The Gullah Chronicles

I was immediately drawn to the small tree that had blue, red, and orange bottles hanging on the limbs outside of the Gullah Geechee Museum. Our tour in Hilton Head, South Carolina, often evoked musings about the symbolic nature of such sights.  Glass often symbolizes something having the ability to be so strong and yet simultaneously easily broken. Blue often represents something as beautiful as the sky and the sea, but simultaneously a word often associated with sadness and depression. Red often depicts both anger and love. Orange is often associated with the fall season, denoting changes to come. I felt the same sense of multiple identities with this tree covered in glass. Something as beautiful as a tree that grew naturally from the earth. These bottles are manmade but still have the ability to evoke beauty. The sun’s reflection in each bottle created a beautiful dance of light to the rhythm of the calm breeze that blew across the Gullah Geechee lands.  

I knew hanging bottles from a tree had to be some sort of Southern tradition, so I embarked further on my journey to find meaning, much like I had done in the many things I encountered on these sacred lands. 

“According to stories passed down through generations, the bottles were hung upside down to entice the curiosity of evil spirits. Drawn by the rich, cobalt color, the spirits would enter the bottles and become trapped [and protect their homes].” (SouthCarolinaLowCountry.com).

Stories…generations…curiosity…spirits…trapped…home.

These words had my mind spinning down a rabbit hole of thoughts that seemed random and chaotic.

I thought of stories, like the ones I uncovered from my past, present, and future…trapped inside a mind full of a million thoughts, all futilely fighting to be at the forefront of importance.

I thought of generations upon generations of my personal enslaved, native, and colonized heritage: African identity, Indigenous identity, some unknown White colonizer’s identity.

I thought of curiosity in my journey to learn about this Gullah Geechee history, culture, language, and lands.

I thought of spirits, both of good and evil, both internal and external, both those invited to stay, and those desperately attempting to be expelled.

I thought of home: the Gullah Geechee home that has been stolen by so many “outsiders” and “outliers.”.

I was trapped in my mind’s chaos, fighting to find my way back to the purpose of my musings, spurred again by the sight of so much that inspired my attempt to chronicle this impactful journey.

There were blue bottles that hung from a small tree outside of the Gullah Geechee Museum in Hilton Head, South Carolina. I had never seen anything like this before and might not ever again. There was a tree, and there was glass, but both represented so much more. They each held their own identities, and yet somehow, in my mind, they had morphed into one in the same. I knew they were separate beings. I knew one thing had nothing to do with the other. I knew it made no sense. But somehow, still, in my mind, I would forever remember them as the “trees made of glass.”.

I wonder if they think of me when they carelessly float across this never-ending abyss of uncertainty. Do they ponder what lies beneath these veiled waters? Flooded towns beneath lakes hold the histories of people whose identities were all but washed away. But the deep, dark, seemingly bottomless waters of the oceans hold so much more.

Can they fathom the depths of despair I must have felt to dive into this sea of certain peril? Can they look into their souls to see why someone might seek death as the only way to free their own? Can they even begin to wrap their ignorant minds around such empathy?

The water these boats float on is calm, clear, and silent now. No flailing battle against the inevitable. No blood to beckon the carnivores of the deep. No screams swiftly drowned with gasps for air. To fight implies that there was something worth fighting for.  To bleed means that we were…human. 

To breathe, only to have that breath taken away.

For any…thing, at any…time, for…no…thing. 

Nothing. For that is how they saw us.

I wonder if they think of my body buried in the sands deep below these still unchartered waters. Could they fathom the fact that it was my choice to place my body there? I chose my time. I chose my place. I chose my destiny. It was my final act—to take back the control usurped from me.

I look up from my eternal, watery grave. I see the sun cast a shadow over these boats. The world between the ray of light and the surface of the boats illuminated by the clean, smooth, shiny object so coveted by the visitors to this island. The view from below is of one who is now forever looking to the heavens, choosing to escape from a certain life of hell on Earth.

I look up and see the shadows of the boat’s underbellies. Along the surface, I see the silhouettes of a man, a woman, and a child. Do they think of the men, women, and children who chose this fate over what would inevitably greet them if they somehow survived the treacherous journey and made it to shore?

Amistad.

I wonder if they think of me as they sojourn to this dock and pick out their luxurious vessels. These elaborate boats epitomize the excess many “outsiders” to the Lowcountry now boast. They lie on racks that sit on docks built on what used to be sacred Gullah Geechee lands. The vessels remind me of different types of “objects” that were lined up for others to choose from.

I wonder if they chose their boats in the same way our masters chose… us.

Which boats were sturdier? Which boats were faster? Which boats were prettier?

“I’m not sure that one would last too long.”

“That one looks big and strong.”

“What a beautiful specimen! I’ll take that one!”

Humans, animals, boats. I’m sure it was all the same to them.

I wonder if they ever think of me, you, him, her,… us?

We are they, and they are we.

I think about what is, what was, and what forever will be.

Selah.

While on the Gullah Geechee Tour in Hilton Head, South Carolina, we stopped at a beach on Mitchell Island. Like so many beaches on our journey, it was stunningly beautiful. We were given fifteen minutes to walk down the long wooden path to the beach, where we were met with the “Beach Toy Borrow Bin.” While I admittedly don’t frequent beaches much, I had never seen or heard of such a thing before.

The sign said, “Take and borrow what you like as a loan, then return it to the bin, or take it home!”

What a concept, right? The ability to either “borrow” something and return it, or “borrow” something, OR even take it as your own! Sound familiar?

I was on a virtual Zoom with my writer’s group where one of our members brought up the ways so many “borrow” from Black culture, clearly never to honor the intended concept of the word. Take and use with the intention of returning it. Yeah, right. Take and use for sure. Rob, seize, even usurp in many cases. Oftentimes, it takes research. into the catacombs of our history before we even find the source of this thievery to give them their just due. My fellow writers said it best:

“We are the originals.”

“We represent the fullness of humanity.”

“We hold the melanin, the music, the language, the swag.”

This virtual convo with my beautifully melanated safe place I have grown to call family brought home the idea of how much “others” have “borrowed,”  not only never to return, but having the audacity to call it their “own.”.

Black Culture, Black Language, Black Music, Black Swag.

They dig in our “bins” and treat US like “toys.” But our culture, our language, our music, and our swag is not to be played with. So, what do we do? We take it back! We ride on the shoulders of those like Ray Charles, Prince, Jay Z, and Tyler Perry. We make sure we OWN our own stuff!

““If you don’t own your masters, the master owns you.” – Prince

I marinated on this quote—so much more than musical masters came to mind. Our musings, our colloquialisms, even our social media quotes are literally pillaged from our Black mouths, from our Black hands, from our Black…NESS!

“Winners are not allowed to allow losers to rewrite history.” Katt Williams

No matter how many times so many try to rewrite history, the real ones will always see their version of history for what it is: HIS story. WE share our stories. WE sing our stories. WE write our stories. And those who allegedly “borrow” will eventually be exposed by the authentic, unapologetic, unadulterated, unfiltered truth of the ones they aspire so hard to be!

I often think back to that beach toy borrow bin. It was full. But was that because of the honesty of those who actually returned the “toys” or because those that owned the beach continued to refill it, making sure it was continually “looking” full, but for the greedy hands who took, and took, and took, with no intention of returning the items to their rightful owners?

Selah.

There is so much to say about my first Black Writer’s Retreat! From San Francisco to Dallas, Texas, to Charlotte, North Carolina, to Charleston, South Carolina, to Hilton Head, South Carolina, to the Sonesta Resort, to meeting the incomparable Emory Shaw Campbell and learning more than I could have ever imagined about the Gullah Geechee Culture in only a two-hour tour, to finally being able to fellowship in person with an incredible group of Black Writers! I can only describe this meeting as the feeling you get when you know you are in the presence of greatness. Phenomenal doesn’t capture the way I would describe each and every one of my fellow writers! The embodiment of living Black history! 

I am trying to fight imposter syndrome as I think back to what it was like to spend just a few days in their presence. Life-changing is the typical response. What I choose is life-impacting! I know what people mean when they say that change may be temporary, but impact lasts a lifetime! 

This work is the manifestation of my vow to fully chronicle this journey. The grief, mourning, the healing, the self-discovery, the inspiration, the Selah moments, with so much more than I could ever hope to capture! I pray these reflections give a peek into what we experienced!

I know my work bestie of seventeen, Gena Stewart, was smiling down as she experienced this journey right along with me. When I told her that I had planned this trip, she was so excited for me to go back and tell her all about it. God knew I would need this experience at just the right time. 

I continue to learn how to navigate this life without my bestie, whom I lost suddenly just a few weeks before this journey. I will miss reflecting with my girl about these and other pivotal moments in my life. But I know, as an advocate and teacher of all things Black History, she would want me to share what I experienced through this journey.

I honor my bestie today, my fellow writers on this retreat, Emory Shaw Campbell, and the past, present, and future members and preservers of this beautiful Gullah-Geechee culture. 

Selah.

As we toured the museum at Hilton Head Island in South Carolina, I was awestruck at the vast amount of history it contained. The Gullah Geechee history, culture, language, and iconic figures were all on display. The word “display” resonated in my mind as I thought about all of the “tourists” who came to this museum. I judgmentally questioned their motives while simultaneously doing an internal check of my own.

Our tour guide on this journey, Uncle Emory, as one of my fellow Black Writers honorably referred to him, told us about how isolated his ancestors were before the Intercoastal Highway, cars and boats brought outsiders and “development” to their lands. I remember one of my fellow writers talking about the idea of isolation versus insolation. Clearly, this was a difference not only in perspective but also in an attempt to preserve an identity many would seek to vanquish.

My eyes were drawn to a glass box that held an incredibly intricate model of a ship. I can’t recall reading the ship’s name, understanding its significance, or understanding why this museum chose to include it. I just remember staring at it with a sadness that I often felt when I allowed myself to think about how my ancestors were torn away from any life they had known and brought to these shores. I tried to block out images made even clearer by movies like “Amistad.” The lower levels crammed with slaves—the sickness, the screams, the sacrilegious way the slave owners used the Bible to justify these atrocities.

Was this particular ship one that transported soldiers to shore to fight in the Civil War? Did this ship carry wealthy northern landowners scoping out their latest conquests, ignoring the current inhabitants and rightful owners of these lands? Or were they the survivors of the horrendous Middle Passage, my ancestors who somehow happened to make it through, watching some who died and were thrown into the seas, and others who chose to jump in willingly, escaping a life of chattel slavery by taking back the power of who held the future of their lives?

I remember guiltily thinking that it was a beautiful ship: magnificent, elegant, and exquisitely crafted. I remember the words of another fellow writer on this journey. “In order to see the beauty, you have to see it through a lens of pain.” Maybe this is why my heart ached with an almost physical pain that I felt in the depths of my soul at the sight of this ship. The oxymoron of such a majestically beautiful ship that potentially held such a horrendously ugly truth.

Selah.

We drove by so many houses the day we took the Gullah Geechee tour on Hilton Head Island in South Carolina. Some looked like mansions, others like resort-style condos, and many were remnants of what used to be. Emory Shaw Campbell, our incomparable tour guide and Gullah history expert, told us the story of a small blue house we passed.

“Back in the old days, you built the size of the house for what you needed…his uncle was a bachelor, so he built a small house.”

We drove by another Gullah house that was clearly abandoned, again small in size but rich in history.

I replayed Uncle Emory’s, as we affectionately called him, words in my mind. “For what you need.” What a foreign concept to outsiders who, as Uncle Emory stated in the beautiful, rich, and rhythmic Gullah dialect, “off come with big money.”

Imagine if the rich, northern landowners thought about the “needs” of anyone besides themselves. Imagine if new home developers thought about the “needs” of new landowners instead of catering to the wasteful “wants” of those who wanted the biggest, most luxurious, and bourgeois dwellings available? Imagine if those who would unethically slide into auctions to outbid Gullah families out of their lands, usurping “heir property” for a few thousand dollars in back property taxes, thought about the needs of those trying to keep their lands in their families.

“…for what you need…” These words hit home and made me examine my own constant desire for more. “If you are faithful in little things, you will be faithful in large ones.” Luke 16:10 Bible verse made me dive even deeper into my internal work. Did I look at this remnant of a house with the judgmental eyes of someone who wondered how it could possibly hold everything even one person needed?

My father often talks about the small dwellings in the shantytowns in his hometown of Florida. When we visited decades ago, we drove past the remnants of these small homes as well. I wondered if my ancestors ever dreamed that their descendants would drive by their familial homes and question how they lived in such small quarters.

My mind traveled from the remnants of homes I saw in the lowlands of South Carolina, to the remnants of the homes I saw in the shantytowns of Florida. I judged my own home, my own wasted space filled with unnecessary clutter, my own definition of what I thought I “needed” versus what I wanted.

“…for what you need…” I was forced to reexamine my home, my finances, and my life in general. What did I really, truly, honestly “need”? Did I really get this far in life judging my happiness, my satisfaction, and my success by the size of my home, completely ignoring the tremendous blessings God has continued to bestow on my life over and over and over again?

Selah.

Our Gullah Geechee tour took us to the Discovery House on Honey Horn Drive in the Lowlands of Hilton Head Island. Upon viewing the signage with photos and history of not only this museum but of the island, I felt my eyebrows immediately begin to furrow.

The title “Discovery House” alone gave Columbus vibes. What exactly did you discover? Pushing past this potentially misguided and possibly misinformed burst of anger, I began to read the history. The land was purchased in 1789 to grow sea island cotton. My squelched anger quickly returned as I thought about how so many landowners became rich off of the backs of slave labor.

The history went on to talk about yet another wealthy northern landowner who purchased 9,000 acres as a private retreat. How nice it must have been to purchase land so easily, never wondering about how you would cultivate it or who would maintain such a vast area. You already had your labor.

They spoke of how much he enjoyed visiting the island in the winter months for hunting and fishing. The photo showed a small boat with four people in it: only two were rowing and guiding the trip. How nice it must have been to sashay your rich, pillaging, and entitled embodiment of all things inequitable self down to these plentiful islands at your leisure. No doubt relishing in all of the spoils knowing you were able to obtain them without ever earning the victory.

I continued to read on about new landowners with the same old stories: northern, white, rich. There was no mention of the Gullah Geechee people. There was no mention of the Gullah Geechee in the last photo, which showed another boat with three riders. Again, there was a Black man guiding the journey while a white man sat. There also appeared to be what looked to be a white woman peered through binoculars. How nice it must be to go “sight -seeing” while someone else did the labor of rowing a boat through rough marshlands.

Part of me wanted to research more about how these lands went through so many rich white hands, ultimately ending up being sold to the town of Hilton Head. Part of me wanted to inquire about why I had to go on a tour and explore a museum to learn about the Gullah Geechee inhabitants and rightful landowners of these islands instead of learning about them in school. I already knew the obvious answer to that one. But a greater part of me wanted to know who had the audacity to name this house “Discovery House.”

What I discovered was that the descendants of rich, white, northerners bought land and created generational wealth for their descendants. What I discovered was that the Gullah Geechee people continue to have their lands taken from them by multiple means, including gentrification. What I discovered was that this house represented the continual use of the word “discovery,” which so many use to talk about lands that were already occupied by their rightful inhabitants.

I may not have the full history; I may not even have the correct history, but one thing I do have is the same old American story when it comes to how so many white families’s “discoveries” have led them to establish generational wealth, built on the backs of my ancestors.

Selah.

He seemed to pose as if he knew he was being photographed. He never looked my way and yet somehow knew I was there, not only taking his photo but lost in deep thought. He stood still for what seemed like an eternity, waiting for my thoughts to come to some sort of summary or conclusion.

I remember thinking that this looked like every other squirrel I had seen in California. My college was overrun with overly friendly and sometimes aggressive squirrels who came right up to our legs and begged for food.

As similar as it looked, something about this squirrel seemed…different. Similar…and yet…different.

The Sonesta Hotel in Hilton Head, South Carolina, was a gorgeous resort. The Gullah Geechee tour was incomparable, inspiring, and impactful. The history I learned on this journey was life-changing. But I couldn’t shake the sense of feeling as incredible of an experience as this was; something felt familiar.

I gazed at the squirrel as my thoughts ran. His color was gray for the most part, but he had a red hue. His size was about the same, but slightly bigger than the ones I had seen. His tail was similar in shape and size, but the fur was wilder. I took a few hurried photos, anticipating that he would take off and be gone in a flash. After all, that was my experience with squirrels. Here today, gone up a tree before I could turn back around. It was almost funny how I kept looking for what made him different.

And yet he stood…still. His profile was almost stoic in the way he seemed to look at me—maybe with his peripheral vision—knowing I was there but ignoring my existence.

I thought about the similar shared struggles of African Americans in America. We are so different and yet the same.

I thought about the similarities between the gentrification of so many neighborhoods and cities in America. Different and yet the same.

I thought about my Indigenous ancestors, who had their lands, languages, and cultures stripped away, now fighting to preserve what they can hold onto. Different and yet the same.

People tend to do that: focus on the differences and ignore the commonalities between us, just like I did with that little squirrel.

He needed to ignore me.

He needed to stay still.

He needed to allow me to be alone in my thoughts.

How could the image of a squirrel conjure so much in my mind’s eye?

I sat and ignored my surroundings, only focusing on that little squirrel.

I sat still, only focusing on that little squirrel.

I sat alone, with only me and my thoughts, only focusing on that little squirrel.

Different and yet the same.

Selah.

Uncle Emory, as we affectionately referred to our tour guide, told us the story of Indigo on Hilton Head Island in South Carolina. We were on a Gullah Geechee tour. learning so much about the history, language, and culture of our ancestors who inhabited this island.

“Indigo was one of the cash crops. And many got rich off of it.”

We passed by the small patch with a sign that said simply, “Indigo.”

I imagined the backbreaking work the descendants of African slaves endured as they toiled the fruits of this land, only to make the rich richer. Did they ever truly benefit from the fruits of their labor? Did they ever enjoy the spoils of the profit so many made off of these cash crops that set the descendants of the slaveholders up for generational wealth? And even after the move from indigo to cotton and rice, did the descendants of African slaves continue to farm indigo to uphold cherished traditions without any care or concern about how much money they could make off of the now dwindling crop?

My mind selfishly went back to when my father used to make us “work” in our backyard garden. I complained after less than an hour of plowing, weeding, and picking countless beans and greens from this small garden. I found myself riddled with guilt. My mind went to the current masses of Latinx workers that still toil the seemingly never-ending rows of the Napa vineyards. I had a deep sense of empathy, but I had nothing to give them but prayers for protection against the elements and inevitable fatigue. Again, the guilt. And my mind went to my ancestors. Sunup to sundown. Through sickness and pain. In loss after loss and continual suffering after continual suffering. All so someone else could eventually become rich off the backs of the labor and another.

Indigo.

“At one time, the extracted pigment, dried and shaped into circular cakes, was so prized that it was sometimes called blue gold and used as currency—even as barter for slaves” (Smithsonianmag.com).

Blue gold.

Prized like the free labor they profited from over and over and over again. Prized like the money they never had to share with those who made them rich. Prized like slaves, they coveted and yet still failed to see as humans.

Blue, as in what is still a sacred color in Gullah Geechee culture.

Gold, as in one of the cash crops that helped to establish and fund the transatlantic slave trade.

Let that sink in for a few ticks…

Selah.

We were given time to explore the vast acreage and beautiful surroundings of the Sonesta Hotel during our visit to Hilton Head, South Carolina. I was in awe at the immaculate grounds, the incredible variety of trees, and the gorgeous summer homes that surrounded this estate.

But in the middle of this beauty stood something that seemed out of place. It looked like the remnants of a watchtower. Like many experiences I had during this journey to learn about the Gullah Geechee culture, the juxtaposition of this relic with the five-star resort gave an audible halt to any idea I had of being caught up in the beauty of these lands.

Was it indeed a watchtower? I couldn’t say for sure as it seemed to be in a bit of a dilapidated state. Pieces formed what appeared to be a watchtower, but it was definitely some type of lookout. My mind raced with the history, the atrocities, and the secrets this land held. This watchtower reminded me of the ones in prisons with guards who sat poised to shoot anyone trying to escape. This watchtower reminded me of the inhumane overseers who kept a close eye on any slave who would dare to even think about disobeying, let alone fleeing in a desperate attempt to escape this plantation. This watchtower represented the contradiction of a feigned appearance to attempt to preserve history while simultaneously being a leftover symbol of those who continue to erase historic Gullah Geechee lands.

Did they use the watchtower to look out into the seas to warn everyone of coming danger? Did they use the watchtower to have a better view of the land that was stolen from its rightful inhabitants? Or did they use the watchtower to signal when the next slave ship was bringing the next group of my ancestors to this foreign shore, unknowingly awaiting the trials, tribulations, and trauma chattel slavery had in store for them?

My fellow writer and I walked over to the watchtower, looking to see if there was a way to climb in. I felt a sense of relief when we did not find any access points. Part of me wanted to experience what it would be like to look out at the “view” of this beautiful resort, but a bigger part of me wanted to stay on the ground and continue to imagine what it must have felt like to feel continually “watched.”.

I stayed in that moment for what seemed like forever until I heard someone call my name from somewhere that seemed much farther away than right next to me.

I was ironically brought back to reality by the sound of my name. I thought whoever sat in that watchtower didn’t care about the names of those they watched. They had no name. They had no face. They had no identity.

All the while, they just watched.

Selah.