Our lives are a rainstorm of agony, a riverswell of ecstasy.
Ancestors following the drinking gourd to freedom, navigating with crooked runs and creeks, the landscape their map. Rivers as barriers, separating them from their enslavers. Baptism and revival in slow creek streams behind one-room churches on the Black side of town. Release and rebirth in water enveloping our bodies, overcoming the fear of drowning after overcoming the stereotype that Black people can’t swim. Pound of marching feet on the Edmund Pettus Bridge, the Alabama River underneath. Homegoings where tears of sorrow turn into joyous celebrations of life. Sweating out permed and pressed hair, unable to resist that one song that’s your jam. Staying out on the dance floor because every song is your jam. Apple cider vinegar, a sharp sting in your nose as it’s poured onto greens. Soul food, a comfort, with roots stemming from our ancestor’s meager provisions as slaves. Their traditions, their instinct, their spirit carried with them over an ocean, continued in us.
View my photographs from the show