“Cumya Can’t Tell Binya”
Those who have come here (cumya) can’t tell those who have been here (binya) how to live.
My time on Hilton Head Island has always meant more than taking a vacation.
As a child, I’d always dreaded school the assignments when teachers gleefully asked us to share our family history. I was born in Topeka, Kansas — and while I did have a lovely childhood, I was usually the only person of color in most classes.
I had no idea who my ancestors were or exactly where they were from. I’d usually start by explaining they were from somewhere in the “country” of Africa and quickly make my way to the Civil Rights Movement, sharing stories of triumph I’d heard from others.
When I started to learn the truth of their tragic middle passage voyage from one of the now 54 countries in the continent of Africa, it first brought feelings of sadness, hurt and pain. Further learning how 2 million kidnapped lives were lost on that horrific journey, that many chose to leap into the ocean preferring death over bondage, and how others were beaten or killed along the way, taught me that I’m a descendant of the smartest, the strongest, most faithful and resilient who starved, sacrificed and fought for my right…to live.
After years of research I uncovered that I am 80% Nigerian + Cameroon, Congo and Western Bantu, and 20% European. My ancestors arrived and were enslaved in coastal Virginia, North and South Carolina.
The Gullah/Geechee people in South Carolina are direct descendants of those enslaved Africans from several tribal groups of west and central Africa forced to labor on plantations.
I remember the first time 13 years ago I set foot on Hilton Head Island in South Carolina. It just felt different. The only time I’ve ever had that feeling was when I visited Africa. I knew it was a place I someday wanted to buy land and eventually live.
To Be Black and Have Land is a Revolutionary Act. -Queen Quet
After more research, I heard about the surrounding islands like Daufuskie and Saint Helena, and was blessed to spend time learning more about Gullah land and the people who remain there today.
Their hearts are so big. Their smiles warm my soul. Their dialect is like music.
The color of this haint blue door was often thought by the Gullah people to ward “haints,” or ghosts, away from the home. The tactic was intended either to mimic the appearance of the sky, tricking the ghost into passing through, or to mimic the appearance of water, which ghosts traditionally could not cross.
The bottle trees (similar to the one still in my yard from my son Markelle’s Juneteeth wedding day) represent the legend of bottles luring and capturing evil spirits in them and holding them hostage until the rising morning sun could destroy them. When the wind blows and the bottle hums, you know that there is a spirit trapped inside.
There’s a feeling of peace I have when I’m here. I am overcome with gratitude for the sacrifices of so many who enabled me to live the life I do. I hope I am indeed their wildest dreams.
Hilton Head is more than a vacation for me. This is sacred, sacred land. This is home.
