July is the month we say goodbye to writers who are retiring or moving on to new adventures, and this is Comfort’s last post. She has been writing with us since March 2019.

I almost didn’t make it. On Juneteenth this year I was weary, and in the words of someone on Twitter, “when a Black woman says she’s tired, she’s rarely referring to only the past week.” I was not in the mood to leave my house in Washington, D.C. But I had vowed to meaningfully connect with this new-to-me holiday and I’d heard a community group was hosting a cookout celebrating Black freedom and affordable housing. So I walked fifteen minutes from my house to the parking lot of a three-story brick building labeled “Baldwin House.”

To my surprise, this was not a mere cookout; it was a homecoming. An older man with a stately beard (Uncle Boe) presided over a steaming grill with drumsticks and hot dogs. A table overflowed with hamburgers, salad, salmon, pasta, cake, watermelon and tajin. The intergenerational crowd was so stunning in its colorful style, fros, and locs I wished I was a street photographer. 

Someone welcomed me, “This is our mutual aid celebration of what community can do. Feel free to explore, from the free store to the art station.” So I stepped into wonderland. The classic “Before I Let Go” played as people got into position for the Electric Slide. Kids in diapers flitted around an inflatable watermelon water sprinkler while adults sat on folding chairs in a pool. People from various backgrounds greeted each other, but this space was unapologetically Black-centered. 

I’d been nervous to show up alone but I fixed myself a plate and easily drifted in and out of conversation with strangers. The question “I love your headwrap, where did you get it?” led to me promoting a Black-owned company. An older auntie and I shared a laugh about a toddler’s antics. Thanks to what I like to call “friendly eavesdropping,” I met a librarian giving out books and zines about the fight for Baldwin House. 

What is Baldwin House? In a city where the lack of affordable housing threatens to force out communities of color, it’s a miracle (and named after the legendary author James Baldwin). One of the Black organizers shared the story: “Two years ago, I found out my apartment building’s owner put it on sale for $2.5 million. Higher rents under new ownership would have displaced many of my neighbors before Christmas Eve. But we wanted an alternative to gentrification, a long-term safe and affordable place for neighbors to call home.” The collective campaigned and fundraised from over five hundred people, and thanks to their tireless work, the tenants now own and govern the building. So we gathered on Juneteenth, hollering and whooping, as a testament to the impossible.

My hope expanded upon seeing such a tangible reminders of how we can care for each other and create new worlds, both institutionally and relationally. We sing freedom because “the very moment I thought I was lost, my dungeon shook and my chains fell off.”

The organizer had one last announcement, “We have a last-minute sponsor, a local Black-owned ice cream shop.” A cheer continued in the crowd when she added, “Let’s make space for Black folks to get in line first and let’s clean up so they have the space to rest.” Sure enough, when I headed for the butterscotch, coffee, and passionfruit scoops, the non-black people in front of me effortlessly and confidentially waved me past them. For someone who was taught to be sacrificial, helpful, and unoffensive, this miniature flipping of the tables felt so extraordinary I wanted to giggle and sashay.

I am so thankful to be under the mantle of a tradition that is grounded in history, in the true meaning of freedom, and in the joy of knowing “we are here against all odds.”

I know we are going to make it. 

Comfort Sampong

Comfort Sampong’s heart is sparked by fried plantains, tropical foliage and the stories of women thriving and creating a way out of no way. She graduated in 2018 with majors in economics and international development. Now she lives in Tegucigalpa, Honduras, where she works on English communications for the Association for a More Just Society, a Honduran non-profit fighting for justice and peace.