Birmingham: Black Joy in The Gump
As we drove from Montgomery to Birmingham, I noticed swamps and fields give way to forests and hills. Eventually, the forests and hills were replaced by a modest skyline. Birmingham. We had finally made it. After our surreal experiences in Atlanta, Montgomery and Selma, I expected Birmingham — which used to be known as ‘Bombingham’ — to feel more tense than our other destinations. I could not have been more wrong.
Moments after entering the city, I noticed students thronging sidewalks, families buying groceries and people outside relaxing. My body settled deep into the car, and I found myself smiling in the sunlight. “Damn”, I thought to myself, “I was stressed stressed”. These emotions quickly turned to excitement for The Magic City Classic — which is what motivated our trip in the first place.
The Magic City Classic is “the largest historically black college and university (HBCU) football game in [the United States]. Alabama A&M University and Alabama State University play in the game annually at Legion Field in Birmingham…” [i] .We were going to set up a vendor there to sell shirts and to promote the Espresso Talk Today podcast. Our goal was to sell both during the tailgate and on game day.
Day 1: Christmas Lights
The vendors were “organized” in a straight line along the sidewalk next to the stadium. 10 or so were set up near the entrance, and a few more were dotted around the building. While walking through the campus to find our spot, I was surprised by how nice everybody was. Everybody said good morning, nodded, shook hands, and, challengingly wished each other luck.
Huge vans coughed out smoke as families inside them fried catfish and funnel cake. Older men were charring turkey legs the size of small children. These smokey scenes were balanced by the gentle smells of shea butter and aggressively sweetened lemonade. Finally, I reached our reserved set-up location for the day, a small concrete square, adjacent to a mechanical bull.
Shortly after setting up our tent, we made our first sale of the day! I distinctly remember our first customer. He had walked up and down the street and kept eyeing our products. At his third revolution around the block, he finally approached us. Standing at our both he was analyzing one of the shirts, marked with a large #BelieveBlackPeople. “So, what y’all have going on here?” he remarked, seemingly to the shirt. “Well!” my mom jumped in, “this is our hashtag to emphasize the validity of our experiences as Black people!”. He frowned a smile, and after some deliberation, we had won our first customer. However, our luck turned during the afternoon lunch-rush.
Two food trucks had set up on either side of our both. Smoke, grease, and the smell of deep-fried meat filled our tent. It became impossible for customers to see us. Then, it started to get dark and other vendors started blasting R&B music. We couldn’t hear our own thoughts or even see our own products! Frustrated, my aunt and I left for Walmart to get some Christmas lights, bottled water and drywall.
This was my first time meeting Aunt D. She met my mothers brother at university, and remained very close with my family after their relationship. After losing contact, D and my mom started to talk again after my Uncle passed away in 2020. Now, I was looking for drywall with her in Alabama–surreal.
We spoke about her first impression of my uncle, “impressed” she recounted with a gentle smile. “Impressed by how much he knew and how easy it was to talk to him”. They met at a club, and had their first date in the editorial office of Nommo–the student newspaper at UCLA, where he was an editor. We laughed at how “him” that type of thing was.
It was interesting speaking to someone who had observed my family for so long. She can’t be more than 5’7, but an aura of toughness seems to surround her. One can tell that she has fought for what she wants in this life. After getting back to the chaos of selling black/gray shirts in the dark, we lit up our little tent with Christmas lights. Victory! But, we had all decided it was time to go home.
Day 2: Walls & Horses
On game day, we were ready. We used the drywall to set up an impressive sign and the lights made our tent visible. All we had to do was sit back and enjoy the event. Again, we started strong with making sales, and sharing our vision. The last time I had been around that many Black people was in Senegal. We spoke–and connected–with customers. I really enjoyed selling to them in their own southern drawl–an accent I’m yet to inflict on my friends in Amsterdam.
Walking up and down the street, I could feel a subtle and casual dance. People were dancing, arguing, smiling, and just strolling in the sun. For once, I did not stand out because of my race. I’ve had moments like this before, but for some reason experiencing it in this way was different. My presence, atleast to my knowledge, was not questioned. I felt so deeply at home in this place I have never even visited before. However, once again issues arose.
At noon, what felt like hundreds of people flocked towards the food trucks. The makeshift walls we had set up were no match. Funnel cake sugar got on our shirts, the smell of grease infested our shirts, and customers — trifling as they can be — ignored us. I tried to strike up conversations with people in line about our shirts, “Y’all aright out here? Come check this out, baby. Yo son would love this!”. Most people half-smiled, some engaged in small-talk, others just focused on getting some food. However, shortly after lunch people took great interest in our tent.
Even in October, the Alabama sun can be unforgiving. There was no shade on the sidewalk, and multiple people collapsed due to heat stroke. On one occasion, a small child collapsed right in front of our tent. We took him inside — where dozens of aunties brought ice and prayed (“in the name of Jesus, let the devil releaaasseeee this child!”). I was struck by the way complete strangers gathered to support this child.
The chaos of the day continued at night, as people swarmed the sidewalk. Unable to secure any more sales, joined the crowd. Neon-blue slushies, loud soul-music, and the collective humming of hundreds of conversations blended into the sticky night air. Cars with huge rims and big people bounced past me. A horse trotted past me, parting the thick crowd. It was miraculously mundane. It was the culmination of tragedy, fear, sadness, pain, and joy in a short walk.
This was a distinctly and powerfully Black event. The goal here wasn’t to discuss The Struggle, or to share readings about white supremacy. It wasn’t even about reading stories which affirm our humanity. It was simply about enjoying some delicious food, watching football, and having a good time. However, it wasn’t until I arrived in Amsterdam that I was able to piece together these reflections.
[i] Home — Magic City Classic. (2023, October 28). Magic City Classic. https://www.magiccityclassic.com/
