When the Buildings Disappear, Our History Can Disappear With Them

One day, a child may walk down Heidt Street and never know what stood there.

Maybe there will be an apartment building on the property. Maybe an empty lot. Maybe a convenience store, office building, parking lot, or something we cannot imagine today.

Whatever comes next, people will see what is there.

What worries me is whether they will know what was there before.

They may never know that a house connected to generations of Black leadership once stood in this community. They may never know the story of an Allen University president who lived there, or of his son, a Black physician who practiced medicine when segregation determined where Black people could be treated and where Black doctors could work.

They may never know that this small section of Columbia was once part of a remarkable Black community that produced doctors, educators, business owners, ministers, political leaders and civil-rights activists.

And eventually, if we are not careful, it all begins to fade from view.

That is what makes the demolition of the Robert Weston Mance House about more than the loss of an old building.

It should force us to ask a larger question:

How do we preserve the memory of Black communities when the physical places that carried those memories begin to disappear?

This Was More Than a House

The Robert Weston Mance House was built in 1903 and acquired in 1922 by the Rev. Robert Weston Mance Sr., an African Methodist Episcopal minister who served as president of Allen University from 1916 until 1924.

His son, Dr. Robert Weston Mance Jr., lived in the house until 1957.

That biographical detail matters because Mance Jr. was not simply the son of a college president.

He became a physician, superintendent of Waverly Hospital and a civil-rights activist. South Carolina’s own historic records identify him in all three roles.

His activism reaches back to an era of the Black freedom struggle that receives far less attention than the marches and demonstrations of the 1950s and 1960s.

In 1935, while Congress debated federal anti-lynching legislation, Black South Carolinians organized the State Negro Citizens Committee to push for its passage. Historical records show that Dr. Mance served as president of that organization.

He worked alongside Modjeska Monteith Simkins and other Black leaders who encouraged African Americans in Columbia to speak collectively against racial inequality. The organization also challenged discrimination in New Deal employment programs and pushed for Black South Carolinians to have access to professional jobs rather than being confined to manual labor.

Think about what that means.

Before many of the names and events we now associate with the modern Civil Rights Movement entered the national consciousness, people right here in Columbia were organizing.

They were writing.

They were lobbying.

They were challenging power.

They were demanding that America live up to promises it had repeatedly denied Black citizens.

Dr. Mance was part of that struggle.

Waverly Was an Ecosystem of Black Possibility

His story cannot be separated from the community around him.

Waverly became one of Columbia’s most important Black communities during segregation. It was anchored by institutions including Allen University and Benedict College, churches, Black-owned businesses and the hospital that served Black residents when segregation restricted access elsewhere.

Historic accounts describe Waverly as one of Columbia’s premier African American neighborhoods—a community populated by Black professionals, educators, religious leaders, entrepreneurs and political activists.

That history deserves more than nostalgia.

What existed in Waverly was an ecosystem.

Education.

Medicine.

Business.

Faith.

Political organizing.

Black people created institutions because they had to. When doors were closed elsewhere, they built their own doors.

Waverly Hospital was part of that tradition. Dr. Mance eventually served as its superintendent, helping lead a Black medical institution in an era when access to health care was itself divided by race.

Even later in his life, Mance remained connected to the defense of Black institutions. As a trustee of Allen University, his work during a period of conflict over academic freedom earned him national recognition from the American Association of University Professors. The AAUP lists Mance among the recipients of its Alexander Meiklejohn Award for Academic Freedom.

This was the man whose name became connected to that house.

And this was the community surrounding it.

What Happens When the Physical Evidence Disappears?

This is where the story becomes painful for me.

History seems permanent when we are surrounded by people who remember it.

Someone remembers where the doctor’s office was.

Someone remembers the corner store.

Someone remembers the woman who lived three houses down.

Someone remembers where people gathered, worshipped, studied, argued, organized and built businesses.

Then one generation passes.

And another.

The house disappears.

The hospital closes.

The business becomes a vacant lot.

The church moves.

The street changes.

And eventually a child walks past the location without any idea that something extraordinary happened there.

That is how history can disappear without anyone intentionally erasing it.

It simply becomes harder to see.

John Sherrer of Historic Columbia described something similar in discussing the loss of historic landmarks: without those physical connections, communities can develop a kind of cultural amnesia. The Mance House, he argued, represented more than wood and brick. Historic structures provide physical connections to the people and energy that once occupied them.

That idea stays with me.

Because a building allows history to say:

It happened here.

Not somewhere.

Not theoretically.

Here.

A Black doctor walked through this neighborhood.

A university president raised his family here.

Black businesses operated nearby.

Black patients received medical treatment nearby.

Black students attended two historically Black colleges nearby.

Men and women who challenged segregation lived on these streets.

When the buildings disappear, we lose some of that ability to point to a physical place and tell the next generation:

This is where they stood.

Preservation Cannot Mean Saving Every Building

There is also a reality we have to acknowledge.

Not every historic building can be saved.

Some structures deteriorate beyond reasonable repair. Some become dangerous. Communities should not have to choose between respecting history and protecting residents from unsafe buildings.

Historic Waverly Neighborhood Association President Ronald Davis has made that point clearly. He has expressed concern about abandoned properties, collapsing roofs, fires and people entering unsafe structures. He has also called for greater city and state investment to help property owners maintain historic homes.

I believe those two concerns can exist together.

We can care about safety and preservation.

We can understand economic realities and demand that history remain a priority.

We can protect institutions and still hold all of our institutions—public, private, educational and civic—accountable for being good stewards of the history placed in their care.

Accountability does not always have to mean finding someone to attack.

Sometimes accountability means asking:

What are we going to do differently next time?

Preservation Requires More Than a Historic Designation

Waverly is already recognized for its historical importance.

But recognition alone cannot preserve a neighborhood.

A historic designation cannot repair a leaking roof.

A plaque cannot stabilize a foundation.

A ceremony cannot restore an abandoned house.

Preservation requires money, planning, documentation and community commitment.

That means we should be thinking now about the historic properties that remain in Waverly and throughout South Carolina’s Black communities.

Which ones are endangered?

Which homeowners need assistance?

Which buildings need emergency stabilization?

Which stories have never been properly documented?

Where are the photographs?

Where are the family papers?

Where are the oral histories from our elders?

And who is responsible for making sure those stories survive?

Government has a role.

Universities have a role.

Preservation organizations have a role.

Black media has a role.

And those of us who live in, photograph, document and tell the stories of these communities have a role.

Because preservation is not simply about protecting buildings.

It is about protecting memory.

If the House Cannot Remain, the Story Must

The Mance House is coming down.

We cannot change that reality.

But demolition does not have to mean disappearance.

This should become an opportunity to document everything that can still be documented.

Photograph the structure.

Preserve architectural elements where possible.

Digitize historical records.

Interview people who remember the house.

Collect family photographs.

Document the lives of Robert Weston Mance Sr. and Dr. Robert Weston Mance Jr.

Create historical markers and digital archives that allow future generations to stand on Heidt Street, take out a phone, and discover what once stood before them.

And then do the same for the rest of Waverly.

Because somewhere in this community right now may be another house whose history we will not appreciate until its roof is collapsing.

There may be another building connected to a Black physician, teacher, entrepreneur or activist whose name has almost disappeared from public memory.

There may be an elder carrying stories that have never been recorded.

We should not wait for another demolition crew before deciding those stories matter.

We Are Custodians of Memory

There will always be development.

Neighborhoods will change.

Buildings will come and go.

Cities cannot remain frozen in time.

But progress should not require amnesia.

We have an obligation to leave something behind that tells the next generation who we were, what we built and what happened on these streets.

One hundred years from now, the Mance House may be long gone.

The lot may contain something completely different.

A young person may walk past it without ever seeing the porch, the windows or the rooms where generations once lived.

But that young person should still be able to know that Dr. Robert Weston Mance Jr. lived here.

They should know that he became a physician and superintendent of a hospital serving Black Columbia.

They should know that in 1935 he helped lead Black South Carolinians in demanding federal action against lynching.

They should know that Waverly produced men and women who built hospitals, businesses, churches, colleges and movements in the shadow of Jim Crow.

They should know Allen University was here.

They should know Benedict College was here.

They should know Waverly was here.

Most importantly, they should understand that the community they inherited did not appear by accident.

People built it. People fought for it. People sacrificed for it.

Buildings eventually fall.

Memory does not have to.

But only if we decide that preserving our history is not somebody else’s responsibility.

It is ours.

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