Month: November 2023

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.

A stunningly beautiful resort, a gut-wrenching history, and an indelible culture all set in the islands of Hilton Head, South Carolina. There was so much to take in, and yet, my eyes were continually drawn to that hammock.

I noticed it the very first day. I thought about what it would feel like to sway my ever-present anxieties away, to rock my constantly worried mind into a seemingly unachievable calming state of rest, to release control and allow myself to be comfortable with the idea that these chords could hold the weight of all life had thrown at me…all that life continued to pummel me with over and over again.

But I didn’t know how. By the second day, I had grown comfortable enough with the safety of my fellow writers to share my ignorance. I so wanted to get inside what I considered to be the embodiment of relaxation. But I didn’t know how. I so wanted to experience the ease and leisure I just knew I would feel as soon as I settled into the external manifestation of sleeping on air. But I didn’t know how. I so wanted to learn the method, the skill, the trick to allowing my body to learn how to maneuver itself into a position that meshed with the shape, that formed with the bends, that moved to the hammock’s rhythm: effortless, eloquent, with ease.

Thankfully, a fellow writer quickly and skillfully taught me how to get in and out of the hammock. It was much easier than I had made it out to be in my mind, as are so many things.

And then I understood. This hammock represented all that I did not allow or make time for. This hammock represented all that I made excuses for. This hammock represented all that I needed, wanted, and desired, and yet all that I subconsciously fought against, consciously struggled with, and now obviously needed to make a priority.

I needed to relax and be at ease.

I needed leisure and sleep.

I needed to allow myself to just… be.

I often close my eyes and go back to how I felt in that hammock. I can almost feel the gentle sway, feel the slight wind, see the blue skies, and slowly hear faint voices that are slipping farther and farther away as I sink into the place I long to be.

Back and forth, back… and forth… back…and… forth…

Selah.

I remember looking at the rocking chair that was outside the Coastal Discovery Museum in Hilton Head, South Carolina. It was one of so many things that had a significant impact on me during the Gullah Geechee tour.

We had seen many rocking chairs outside on the porches of the homes that were still owned by the Gullah families, who were fortunate enough to have delayed the powerful forces of gentrification—at least for now. But something about this particular rocking chair hit differently.

Maybe it was the fact that the white workers in the store asked us how we enjoyed the tour. “I hear it’s great!” How could you work at a store on an historic island where tourists frequent and have never even been on the tour yourself? Were you only interested in “selling” the story instead of actually “knowing” it?

Maybe it was the fact that I was looking around the store wondering who profited from the sale of the memorabilia and history of a land, culture, and people who were still struggling to hold on to any existence of the only life they have ever known?

Maybe it was the fact that the rocking chair almost seemed to be used as a prop: yet another historical artifact for tourists to gawk at. It “fit” the “theme” of the preservation of culture this museum was attempting to convey, but was it all a part of the facade to convince outsiders they actually cared about the history, culture, and language of the Gullah Geechee people?

On the other hand, the rocking chairs on the porches held a history of everything these chairs symbolize: rest, comfort, tranquility, and a sense of home.

I could see my ancestors rocking back and forth, humming hymnals or other familial or historical songs passed down through generations.

I saw grandmothers and grandfathers rocking back and forth comforting grandchildren with a rhythmic dance, caressing their lineage with the type of hands Bill Withers talks about in his song, “Grandma’s Hands”.

I saw my neurodiverse, beautiful Black son running to any and every rocking chair he has ever encountered, yearning for the comfort of the eternal manifestation of his stemming. After all, rocking chairs have a repetitive motion and movement others saw as “normal” and even participated in themselves.

But even more significant to me, this rocking chair outside of the Coastal Discovery Museum hit differently. It seemed oddly out of place. But maybe it wasn’t.

The store worker hadn’t even been on the tour she promoted.

The history and culture of Gullah Geechee was on display, and some for sale.

There were many “props” strategically set up to “preserve” things on this island.

So maybe the rocking chair wasn’t so out of place at all.

Selah.