My son, who’s a toddler, never takes naps. All day, from 6 a.m. to 7 p.m, he’s full of energy and inquisition. My wife and I get the biggest laugh when he stays with family for a few hours—none of them understand how he’s able to stay “full boat” all day, and how we’re able to keep up with him. His two modes—off and on—are a peek into his makeup.
I recognize his composition. I also have two gears: open and shut. For me, kindness is an absolute. I have zero tolerance for malevolence, and all the patience in the world for benevolence.
My hometown of Charleston has a history of malevolence—some of which was documented in a recent series of articles on bias in the city’s beer spaces, which I wrote with the help of my friends. Twelve years ago, I left the Holy City in search of more compassion and acceptance. In moving to Washington, D.C., I found a place for myself in the local beer industry, and found a home that offers more cultural acceptance, diversity, and generosity.
But not long ago, I returned to South Carolina to attend an event that was inspired by the articles we wrote. The Tek Cyear uh de Root Festival was immense for the industry—and a rarity for Charleston. Rare, because the event centered and celebrated those who are so often overlooked in the city’s brewing community and history.
As part of the event, we collaborated with Edmund’s Oast Brewing Company for the release of 8 And All, an 8.5% ABV American Strong Ale approximating a historical “Double Beer.” The brewery had featured in our stories because its historical namesake, Edmund Egan, was an example of the whitewashing inherent to local beer history. He might have been known as “Charleston’s Rebel Brewer,” and his name is on the brewery today, but as a slaveholder during the Revolutionary War, he didn’t do the brewing himself. Instead, enslaved people brewed for him—and today, we don’t even know their names.
To be honest, I never thought that the Charleston beer industry would be open to our criticism of the erasure of African-American brewing history, and that the brewery would be open to this partnership. Beer collaborations are common, but collaborations based on social and economic justice, and designed to educate local drinkers, are less so. Charleston isn’t a city that’s been ready to challenge its history, and our objective while planning the event and the collaboration beer was prompting a way to confront these truths and spark conversation.
The event was more than I could have hoped for. Seeing a brewery filled with patrons who shared a similar perspective, or were open to hearing our stories, reminded me of the enduring value of kindness. And it’s given me hope that, by reevaluating the past, we’ll all be able to shape a better future.
