Joi Carmichael, when I meet her, tells me that she herself is descended from a freed-slave janitor of the original hospital, a descendent of a plantation slave who toiled on the acreage the asylum later occupied. I ask Joi whether her ancestor knew Russell Boyt.
“It could be,” she replies, though her tone suggests some skepticism. She has spent hours in a vault looking through dead files in order to locate a shoebox with the name Russell Boyt pencil-scrawled on its lid.
“I appreciate all the work you’ve put into this,” I say.
“I’m just doing my job, honey.” She tells me to come back the next day, giving her time to photocopy everything. She’ll send the originals to the federal archive because, as she explains, protecting and preserving the history of the era is a mandate of the hospit
