I grew up in a village that valued Sundays because of the appointment each of us had made with God and with one another. No one needed to remind us of it, the tolling of the bell was all we needed to make our way to the place of well-being. Here we were told to leave our burdens and troubles at the altar of song. It was always our mothers who brought us here, they taught us the hymns that became our prayer. This was an appointment marked by the racket and clamor of bells, drums, clapping hands, and stomping feet. Church, in black communities, is not just a space for organized religion, but here we conjure up magic, dancing in unison with the ghosts of our struggles and triumphs. The images made in this series reflect that they are photographed predominantly in the Anglican church where I grew up, on different occasions, the people in the images are my family, my friends, my neighbors. They mostly, wear the same clothes, and uniforms that do the job of masking our material differences so that we gather only as human beings. These uniforms are usually made with simple affordable material, usually crafted by a woman who happens to be a member of the congregation, some rules are unwritten but followed about how the uniform should be worn. No elaborate adornments on shoes or stockings, no jewelry, minimal makeup, nothing that reflects the wealth of one over the other, because here, all those things don’t matter. We must look the same, so as not to put one another on a hierarchy, we must look the same, so that we see each other’s humanity and uphold it. So here, we gather, to conjure up the magic of communion, singing and moving in unison, away from the stresses of the world so that we may find it in ourselves to feel well again. For a people who once would’ve been sanctioned if they ever expressed joy gathering like this is important so that we can feel the joy of song, infuse religious practice with ancestral magic, and leave feeling rooted, fulfilled, and held.