its own sake (although as a history lover, that’s valuable for me). Whether I was window-shopping on a winding stone street or connecting with nature, I was struck by how grounding these connections to the past can be—and how so many of us in rapidly redeveloping American cities could benefit from a similar sense of place. The public’s commitment to historic sites and the heritage they represent is foundational to how we experience a place and what it means to be part of a community with a shared history. It sounds clichéd, but there is so much value in our own backyards. I’ve personally seen how a single preservation project can revitalize an entire community. And now, as I’ve returned to the U.S. and settled into my role leading preservation work at the national level, I look forward to inspiring others to open their eyes to the history around them and embrace what the past can teach us about our shared future. This article was originally featured in the July/August 2026 issue of VERANDA.