Reflections on Liberation Through Engaged Dialogue: Facilitating the Mütter Museum Town Hall
By: Monica O. Montgomery
bell hooks' framing of education as a "practice of freedom" and a vital act of community building resonates deeply with me, particularly in the context of public engagement work that confronts historical traumas and systemic inequities (hooks, 2003). In *Teaching Community: A Pedagogy of Hope*, hooks emphasizes that true learning emerges from courageous conversations that dismantle oppressive structures and foster collective healing. Chapter 3, "Talking Race & Racism," underscores the perils and potentials of such discourse: "Simply talking about race white supremacy and racism can lead one to be typecast, excluded and placed lower on the food chain in the existing white supremacist system. No wonder then that such talk can become an exercise in powerlessness because of the way it is filtered and mediated by those who hold the power to both control public speech (via editing, censorship, modes of representation and interpretation)" (hooks, 2003, p. 27).
This passage captures the chilling reality of how dominant powers suppress narratives of marginalization, yet it also implies a radical possibility: when spaces are reclaimed for unfiltered, communal dialogue, talking back can ignite liberation. Reflecting on my role as Lead Community Engagement Expert Consultant facilitating the Mütter Museum's inaugural town hall on October 17, 2023, as part of the Pew-funded *Postmortem: Mütter Museum* project, I see this event as a pivotal moment where engagement work cracked open a door to freedom. It wasn't a flawless triumph, but through intentional facilitation, it transformed a site of colonial extraction—the museum's vast collection of human remains—into a provisional arena for ancestral reckoning and communal repair.
The Mütter Museum, a Philadelphia institution renowned for its medical oddities and preserved specimens, has long embodied the contradictions of Enlightenment-era science: a place of wonder that simultaneously enshrines the exploitation of marginalized bodies. Founded in 1858, its holdings include thousands of human remains, many acquired without consent during eras of racialized pseudoscience and grave-robbing from Black and Indigenous communities. By 2023, amid national reckonings with repatriation and ethical display, the Mütter faced mounting pressure to interrogate its practices.
The Postmortem Project emerged as a response: a year-long initiative to solicit public input on the ethics of exhibiting human remains, culminating in town halls designed to amplify diverse voices (Hurdle, 2023). As lead facilitator, I was tasked with creating a container for raw, unmediated exchange. The first town hall, held at the College of Physicians, drew about 75 in-person attendees and 160 virtual participants, a space heavy with institutional weight (Hurdle, 2023). Museum leaders, committed to "listening" only—a sign reading "WE ARE HERE TO LISTEN" hung prominently—ceding the floor to speakers allotted two minutes each. This structure was deliberate: it disrupted the museum's historical role as monologic curator, positioning it as a humbled participant in a democratic process.
The door of liberation swung open in the quiet potency of these testimonials, particularly from African American respondents whose words wove personal grief with calls for systemic accountability. One woman, a regular visitor, shared how the museum's rear garden had become her sanctuary: "Each time I come to the Mutter I go straight to the garden to be with my ancestors." Her voice trembled as she described bypassing the "scary and intimidating" galleries—those vitrines of dissected bodies that evoke the horrors of medical racism—for the garden's "quiet peaceful place of fountains and flowers." Here, amid blooming flora, she could commune directly: "When I am talking with my ancestors if it wasn't you the pioneers I wouldn't have the privilege of being here... We are saying, I feel you I hear you I understand you and I am in sorrow for what you went thru." This wasn't abstract discourse; it was embodied ritual. She poured libations, honoring the unseen: "I can go and pour water down to the ancestors, give to the ancestors and let them drink. I am sharing with them and coming to thank you for what you done in behalf of me and everybody else's." In that moment, the town hall transcended policy debate; it became a provisional griot space, where Black grief could be voiced without dilution, fostering a fleeting community of witness.
How did this liberation unfold? It happened through the alchemy of facilitation: our team's emphasis on trauma-informed protocols, cultural humility, and power-sharing. We began with grounding exercises, inviting participants to name their intentions—honoring ancestors, seeking redress, or bearing witness. Speakers were drawn from a diverse sign-up list, ensuring racial and experiential equity, and we intervened only to enforce time limits or redirect microaggressions. Virtual participants submitted questions via chat, which we amplified in real-time, preventing the event from devolving into elite-dominated Q&A. Critically, by enforcing the museum's silence, we neutralized the "filtering and mediating" hooks warns against (hooks, 2003, p. 27).
No curatorial edits softened the edges of these stories; instead, they landed raw in the room, rippling through listeners' bodies. A palpable shift occurred midway: initial tensions—frustrations over the museum's slow pace on repatriation—gave way to solidarity. Attendees nodded in recognition, some weeping openly, as another Black respondent articulated the garden's dual role: "Going to the galleries is scary and intimidating but I feel so condofable going to the garden in the back." Her vulnerability invited others to layer in their own, building what hooks might call a "beloved community," where shared pain becomes shared strength.
Yet, the most instructive portions of hooks' reading for this experience lie in her dissection of talk's double-edged sword. The risk she outlines—being "typecast, excluded and placed lower on the food chain"—mirrored the stakes of the town hall. African American speakers risked reinscribing their marginalization in a space built on the plunder of Black bodies; one respondent laid this bare: "When you talk about redress how can we hold all the organizations accountable for the misdeeds or hurt to families. Alot of ancestors remains were taken against their will and those same families aren't given access Into the museum. These same organizations continue to benefit financially and the community doesnt benefit. Need to be more inclusive of engaging living human beings." Her words indict not just the Mütter but a white supremacist "system" that perpetuates extraction, echoing hooks' point about power holders who "control public speech" through omission (hooks, 2003, p. 27).
In my facilitation, we mitigated this by centering Black voices early and often, using affinity grouping in follow-up sessions to deepen unfiltered dialogue. This wasn't erasure of powerlessness but a refusal to let it define the narrative. Hooks instructs that such talk becomes liberatory when it refuses mediation by the powerful—when, as in our garden testimonials, it reclaims space for ancestral agency. Her emphasis on "community building" further illuminated why the garden emerged as a motif: it symbolized a decolonized periphery, where participants could "feel condofable" (sic), unburdened by the gaze of preserved spectacles.
This experience taught me that liberation isn't a grand rupture but incremental doors—cracked by persistent, risky conversation. Post-town hall, the *Postmortem* project evolved: a second virtual event followed, and the museum announced phased reviews of its collection, including consultations with descendant communities (Hurdle, 2023). As facilitator, I witnessed how hooks' pedagogy—rooted in "engaged pedagogy" that demands mutual vulnerability—can humanize institutions. The Black respondents' excerpts, drawn from our debriefs, weren't data points but sparks of freedom: invitations to pour water, to sorrow together, to demand inclusion. They remind me that in white supremacist contexts, talking race isn't futile; it's the seed of repair. Yet hooks' caution lingers: without vigilance against censorship, such moments risk co-optation. Moving forward, my engagement work must sustain these gardens—literal and metaphorical—where ancestors drink deeply, and communities bloom beyond intimidation.
In reflecting, I see the town hall as a microcosm of hooks' hopeful praxis: education as freedom when it honors the silenced, builds bridges from pain, and insists on accountability. It opened a door not just for participants but for me, revealing facilitation as a sacred labor of love. As one respondent thanked the "pioneers" obliquely, I felt the weight of inherited struggles—and the thrill of collective unburdening. This is the pedagogy I aspire to: one where talk, though fraught, quenches ancestral thirst and nourishes futures.
References
hooks, b. (2003). 'Teaching community: A pedagogy of hope'. Routledge.
Hurdle, J. (2023, October 19). At Mütter Museum town hall, public weighs in on display of human remains. 'The Philadelphia Inquirer' https://www.inquirer.com/arts/mutter-museum-town-hall-human-remains-20231019.html