Chapter 38
This was happening too fast. I should have told Pastor Porter that I needed to push back the launch of the program when I
had him on the phone last week, but I hadn’t because that wouldn’t have been fair to the students. Still, I almost turned
around twice. Pulling onto this island made me feel like I was wearing the wrong skin. People remembered your people here.
That was a hard thing to face.
I traveled south on Highway 174 to Botany Bay Road. The gravel crackled beneath my tires as I pulled into the side lot of
Edisto Family Church of God. The small white church stood with quiet dignity beneath a wide blue sky, its wooden steeple reaching
toward the clouds like a prayer. Flanked by simple white crosses, the building wore its age with grace. Behind it, the earthy
marshland reminded me that the tide and time shaped everything on the sea islands, including faith.
A few of the boys tossed a basketball at a crooked hoop near the picnic tables on the side of the building.
One of them stopped, pointed toward my car, and whispered something to the others.
A week ago, I would have imagined he’d said, “Miss Alex is here.” But now I wasn’t sure.
The deacon might have poisoned my name to everyone he could tell.
The Gullah were old-fashioned. Children didn’t belong in grown folks’ conversations.
I know Beck had said that when I was a child, but I overheard those conversations anyway.
Children listened from around corners and at the top of stairways.
If the parents talked, their children knew.
But these boys probably didn’t care. Teenagers didn’t know what things were worth, and none of them had walked on the land that was stolen.
I parked, took a deep breath, and grabbed my tote bag.
Inside, the scent of citrus wood polish and old hymnals made me oddly nostalgic for the church I grew up in. Downstairs, the
same room where I’d pitched the outreach idea now echoed with the low hum of teenagers chatting and occasionally laughing
too loudly.
Regina sat near the head of a long table with three girls I’d never seen before. When she saw me, she scooted toward me and
smiled, wide and happy, and a familiar warmth spread through my chest. It had been too long since she was at my side.
“Hello, Miss Alex,” she said.
“Hi, Regina. This is a good turnout.” It was. Including the boys who’d retired their basketball and followed me in, there
were about twenty students in the room.
“When are we going to find out the winners of the writing contest?” she asked, clearly anxious about it.
“The ceremony is in two weeks. I know it feels like it’s been a long time, but it hasn’t. The judges have a lot to consider.”
Regina twisted her braids around their fastener until she created a crown on top of her head. “I hope I win.”
“So do I.” I stared at her for a moment and saw the little princess. Believing you’re wearing a crown makes all the difference.
“Leave your hair like that,” I said. “It suits you.”
I set my tote down and greeted the group. I took attendance, counting nineteen, which included a mix of middle and high schoolers. Some were dressed to impress, while others wore faded T-shirts and work boots like they’d just come in from farming.
“Before we start,” Regina said, rising with a paper in her hand, “we have something to say.”
I blinked. “Oh?”
She cleared her throat and read from a short note. “Thank you, Miss Alex, for coming here when you didn’t have to. For helping
us tell stories we didn’t think anybody wanted to hear. For believing we have something worth saying.”
She handed me the page, and the whole group erupted into applause.
Regina walked to a table in the corner and picked up a portable cake holder. She set it down in front of me and removed the
lid. It was a two-layer chocolate cake with the words Thank You, Miss Alex piped in yellow. The icing was thick and uneven, but I couldn’t have loved it more.
“I . . . I don’t know what to say,” I whispered, genuinely stunned.
“You don’t have to say anything. Just cut it.” Regina folded her arms over her chest.
Chuckling, I said, “Thank you. We can eat this at the end.”
After writing my name on a whiteboard behind me, I turned to face them. “I appreciate Pastor Porter allowing me to use this
space. The fact that you’re here on a Saturday means you want to improve your writing skills.”
Every eye in the room was on me until they simultaneously darted to the door, and I looked to see that Pastor Porter was standing
there. He nodded, and I said, “Good morning, Pastor.” I turned back to the students and continued, “Let’s get started.”
I passed out markers and name tags, and then the assignment, which was to write about the best thing that happened to them this summer. They had twenty minutes to write, after which I opened the floor for sharing. I had a few volunteers, but that ended quickly. I had to start calling names.
There was one boy in the back whom I’d never met. I hadn’t seen him write anything. Maybe he was more of a speaker. Sometimes
I let kids start that way. I looked up his information in the roster. His mother indicated in the comment section of the application
form that he barely passed English and he needed something to do. I quirked an eyebrow at that last part. He didn’t look like
he wanted something to do. I called his name. “Daniel, would you like to share?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t write nothing.”
“Maybe you can just tell us and write it later,” I offered.
“There wasn’t nothin’ good about this summer,” he said. I didn’t think he could get lower in the chair, but he managed to
push back and disappear some more.
Clearing my throat, I said, “I guess I should have given you an alternative. You could write about the worst thing that happened
this summer.”
He frowned. “That ain’t nothing to write about either.” His eyes roamed the room. “Everybody in here already knows my dad
is in jail again. How is writing about that gonna help me? He’s still gonna be locked up.”
The truth in his voice settled in my chest, heavy and familiar. I didn’t have his pain or his story, but I knew what it was
like to be disappointed in family. I folded my arms over my chest and took a few steps toward the area where he was sitting.
“You and I have something in common.”
He frowned again. “What?”
“My father was in prison when I was young.”
The lines in his forehead deepened. “Really?”
I swallowed before continuing. “He did something really shameful, and he hurt a lot of people.” I paused before adding, “You’re not alone with your sadness, even though it can feel that way.”
Daniel sat up straighter. I could see he wanted to say something, so I waited for him. “I don’t want to be like him.” His
voice cracked on his words.
“You’re your own person.”
He avoided my eyes, looking down at his clenched fingers. “I heard people say I was going to be just like him.”
I stepped even closer, my own throat tight with disappointment that he’d had to hear that. “You don’t have to be.” I placed
my hand over his fist. “You already aren’t, but it’s okay to still love your dad.”
He nodded, and I saw understanding in his eyes, especially in regard to the love part.
I turned my attention to the other students. “Some of you may have people in your life like my dad. People who disappoint
you, embarrass you, make you feel like you must be like them, or at least that people believe you are. There’s a saying: The
apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. If you’ve ever watched an apple fall, you know it doesn’t typically fall far. But sometimes”—I
paused and smiled a little—“an apple rolls. It can be picked up and carried away to a better place.” I let my eyes settle
into as many of theirs as I could. “None of us are our parents. I am not the decisions my father made. I am not his failures
or his brokenness. If you ever deal with the same thing, remember me.” I pointed to my chest. “Remember that every day, you
wake up with the opportunity to write a new story. A brighter story. A story that says, Yes, I came from them—but I am not them. You get to be the one who breaks a generational curse.”
For a few seconds after I finished speaking, the room was completely still. No fidgeting. No whispers. Just the kind of silence that meant something had landed—hard and deep.
A boy in the second row who sat slouched with his hoodie pulled low leaned forward, his eyes wide and wet. Beside him, a girl
wiped her cheeks with the edge of her sleeve, trying not to draw attention. One of the middle schoolers near the back whispered,
“That was real,” and a wave of nods rippled through the crowd.
The kids clapped. A few gave me a heartfelt standing ovation—a kind of sacred applause that said, We saw ourselves in that. We needed that. Thank you. I surprised myself with those words.
I turned and found a smile on Pastor Porter’s face. He gave me a thumbs-up and left the room.
I glanced at the cake. I appreciated the kindness behind the gesture. These students needed me, and I didn’t know how much
I needed this program. It grounded me and gave me perspective outside the bubble I’d been in.
“Who’s next?” I asked, fighting to keep emotion out of my voice.
A hand went up. It was another student I didn’t know. I was happy about all the new faces. We’d “learn each other” as Ms.
Kate said. These were my kids. And because of my ancestry, my people.
This island was exactly where I was supposed to be.