Legacy in a Glass: A Journey Through History, Ethics, and Self at Uncle Nearest Distiller By Maycee Jackson

Racial history in America is often taught as a linear progressionfrom slavery to freedom, from oppression to civil rights. But being at the Uncle Nearest Distillery in Tennessee showed me that history is not a straight line. It is layered, personal, and often unfinished. Stepping onto the grounds where Nearest Green once taught Jack Daniel how to distill whiskey was more than a history lesson; it was a moment of presence in a story that has been overlooked, buried, and only recently reclaimed. I’ve read about slavery, systemic racism, and historical erasure in textbooksbut reading cannot replicate the feeling of standing in a place where someone’s legacy was almost lost to silence. The air felt different. The weight of history didn’t just sit on the wallsit was in the ground.

The journey from Atlanta to Tennessee added an unexpected layer of reflection. Atlanta is loud with legacyit sings the songs of Martin Luther King Jr., echoes the pride of historically Black colleges and universities, and pulses with modern Black entrepreneurship. It’s a city that knows its place in the historical record. But as we moved into the quieter landscape of rural Tennessee, I realized how much of history exists in the margins—in small towns, in fields, in forgotten names. Traveling physically helped me travel mentally—from the broad, proud narrative of Black progress in Atlanta to the quiet, individual story of a man whose contribution had been hidden in plain sight. That contrast helped me understand something more nuanced: that history is not just about what happened, but about what gets remembered, and by whom.

At the Uncle Nearest Distillery, that remembering is intentional and sacred. Yet, the experience also raised hard questions. What does it mean to celebrate something that is rooted in pain? Whiskey is a product often associated with joy, celebration, and heritage but its history in this case is tangled with slavery, racial injustice, and the erasure of a Black man’s labor. It invites the question: What does it mean to succeed through something that delights even as it wounds? The answer, I think, lies in how that success is framed. Uncle Nearest, the brand, is not just capitalizing on Green’s story it is restoring his name, funding scholarships in his honor, hiring a diverse team, and publicly acknowledging the injustices of the past. Still, that doesn’t erase the complexity of selling a product tied to a legacy of exploitation. It just makes the entrepreneurship more honestand more accountable.

This raised another question for me: Where is the line between honoring and profiting from a painful legacy? I came to see that entrepreneurship becomes ethical only when it is inextricably tied to responsibility. It’s not enough to tell the story you must carry the burden of it. Uncle Nearest is doing that work, but it reminds me that many companies are not. Learning this in person, in a space where the story is being retold and reclaimed, hit me in a way that no classroom case study could.

This retreat made me see myself differently, too. As an honors student, I often focus on analysis, precision, and argument. But being at the distillery asked me to feel as much as think. It reminded me that learning can be emotional, embodied, and vulnerable. Outside the structure of the classroom, I was allowed to be a human in history—not just a student of it. I saw how personal legacy, cultural memory, and ethics intertwine. I saw how stories shape communities. And I began to ask how I want to be shaped by the stories I choose to witness.

Stepping into this space with my peers also reminded me that learning is communal. We listened together. We sat with discomfort together. We asked questions that didn’t have easy answers and that made the experience feel more honest, more human. It wasn’t just about uncovering a hidden story; it was about discovering who we are in relation to that story. I felt part of something bigger not just a cohort or a class, but a lineage of learners, thinkers, and witnesses committed to truth.

The Uncle Nearest Distillery is more than a place where whiskey is made. It is a living monument to resilience, dignity, and the power of reclaiming the past. I left Tennessee changed not just more informed, but more aware of how history lives in places, in people, and in products. I saw that remembering is an ethical act. And I came home understanding that to be part of history is not just to know it but to carry it forward with clarity, courage, and care.

Maycee Jackson- 

                                                                    whiskey stand