“Because they don’t know American history; they know
American mythology,” says Touré. “That Gone With the
Wind mythology.”
The men are serious but hopeful, confident in their
community’s ability to thrive despite it all. Outside, wild
geese squawk at the setting sun. We bring our plates to the
sink and ready ourselves to leave. Near the door, Dennis
pauses, turning back to Brownlee and Touré. “I ain’t the
first voice,” he says, “and I’m not gonna be the last voice.”
Brownlee nods, eyes serious behind his tortoiseshell
glasses. “I’m just so glad there’s a voice.”
ON OUR LAST DAY of the trip, we visit Brunswick, Geor-
gia, where schoolteacher turned tour guide Helen Ladson
is helping plan the area’s first Taste of Gullah festival at
the historically black Harrington School Cultural Center
on St. Simons. A celebration of Gullah music, crafts, and of
course, food, this festival does locally what Dennis is trying
to do on a national level: create visibility for the culture
while simultaneously educating people about its history.
At caterer Isaiah Brown’s house, we gather in the yard for
barbecue and Frogmore stew: live crabs tossed into a boil-
ing mixture of sausage, corn, crawfish, clams, and Cajun
seasoning. “We ain’t family ’til we eat together,” says Lad-
son, handing me a plate.
Driving the three hours back to Charleston, I ask Dennis
a question that’s been on my mind for miles: Does preserv-
ing this culture ever feel like a burden? He’s quiet for half
a beat, then resolute. “No,” he says. “It’s never a burden
because my ancestors walk with me every day. It’s a weight
on my shoulders that I like.”
Now Dennis is working on going from full-
time caterer to opening his own space. It will be
in Charleston, but it won’t be just a restaurant.
It will be a studio for kitchen demos, a venue,
a casual café —a place where he can record
livestreams and host dinners. In many ways the
space will function as this road trip has: a plat-
form for sharing Gullah culture in all its forms.
That’s the way it goes with Dennis. He tells the
stories of his people, and they, in turn, tell his.
A FEW MILES outside Charleston, we stop at a
gas station in the small town of Hollywood,
South Carolina. Dennis runs inside to grab a
soda. “Hey, come check this out,” he says when
he returns, Styrofoam cup in hand, gesturing to
a spot behind the mini-mart. A plume of steam
rises from a silver vat as a man in overalls scoops
boiled peanuts into a plastic bag. Behind him,
fat peaches and plums sit in blue buckets on a
folding table. Dennis has never met this man
before, but we find out his name is Cornell Cox,
and he’s been in this business for 52 years. I buy
a sack of plums and Dennis takes out his phone,
films an impromptu interview, and posts it to
Instagram, entreating his followers to come
down to Hollywood to get some of the goodness.
“You gon’ be back out here tomorrow?” he
asks Cox.
The man nods, turning back to his steaming
pot. “I hope so.”
BROWNLEE’S
ROASTED
SHEEPSHEAD;
CORNELL COX
SELLING BOILED
PEANUTS IN
HOLLYWOOD, SC
85
FOR DETAILS, SEE SOURCEBOOK
