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.