Reclaiming Joy

I worried about how I would get there—my car had been totaled by a tree during a violent windstorm. I worried about how I could afford the room, how I would take care of my household obligations. Worry is the constant background noise in my mind: worry about survival, about struggle. But I made it. I arrived!

I arrived at the Katie Geneva Cannon Center for Womanist Leadership (KGCCFWL) in Charleston, South Carolina. I was determined to be here—to experience community among African American women who understand, or seek to understand, what it means to be "womanish." These are ideological Womanists: unashamed to be Black, female, bold, audacious, spiritual, loving, justice-seeking, healing—and healers. Yes, I arrived!

This is my first time attending KGCCFWL. I didn’t know exactly what to expect, but I knew I was ready. While the trip may have been optional on paper, deep down I knew it was mandatory for my soul. I was being called into an experience I had been yearning for. This Womanist space affirms both our Blackness and our woman-ness. It names and celebrates everything I’ve long known and believed—and for once, I am not alone in my thoughts and dreams.

The conference opened with the profound wisdom of Rev. Dr. Renita Weems, a theologian sharing stories of her pioneering journey as one of the first Black women with a PhD in Old Testament and one among the first wave of Womanist scholars. The conference included dynamic workshops that encouraged us to engage in “Womanist Play” with Dr. Lakisha Lockhart, powerful stories of resistance from Millicent Brown, and sacred worship in remembrance of the nine souls lost ten years ago at Mother Emanuel AME Church. Worship in that holy space, where lives were violently taken while welcoming a stranger, was embodied resistance. Yet, still they rise.

Bishop Vashti McKenzie reminded us, through the words of Habakkuk, that the powers and principalities we face today are not new—and those who came before us endured far more with far less. Surely we, too, can endure. We are daughters of Africa. Our lived experiences and the wounds of our communities bear witness to the deep harm caused by systemic evil—but our scars are also marks of healing and resistance. They are part of our story, our history…herstory.

One of the most powerful moments for me was learning more about the history and culture of the Gullah/Geechee people—a culture rich in West African heritage, forged through survival and resistance. On my mother’s side, I descend from the Geechee people of the Eastern Shore of Maryland. On my father’s side, I’ve gained new insight into our Gullah/Geechee roots: Celie Pitts, once enslaved on the Pitts plantation in South Carolina, who was force migrated to Georgia. The spiritual wealth of Gullah/Geechee culture is immeasurable evidenced in the art of basket weaving and rice growing.

And finally, I stood at the International African American Museum (IAAM) in Charleston. The ocean breeze brushed against my face as I looked into the shallow waters outside the museum grounds. At first, I thought I saw waves—but as I looked again, I realized they were the silhouettes of bodies. Their forms, frozen in the water’s memory, whispered stories of unimaginable pain and resilience. In the background, a black marble wall bore Maya Angelou’s eternal words: “Still I rise.”