Baptized in Black Brilliance
I was baptized in the cultural context of New Orleans as part of the Black is Brilliant Summit more than a week ago. From sitting at the feet of leading Black educators within the walls of a sanctuary to thanking a Freedom Rider for his journey unlocking my own access 50 years later to dancing in the street with strangers who’d become like family throughout the day — I was rebirthed. I emerged from the fractured pavement of Bayou Road with a greater sense of self, a connection to community, and a deeply rooted spirit of joy.
For context, Black Education for New Orleans (BE NOLA) is a nonprofit organization dedicated to supporting Black educators and schools to ensure an education that creates better outcomes and opportunities for Black children in New Orleans as a critical factor in building a thriving Black community. The organization is led by two badass Black women, Adrinda Kelly and Stevona Elem-Rogers, full of knowledge, passion, and the energy necessary for moving this work forward. Moreover, they are supported by a board, community leaders, and business owners committed to Black governance and leadership regarding our children’s education.
Going in, I was there to observe. Though I am well aware that my observations often lead to me taking some sort of action, I was not prepared for the work within me that would take place. My fears were confronted head-on by elders. My personal biases and assumptions were challenged. More clarity on my identity and contributions to the Community was received. I’ve been buzzing with the inspiration of reflection and motivation for action going on two weeks now.
Confronting Fear
I stepped into the first experience a few minutes late with a whole lot of fear. The lights were dim, and the energy of expectation was palpable. I settled in realizing it was a ‘get-in where you fit-in’ type of situation. What unfolded next was a group of Black leaders and community members sharing remarks on the state of Black education within the city and their connection. They recalled their “whys”. I immediately remembered being a young, wide-eyed teacher hoping to change the world from my classroom. The memories were accompanied by sadness and shame — I’d left traditional education. Fear rose. Am I an imposter here? What if someone realizes that I’m an outsider, education adjacent because I’m “just a mom”?
Stevona hosted a transparent, powerful interview with one of the original Freedom Riders, Dave Dennis, Sr., about his book The Movement Made Us. Mr. Dennis’ perspective and vulnerability transformed me. Instantly. He recalled hearing, “There’s not enough space here for God and fear.” I swallowed back tears with the acknowledgment that perhaps the shame and sadness of not being where I thought I’d be at this point in my life was due to an accumulation of fear. What have I been most afraid of? The answer was two-fold. I was afraid of being my full self in all spaces. And I was also afraid that the full me would not make the grandiose, meaningful change in the world that others I’d personally deemed more worthy would make.
Mr. Dennis continued sharing from his heart. His responses beckoned me to step further into the light of my own life. Mr. Dennis’ explanation of community, the movement, and all its members resonated with me. Everyone has a role to play, even down to mothers birthing the Black children we all care for. Birthing the Black children that would grow to be Black leaders. Exhale. The fear and anxiety I’d been holding on to was released. I belong here.
About an hour later, I had an opportunity to give thanks. I fought back tears as I expressed gratitude to one of those who’d paved the way with their own sacrificial blood for my existence, my access, and my belonging.
Thank you again Mr. Dennis, for seeing me and fighting for my freedom from fear and man long before you ever saw me. Asé.
Challenging Biases
I was born and raised in Georgia. As a result, I am honest about my skepticism toward white people. From lived and observed experiences, especially of late, I hold an elevated level of caution when encountering them in Black spaces. New Orleans was different for me (or so I thought). This place was a gumbo pot of racial ambiguity I’d never encountered before, not even in the melting pots of LA and New York.
Gut Check One. I met a woman who was clearly white. Her facial features. Her hair texture. She’s white. Must be an ally. I hope she’s a good one. I pushed the thoughts aside and continued my experience. I was here for a reason. I’d later learn she’s NOT white. She identifies as Native American. Oh shit. I got that wrong. What else did I miss? I instantly recalled some other white-presenting people of color I’d recently met. I started thinking back to a phase I went through last year — a lot of the content I was consuming surrounded situations of passing. The question returned if I could pass, would I? Why or why not? Passing could be both a privilege and a burden. I knew it all too well from the slight adjustments I’d made over the years — my phone voice. My name on resumes. I had to sit with this uncovered bias. I’d judged someone wrongly. Lesson learned.
Gut Check Two. I overheard the waiter’s conversation before we ever sat down. He was a loud gay man who’d recently moved in with his boyfriend. I live in Atlanta, so I didn’t think twice about it. Until he came to the table. The way he spoke. There was a familiarity deeper than the usual service industry engagement. I’m not quite how sure it happened but the conversational dam broke. Next thing you know, I learned he wasn’t the gay white man I observed. He was French, Italian, and Puerto Rican. A gay man of color trying to navigate this world as such. He lives in a space of intersectionality, much like I do as a Black woman. A space in life that sometimes feels very damned if you do, damned if you don’t. That was the connection of familiarity. Why wouldn’t he just take the route of being white and eliminate one of the “strikes”? He saw me from the jump in a way that I couldn’t yet see him.
And then it happened, a very public macroaggression took place. I couldn’t see/hear it all, but it was tense. He came back to the table and kneeled to speak. It was a quick reset that he needed. He found us, two Black women to whom he could relate to find safety and recenter himself. He courageously opened up about his experience and others like it. Assumptions gone wrong. Everything came full circle for me when he shared that he was changing his last name. His surname was that of one of the wealthiest enslavers in the area’s history. “The ancestors are probably rolling in their graves at multi-mixed race, gay me who’s in love with a Puerto Rican.” His laugh rang like a bell of truth. He didn’t look like a man of color, but he sure had the swag and confidence of one. Check yourself, Danielle. You, with your assumptions and personal biases, almost got it wrong again.
I would go on to have three more encounters that challenged the space between what my eyes saw, what my heart felt, and what my mind conceived before I arrived home. Initial discomfort aside, I am a better person because of each experience. My compassion and empathy towards others has been strengthened.
Sacred Clarity Received
I grew up in the Bible Belt and was always cautioned about “getting caught up in all that other stuff.” On the plane heading to New Orleans, I distinctly heard the word “sacred.” I had no idea what it was meant for at the moment. Walking through the airport, I noticed the usual directional signs. But the ones marked “Chapel” were the first ones I’d seen outside of a hospital. I’m sure they’re in lots of spaces I’ve been in before, but this was the first time the offering of a chapel grabbed my attention. I quietly stepped into the small room, immediately followed by another woman. We sat for a few moments in peace, silently praying for our needs. Lord, I need clarity of purpose while I’m here. And help me not miss any sacred moments you have prepared. Amen. Exit.
When I arrived at the Black is Brilliant Summit, the day’s starting program was arranged in a former church. A sacred space. Within the Black community, churches represent many things beyond worship and scripture readings. Black churches represent safety, community, release, and rest. How fitting that the Black is Brilliant Summit would start in a space for faith building and restoration before sending us back into the community for other summit activities centered on Black education. Throughout the day, the church's doors remained open for rest, communing, and viewing of the Summit’s live stream.
St. Rose de Lima Church, now operating as André Cailloux Center for Performing Arts & Cultural Justice, combines two things I hold sacred — church and theater space. I mentioned this to someone with awestuck dampness at the corner of my eyes. Theaters have always been my church — welcoming the fragmented, healing the broken, uniting the community, and reimagining the future. Holy Smokes! I was having a sacred experience. The work of community building and justice are sacred efforts.
As the daughter of ministers who stood firm in their call to the pulpit, I often walked with an uncertainty of my own call. It didn’t look the same. I’ve recently been wrestling with this idea of ministry happening in various forms. I’ve come to understand that the leaders of new change and progress will not only be those who accept the call to preach. Change will be delivered through those who are called to Community. For me, the Black is Brilliant Summit was a gathering of the Called — educators, community leaders, parents, and children. It was evidence of the strength of faith over fear. It was a place that required me to address my biases. The Summit was also where I felt most anchored in the clarity of my call. Glory, hallelujah . . . to be baptized.
I’m sure that more enlightenment will rise as I continue to process. But for now, this I know to be true: Black is Brilliant, and I was baptized.
