My Only Pilgrimage – A Reflection – Marcel V. Kennedy

Ahead of starting this reflection, I googled the word pilgrimage.  One of the meanings was “a journey to a place associated with someone or something well known or respected”. 

Charleston, SC is a well-known city.  The stories which I learned and shared on this journey were certainly not well-known to me.  To adequately reflect, I start with the car ride to Charleston.  Rebecca Riney was my chariot driver, her Honda Odyssey was my chariot and the other chariot rider was Karen Friend.   It was a delightful ride towards Charleston with the occasional phone call to Marty Bergstom in his car.  Rebecca promised his wife Betsy that she would drive in tandem. That’s never an easy feat on an interstate.

As we drove through a rural section of SC, I noticed cotton field after cotton field. My thoughts immediately went back to a time, not so long ago, when my ancestors worked in those cotton fields under scorching sun, sweltering heat and everything else that came their way.

On Friday, I knew my journey was beginning when I entered the doors of the Fort Moultrie Visitors Center, now a National Park on Sullivan’s Island. The young and extremely knowledgeable US Park Ranger shared a brief history of the Fort and the role it played in the importation of slaves.  Later that afternoon, I came face to face with Queen Quet, Chieftess of the Gullah Geechee Nation. Queen Quet engaged with our group for almost forty-five minutes on the history and struggle of her people, my people, our people – American citizens – the Gullah Geechee people. I felt like I was standing in the presence of greatness and I did not want the conversation to end.  When Queen Quet said that she would visit us one day in Marietta, it took my breath away.

Renewing my baptismal vows on the nearby beach, led by Mother Sarah and shared with the other pilgrims, was an unbelievable moment.  To sit at the water’s edge as the tide ebbed and flowed, was a reminder of how life’s seasons, hardships, et cetera, come and go.  In all these circumstances, my Creator never changes and is always with me.

On Saturday, my visit to the Old Slave Mart Museum and then to the International African American Museum (also known as the I-AAM) was the most somber and sobering experience of my life. The I-AAM is a place that I hope everyone gets a chance to visit.  It can be heavy at times; I found it necessary to take it in slowly. It is a museum which tugged on my soul and my psyche.  I hope to re-visit the museums again. There was not enough time in one visit to get through it all. 

On Sunday, the welcome of Father Ricardo Bailey and his parishioners at Calvary Episcopal Church (1847), first for the service and then to eat at their table was just what God ordered up to transport us all back safely to GA.

In the words of my sister Maya Angelou which are proudly displayed on a poster on the grounds of the I-AAM, “History, despite its wrenching pain, cannot be unlived, but if faced with courage, need not be lived again.”