I grew up on the coast of South Carolina. The Lowcountry. Water. Dirt roads. Catching crawfish in ditches. Standing in the middle of rivers when the tide was low to catch crabs. Gathering around tables for oyster roasts. Tradition. Gullah Geechee tradition.
My accent was thick. And when people in college asked where I was from, I didn’t have the language to express why I didn’t sound like South Carolinians from the midlands and upstate. So I tried to sound like everyone else. I still do. Though it comes out occasionally.
My grandma said words that I thought she made up. My aunts and uncles spoke in ways that I wrote off as ignorant, telling myself that I’d speak “proper.” We loved mimicking the older people and how they spoke.
Lowcountry boils (crab, shrimp, sausage, corn, potatoes), red rice, and okra soup were dishes I had often, filling my belly with sustenance and a history I never existed.
I could spot the plant we brewed for tea from a distance, growing in the wild. And when we were sick, nature was our first doctor. Spanish moss stuffed in pillowcases for asthma. A particular plants root, brewed, for nausea. The list goes on.
Tales of hags and root work frightened me. I wanted no parts. I’d eavesdrop on adult conversations then instantly regret it when either of the two entered the chat.
All that to say this. I grew up how I grew up. The annual Gullah Festival was held in Beaufort, less than 45 mins from my hometown. I didn’t know how significant all of this was.
Even sadder, I didn’t know how much of it was being erased. How Hilton Head Island and Dafuski Island were once home to the Gullah.
I’ve wanted to tell stories about the Gullah Geechee culture for some time now. I have one that I’m working on. Something small. But even then, I tread carefully. I know my experience. But I don’t know the history. So I’m learning.
This is where being intentional comes in. Damage has been done. Damage is being done to this community, along the coasts of SC, GA, FL.

What can I bring to the table? This is delicate. So if I, someone that lived that experience (and not all of it), is scared to death...
about messing this up. Imagine the privilege one must have to be from the outside looking in, trying to take that on.

But back to my hiatus. Someone just shared that article with me. It felt like a dagger to the heart.

I don’t know. Just support Gullah communities.
When you visit those areas and see sweetgrass baskets and roses being made, buy one. When you take your yachts to the Heritage Golf Tournament on Hilton Head Island, demand that Gullah vendors be permitted inside to sell goods. Support Gullah artists. There are plenty online.
And I was so taken aback after hearing about that book, I didn’t realize it’s my birthday.

I’m still here. I’m grateful for it. *unplugging once again. Be back in a week or two.
I know I can’t represent the Gullah community. Not in this way. Not until I’ve truly studied and found answers to my questions. Not until I’ve forgiven myself for the times I resented others for how they spoke. How they lived. Judging...because I looked at the world around us.
But this is the part about representation and why it matters. This is the part that we put under a microscope when representation finally happens. Just any representation isn’t good enough. Not when there are people in need. Not when cultures depend on accuracy.
So I hope to share my experience with others for sure. But the stories get richer the deeper you dive. I wouldn’t trade my experiences at all. I just wish I understood it better. I wish I didn’t see the outside world as the blueprint for my own. That’s all.
I’d never heard of literary agents until last year. I say this often. But publishing was a mystery to me. Imagine the possibilities if others from my area had access to publishing. Maybe that requires effort on the publishing side of things. You know these communities exist...
So maybe just consider reaching out. The stories are there. The people are there. Months ago my aunt shared her short stories with me. Something she’d always written. She didn’t know about publishing. Didn’t know where to even start.
The stories are there. Black people have been telling them for years. We’ve thrived off of oral tradition. We had to. There are people desperately trying to make it wrriten as well. Respect them enough to acknowledge their existence. That’s all I’m asking.
And I’ll help organize it. Seriously. If publishing wanted these stories, I’ll do the work to connect you with the right storytellers. They’re here. They’re plentiful. They could benefit from it financially. So much of it goes back into the community to protect it anyway.
🙏🏽 have a great day. I’m off to enjoy my birthday. And by “off,” I mean switching rooms to pretend I’m in St. Lucia or something while writing more stories.
You can follow @antwan_eady.
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