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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.

We drove by a beautiful church during our Gullah Tour in South Carolina. Our tour guide, the incredible Dr. Emory Shaw Campbell, told us that this historical church was set to be uprooted in the near future.

I could not fathom anyone having the audacity to disturb a place of worship for any reason.

My mind is toggling between the Biblical principle that a church is not a building but a people, and the lyrics to Luther Vandross’ A House is Not a Home.

I have always been taught that the power of a church is the impact it makes outside of the physical walls. Be that as it may, we would be remiss not to deny the historical element of many churches that have been around for generations. The church is not a building, but these buildings hold so much history, so many stories, and have become the symbols of strength, perseverance, and fortitude.

A room is still a room, oh, even when there’s nothin’ there but gloom
But a room is not a house and a house is not a home
When the two of us are far apart
And one of us has a broken heart

When I think about the uprooting of a church that has been around since 1886, I can’t help but to feel a pain in my soul.

From this song, I focused on the words gloom, far apart, and broken: gloom at the thought of the impending future of the church, far apart in the way the Gullah people and outside entities viewed the sacredness of the church, and broken in the way “others” were physically breaking the walls of the physical church, perhaps unconsciously “breaking” cracks in the spirit of the people who have worshiped there for generations.

St. James Baptist Church in Mitchelville, on Hilton Head Island in South Carolina is set to be uprooted and demolished so the local airport can expand.

Expand, destroy, gentrify.

I went to the church’s website to glean more.

The reality became clear that St. James Baptist Church is not a structure but rather a congregation itself. We carry the church and the spirit of God within us.

I went back to my original Biblical reference.

I went back to the song lyrics.

I went back to how this made me feel.

Uprooting an entire church to better suit the need of a local airport is the epitome of how the actions of outside forces often uproot a community’s history and culture.

I remember the audible sigh I heard myself let out at the thought of disturbing such a sacred place of peace. I remember the sad looks on my fellow tourists at the thought of such an atrocity. But more impactfully, I remember the way our tour guide and expert on all things Gullah-Geechee spoke in the same calm, smooth, and rhythmic tone he began the tour in.

As even-keeled as he seemed, I wondered if there was any hidden anger or resentment toward those who would continue to uproot historical places like this church.

Does the continual uprooting of a history and culture of a cherished people and early inhabitants of a land ever get old?

I fear that the inevitable unrelenting claws of gentrification can only be staved off for so long.

Upended.

Upheaved.

Unrooted.

Will the language, history, culture and identity of the Gullah Geechee people be preserved and taught to future generations if historic buildings like this church continue to be uprooted?

Selah.

I wasn’t ready.

I am channeling my inner Kevin Hart as I reflect on what it felt to hear one of our own say something so ignorant.

A broken language.

Her matter-of-fact delivery of these three damaging words demanded far more than the gentle “gathering” that followed.

Swift, effortless, and oh so smoothly, the incomparable Emory Shaw Campbell, “gathered” her together.

“No broken language. It’s Gullah.”

She exemplified what I can only describe as someone who reminded me of a child who had no filter.

Almost as soon as the words left her mouth, seemingly simultaneous with the audacious utterance of the word “broken,”  “”Uncle” Emory, as one of my fellow Black Writers honorably referred to him, “gathered” her together.

He was a tall, slender, dark-skinned man, whose gray hair told a story of wisdom, whose slow smile told a story of patience, and whose melodic tone caressed any ounce of malice out of even the sternest chastening.

“No broken language. It’s Gullah.”

I barely heard the embodiment of all things insensible as she stuttered, trying unsuccessfully to clean up her ineffectual bumbling.

I was too focused on the way Uncle Emory skillfully “gathered” her.

His melodic voice was soft spoken and yet held a seriousness that had us all on the edge of our seats. We gleaned wisdom in every meticulously placed word.

He fluidly danced in and out of Southern English, subtly but seamlessly weaving in Gullah Geechee words. I felt like I was on a linguistic journey through the past and the present, the history and “his” story, riding the hypnotic waves of illusion and reality.

“No broken language. It’s Gullah.”

I thought about my Indigenous ancestors, who had their languages stripped.

I thought about my African ancestors, who had their languages stripped.

I thought about my ancestors, who were enslaved, forced to develop a language all their own.

“We learned words by hearing when we didn’t have literacy.”

Uncle Emory spoke of his history with pride.

Uncle Emory spoke of his culture with pride.

Uncle Emory spoke his language with pride.

“No broken language. It’s Gullah.”

I learned so much from this brief encounter between the embodiment of patience, mercy, and grace and one who many would have aggressively checked, corrected, and ultimately reprimanded.

I am not there yet.

I wasn’t ready.

But I’m learning.

Selah.

As we drove along Honey Horn Drive in Hilton Head, South Carolina, I found myself staring out into the marshland, wondering if I might catch a glimpse of a gator. True to the competing duality that makes up my psyche, my anxiety made me both curious and terrified at the thought of seeing such an imposing creature. Even in the security of our tour bus, I thought of what it would be like to run into one of these prehistoric, imposing, and yet somehow still majestic animals.

“The gators have been here for thousands of years. We live with them, and they with us. We live together. Just be careful if you run into one. They are quick!”

Our esteemed Gullah Geechee expert and cultural historian, Emory Shaw Campbell, skillfully spoke of these gators with both a reverence and warning to “outsiders” who might not take their presence on the island as seriously as one should.

When we entered the museum and saw the skeleton of one of the gators, I imagined that he was atypical: one who was over 15 feet long and had lived past the typical seventy-year life span. I thought that imagined identity was befitting to a creature whose remains thousands of visitors would observe.

We drove past many marshlands on our journey. I stared intensely, looking for any ripple, any wake, any stirring beneath the calm waters of these murky wetlands.

I saw nothing but tranquil water, belying a peace that could be shaken at any moment by the emergence of an animal that had the potential to end the life of any human or animal that had the misfortune to cross its path.

I pushed past my wild imagination and thought about what these prehistoric creatures symbolized. I thought about the strength, perseverance, and wisdom they must embody to have survived in these lands for so many thousands of years.

I thought about the Gullah Geechee people who embodied the same: the strength, perseverance, and wisdom it must take to continue to fight for their history, their language, their culture, and their lands.

“We live with them, and they with us. We live together.”

I replayed the words in my mind, and in them I heard the strength, perseverance, and wisdom in the parable he uttered.

Them.

Us.

Together.

The collaboration, comradery, and community that was a necessary way of life.

The past, present, and future of a history, language, culture, and land of a people were dependent on these qualities.

I looked out one last time at the marshlands, knowing the gators were there, hidden from the naked eye but visible to the mind, who both revered and feared these prehistoric creatures.

I felt a strange sense of peace in knowing the unknown, seeing the unseen, and believing the unbelievable legacy these gators continue to leave on these lands.

“We live with them, and they with us. We live together.”

Them.

Us.

Together.

Selah.

The trees of Hilton Head Island, South Carolina, tell a story.

As a Black woman, all I could focus on was the history these trees represented, the symbolic element each part of the tree held, and the stories they continue to tell.

As we drove along Honey Horn Drive, I listened to our tour guide and Gullah Geechee culture expert, the incomparable Emory Shaw Campbell, speak of the trees with an esteem and reverence that gave them a transcendent quality.

His melodic blend of English and Gullah Geechee words took us on a journey, bestowing the history of Gullah culture on his attentive audience in a rhythmic tone that channeled the celestial voices of our ancestors.

“Why are there so many trees?” a tourist innocently inquired.

“The city and state ordinance on trees is extremely strict. You can’t even cut a foot off a tree without permission due to mandates.”

I wondered if these rules were based as much on geological regulations as they were on historical preservations.

I read that these trees hold Spanish moss, which is native to the lowlands of South Carolina. Further research told me that what I observed to be hanging from these trees was neither Spanish nor moss.

Typing the very word “hanging” conjured up images in my mind’s eye I prayed would be erased.

Typing the word “erased” conjured up images of the atrocities committed upon a people by those who strived to erase Gullah Geechee history, their language, and their very existence.

Typing the word “existence” reminded me of the Gullah Geechee culture I ashamedly knew nothing about. And why would I? In the words of Mr. Campbell: “We did not learn about Gullah Culture because, in their minds, it was not American, so why would they teach it?”

But there was nothing more “American” to me at this moment than the sight of those trees.

I saw the “moss” hanging from these trees as the extension of nature that told the tales of pain-filled tears from both Native Indigenous inhabitants and African slaves, both of whom had their lands stolen by outsiders.

The theft of history, the theft of a language, the theft of a way of life.

I saw an incessant sadness in the way the moss was seemingly clinging to the trees, while simultaneously seeming to reach for the land that formerly belonged to its rightful owners.

A stolen people, a stolen land, a stolen identity.

And then there were the roots. The roots were strong, unyielding, and almost spiritual in nature. They were no doubt centuries old. Some were internal, while others were external, physically and symbolically entrenched in the past, narrating a history that many may attempt to erase.

And then there were the tree’s trunks. The way the bark made rough and jagged patterns reminded me so much of scars.

I read a quote that said, “Scars are a testament to your resilience and the healing power of time.” As a person who has many physical scars, I am not sure how much “healing” has taken place.

All I could think of was how the peeling bark reminded me of the peeling on the backs of my ancestors, who were scarred from the repeated whippings of the slave masters. The permanence of these scars epitomized the brutality inflicted by American chattel slavery.

I was reminded of the single tear that ran down Denzel Washington’s cheek when he refused to make a sound as he was whipped in the movie Glory.

The thought of the tears I cried at the sight of his single tear caused my eyes to well up yet again. I fought back against rage at the thought of my ancestors being forced to keep their own rage buried deep inside.

Scars.

I read somewhere that the reason why many African Americans were more prone to keloid-type scarification is because our bodies developed hypertrophic scar tissue as an aggressive healing response to repeated injuries.

I looked at my own keloids: some visible, more hidden, some painful, others numb. I wondered if the physical, mental, and spiritual scars of my ancestors felt the same: still painful or had they become numb.

These trees tell a story: of a painful past of stolen lands and horrendous crimes on humanity, of a continued pain that comes with the constant fight to keep what lands remain in the names of Gullah Geechee families, and an even more painful reality when one looks at the future of a seemingly inevitable gentrification of outsiders who have no reverence for the sacredness of this land.

Do they have any thoughts about the tears the tree moth exemplifies, the history that lies in these roots, or the scars these trunks hold? Do they think about the contributions outsiders are playing on the pain that gentrification is having on people that are struggling to hold onto their lands, their language, their history, their culture, and their way of life? Do they know the story these trees tell, or do they just chop them down, physically and metaphorically uprooting the last preservations of Gullah Geechee culture?

Selah.

There is something about driving by cemeteries that marries life and death, beauty and tragedy, sacred lands with stolen lands.

On the Gullah Geechee tour in Hilton Head, South Carolina, we saw elaborate newly constructed homes as well as the few preservations of original Gullah family homes.

We also saw beaches and golf courses that were built over sacred Gullah burial grounds.

This reality was triggering. Yet, when we drove by the Gullah cemetery, I saw the beauty in the preservation of this sacred land.

The headstones forever told the narratives, the history, and the legacy of those who first inhabited these sacred lands.

The plots forever symbolize the fortitude against those who would dare continue to allow outsiders to establish their own gentrified dreams while destroying the stoic dreams of our ancestors.

The sacred lands these cemeteries rest on are the epitome of the strength, perseverance, and courage in the face of adversity the Gullah people have continued to demonstrate for generations.

I wonder if the inhabitants of these sacred lands are truly able to rest in peace knowing that a city, a state, a mandate, a court of law, a rich developer, or anyone else who might not have the reverence for a final resting place could have their sacred lands erased at any moment.

Selah.

I look across this beach at Hilton Head, where the Atlantic Ocean caresses the white sands of South Carolina.

Knowing it wasn’t always so, I see the diversity this resort now boasts.

Different ethnicities, cultures, races, languages, and beliefs are all enjoying it, one in the same.

All that makes us different, and yet so much that makes us the same.

I wonder if these children, all laughing and playing innocently, are ignorant of the transgressions committed on these now tranquil waters.

I’m jealous. I wish I didn’t know.

That these crystal clear blue waters were not always so.

I feel strangely guilty at the incredible sense of healing I felt as the water gently rolled across my feet.

I stared into the distant shores that held my history, my narrative, and my story.

These waters hold both the tragedy and triumph, the pain and strength, and the beauty and ashes, of my ancestors.

I see their wildest dreams.

I hear their wildest dreams.

I am their wildest dream.

Selah.

Listening to the voice of our Gullah tour guide, the incomparable Emory Shaw Campbell, takes you on a journey that makes one feel like the voices of the ancestors from our past and present combine into a musicality that lulls one into a sense of peaceful tranquility.

We drove past beautiful timeshares, large, elaborate new homes, and active construction sites, juxtaposed against lands still owned by the few original Gullah families who have been able to stave off the powerful forces of gentrification, at least for now.

“”Uncle” Emory, as one of my fellow Black Writers honorably referred to him, told us the story of the fences that now covered these sacred lands.

“When I was growing up, we had no fences. We did not need them.”

I looked across the street at the structure he called a fence. It seemed to be more like a concrete barrier, hiding a large home behind the wall-type structure. On the other side of the street was a home that had incredibly intricate landscaping and artwork that told the story of a long-time resident and local artist.

“They built that fence so they didn’t have to see the artist’s house and all that comes with it. And he let them because he didn’t want to see them either.”

I wonder if the people in the new house behind the fence realize that as much as they are trying to keep the image of his home out of their view, the man across the street wants very much the same.

I wonder if the people in the new house see the “old” house as more than just a physical dwelling. They are judging someone’s history, their story, an extension of the expression of their art, and themselves.

It is more than just a house. It is a home.

And then I wonder further if the artist breathed a sigh of relief after the fence was constructed. He also did not have to look into the external manifestation of all things new. There is so much that has attempted to usurp the Gullah lands, the Gullah culture, the Gullah language, and the Gullah history.

Did he look at these new homes and see his Gullah way of life slowly slipping away? Did he see the fence as the barrier that was potentially keeping the new from completely erasing the old? Did he see this fence that was built as a way to keep others out as a way to keep his way of life…in?

Fences: “enclosing an area of ground to mark a boundary, control access, or prevent escape” (Oxford Dictionary).

Boundaries, control, to prevent escape—all the metaphorical reality of the Gullah’s fight to preserve their lands, their culture, their language, and their history.

These fences have become the ever-deepening chasm between the old and the new.

Selah.

“Uncle” Emory, as one of my fellow Black Writers honorably referred to him, reminded me so much of my father. He told us that it was his 82nd birthday that very day: Sunday, October 8th, 2023. 82 years of stories, culture, language, history, and wisdom. He chronicled the tales of Gullah Geechee history, both past and present. His words sang in a smooth and silky tone, coupled with seamless transitions between Southern English and Gullah dialects.

Uncle Emory reminded me of my father.

86 years of stories, culture, language, history, and wisdom. My father’s words sang in a smooth and silky tone, coupled with seamless transitions between the California “over-articulation” of English words and the Floridian Southern pronunciation of words some might deem “different.” I remember my father speaking Pig Latin, doing the hambone song and dance, and saying “warsh” instead of wash, juxtaposed with extremely “proper” English some would deem more befitting his full Colonel status and rank.

Uncle Emory was our tour guide of Gullah Geechee history, but there was so much more.

My father was the tour guide in my life, but so much more.

Uncle Emory had a memory I could only dream of emulating.

Many of my father’s memories are now locked in his mind, battling Alzheimer’s and dementia, only peeking their heads out occasionally when he randomly slips into his storytelling modes, musing on memories from the journeys of his youth.

I could have listened to Uncle Emory tell his stories all day.

I wish I would have listened to my father’s stories more.

Uncle Emory is the epitome of living Black history that is under a constant threat of being silenced by forces in the “outside” world.

My father is the epitome of living Black history that is under a constant threat of being silenced by forces in his “inside” world: a mind that he is continually battling to hold onto.

Selah.