The place in which I will fit, will not exist until I make it. - James Baldwin 

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In a country built on denying the sanctity of Black existence, we, Black Americans, have carved out our salvation through the act of creating spaces. Ones woven with threads of communion and redemption. These are the places– hidden, ordinary, “every day”, and above all extraordinary– where our souls find solace, our laughter can boom, our tears can run, and the weight we carry can fall beneath our feet.  

Sanctuary is a love letter to our spaces, forged through fire and created through love. Blessed in a quiet resilience brown like you, me, and holy ground. The love I hold is not one absent of critique. Many of our sacred places echo oppressive ideas and inflict pain, sometimes a pain so hurtful it suffocates the essence of who we are. This acknowledges pain and truth while delving into the beauty of our sanctuaries. It intends to capture the nuance, resilience, and artistry of hope that Black Americans have etched into them. Above all, it aims to showcase the unyielding spirit of a community that has forged its path and evolved what sanctuary can be.  

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The Black Church  

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When I think of the word sanctuary, my mind and body are instantly transported to the Black church— where gospel fills the air, free, loud, vulnerable, joyful, and above all, BLACK—just how we dream of being. Through God, sermons, communion, and the collective act of resistance, the church equips us to make that dream true. The Black church was arguably the first place we could turn to. For the enslaved, it provided hope and a taste of freedom. In the fight for civil rights, the church was an emblem of faith and liberation. As Henry Louis Gates Jr. explains, “The Black Church was the cultural cauldron that Black people created to combat a system designed to crush their spirit…And the culture they created was sublime, awesome, lofty, glorious, and at all points subversive of the larger culture of enslavement that sought to destroy their humanity” (Gates Jr.).  

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The power churches hold is not confined to history. I think of my younger sister and me, dressed in our Sunday best at ages seven and nine. We noticed that it was where we saw our parents cry, let down their guards, and surrender joyfully. Sunday offered cleansing and a chance to begin again. 

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Now that I’m older, I understand the power of the church. But it took a while. I do not mean to erase how the Black church has mirrored white counterparts in policing Black female bodies, condemning Black sexuality, demonizing the (BLACK) LGBTQ+ community, abusing power, and profiting off the impoverished while preaching a prosperity gospel. Church hurt is real—during my teenage years, church was a place of dread. Its messages, from the pulpit to stares and whispers, told me that this body and mind I held were worthy of shame. But once I recognized that the church did not have a monopoly on God and discovered what church really meant to me: a place to worship and encounter, a place to commune, a place to organize and educate, it became a sanctuary for me. The church is where I, like my parents, can cry out, sing at the top of my lungs, and feel no shame. It helps me to learn and develop my politics. It's where I commune with the church mothers, whose smiles and advice always remind me that, despite everything, God is somehow for me. 

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The Barbershop and The Beauty Salon 

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Like Black churches, Black barbershops, and beauty salons serve as sanctuaries. However, these spaces uniquely place an importance on the beauty of Black people and culture.  

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I remember my first visit to a barbershop, it was with my late uncle, my cousins, and my younger sister. We, as the only girls in the barbershop, felt unsure of the space, but once my uncle and younger cousin settled into the chairs for their cuts, I began to understand its significance. The barbershop isn’t just about a fresh cut; it’s about brotherhood. For Black men, it’s one of the few spaces where they can be vulnerable and be vulnerable together. As Nicole Huffman notes, “They foster a sense of belonging and support, providing community and care” (Huffman). I listened to them share stories, encourage one another, and find joy. The barbershop is a rare refuge where Black men can in a way step outside the pressures of patriarchy and white supremacy. Because there, they can see themselves as beautiful and indulge in self-care and self-love. In a world that rarely affirms their beauty, the barbershop gives them a chance to relish in it. 

Beauty salons serve the same purpose, creating spaces to form relationships, build community, and affirm our beauty. Treye Green writes, “Black women’s hair is intentional, limitless, historical, influential, and deeply political in a world, often incapable of recognizing the depths of its wonder” (Green). While she is describing Black hair, this description also applies to our beauty salons. I would mend it, however, by adding they are also educational which adds to their sanctity.  

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For me, it’s where I not only learned about my hair but where lessons and knowledge were passed down to me. The first salon I remember going to was owned by a mother and her daughters. They introduced me to the power of hip-hop in R&B – one of my first tastes of Black culture. Later, at my auntie’s salon, I was the youngest among middle-aged Black women, listening to their stories about relationships, work, and life. I learned from their struggles and triumphs, gaining wisdom from a perspective that wasn’t always available to me. My experience in an African-owned shop, further expanded my world. Here I practiced French and deepened my understanding of African culture.  

But above all, I learned I was beautiful. Growing up in predominantly white spaces, and being a victim of colorism and featurism, I wasn’t made to feel beautiful. But in the beauty salon, I was affirmed. My dark skin, my hair, my smile, my features— these were all celebrated. The beauty salon, much like the barbershop, is a sacred place where Black people, more often than not women, but also men and queer folks are educated on their worth and allowed to recognize their sanctity. In a world that calls us less than, having spaces like the beauty salon and the barbershop, educating us and showing us our full beauty is revolutionary. 

 

Front Porches (And The Stoops and Streets They’re Connected To) 

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The front porch is emblematic of care. The front porch, a staple of Black culture, has long been a refuge. 

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I am reminded of the times I spent with my family on my great-grandmother’s front porch, where this ordinary thing became sacred— a space for reunion, healing, and renewal. Every May for my great-grandmother’s birthday and Mother’s Day, all of her children and extended family venture down to Kansas City and we commune on her porch. We are loud, rambunctious, and argumentative, but above all loving to each other while there because that is what it symbolizes.  

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Kiese Laymon echoes this sentiment in his essay, Repair, Renew, Revise, Revise, Revise, reflecting on how his grandmother’s porch was a sanctuary: “No matter who you were, Grandmama welcomed you onto her land. She welcomed you up on her porch… She assumed all who stepped foot on her porch were in need of repair” (Laymon). These words illustrate how Black people have transformed architectural fixtures and infrastructure into sanctuaries. They became places where we heal and reconnect with ourselves and our roots. 

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This form of sanctuary isn’t confined to front porches. Think of stoops at the front of East Coast brownstones, where culture is passed down and created, and conversation sparks revival. Think of streets filled with protests, festivals, gatherings, and childhoods— Black sanctuaries extend beyond walls, occupying space and air. 

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Everyday places illuminate who we are and the world.  

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Every place and space I’ve mentioned and even those I haven’t, like living rooms, cookouts, concerts, ballroom, Black Twitter, bookstores (BLK+BRWN in KCMO and Sankofa in DC), and archives (BqKC by Nasir Montalvo), have in one way or another, given me permission to exhale. These places have allowed me to bring every pound of weight, every burden, every story and smile, and thought, and lay them down. What makes them unique is their ability to intertwine the personal and the political. Black spaces uniquely recognize that they are inseparable. Revolutions were birthed on stoops and in the seat of salon chairs. Meetings were had on barbershop floors and in church halls to organize marches and protests. Simultaneously, they organized for the liberation of Black people while providing a taste of what Black liberation looks and feels like.  

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While Black spaces provide sanctuary for Black people, they also offer refuge for other marginalized groups. They combat the oppression of Black people, and in doing so, combat the oppression of us all. This is why the struggle for sanctuary, for Black sanctuary, is REAL. As gentrification persists, redlining remains unaddressed, socioeconomic inequality deepens, and white supremacy and anti-Blackness continue to thrive, the ability to sustain, build, and inhabit these spaces is growing in difficulty.  

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That’s why we must fight for them—through patronage, activism, and creation. The act of building space for Black people is a revolutionary one as it births change, joy, and love. It’s one of the longest-held Black radical traditions, and we owe it to our ancestors, to ourselves, and to our futures to keep it alive. These spaces—our barbershops, beauty salons, cookouts, porches, living rooms, and beyond—are proof that Black people have always known how to create and sustain joy, even in the face of relentless struggle. They are where we reclaim our beauty, our power, and our humanity. So we must keep building them. In doing so, we build ourselves and subsequently a better world. 

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Works Cited 

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Ganzy, Melquan. “The Cut: Identity and Resistance.” The Brooklyn Circus, 22 Dec.2020, shop.thebkcircus.com/blogs/culture/the-cut-by-myesha-evon-gardner? srsltid= AfmBOor2YrEQNUTErz94fbfJR2Q-L_3jm4sQooqCbpM-GDMja28QCYj3. 

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Gates Jr., Henry Louis. “The History and Importance of the Black Church.” Harvard Gazette, 9 Mar. 2021, news.harvard.edu/gazette/story/2021/03/the-history-and-importance-of-the-black- church/.