There’s an image, a feeling, that I haven’t been able to get out of mind since my last visit to the Sea Islands, US, in March. That of living in a small box, compressed on all sides. From above, your basic services are being neglected or withheld; from the sides, your ability to find a job or make a living is cut away; from below, a steady assault on your self-esteem as you are criminalised, ignored, gaslit or made to feel invisible. And imagine having to raise a family, make ends meet, maintain your physical and mental health in that box. At some point the air is going to thin out.
Occasionally, a glimpse of something offers respite. A flock of birds against the sky. The sway of the Spanish moss on the oak tree that has binya (“been here”; a Gullah Geechee term used to describe Sea Islands natives) for hundreds of years, that has seen Jim Crow, Reconstruction and maybe even enslavement. You hear the flow of the water as it laps against the dock. The water that represents a passage to the motherland. And life feels worth living.
