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.