“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.