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LITERARY JOURNALISM
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Tracing Gullah Roots Through Savannah's Streets: A Look Beneath the Cobblestone
By Skylar Brennan
One of the first things people notice about Savannah is the city's historic beauty and charm. Spanish moss spills from the ancient oak trees, cobbled streets curve around oak-shaded squares. Beneath the mural covered walls and aesthetically pleasing cafes, Savannah buzzes with stories far older than the manicured lawns seen today. Where art students from the Savannah College of Art and Design fill the sidewalks with chalk murals and walk together to class and to galleries, the past of the city is never far behind. Savannah is rich with history; a city with a dark past. Today, River Street is filled with trolleys, restaurants, boutiques, and waterfront hotels. The streets smell like sweet candy and salt, and it draws in visitors with promises of Southern charm. But if you dig deeper, Savannah’s seemingly polished streets hide a disturbing history. Savannah is built not only by colonists, soldiers, merchants and plantation owners, but by the knowledge, culture, grit, and hands of the Gullah Geechee people, whose cultural impact continues to echo through its language, music, food, and daily life.
During the Antebellum period, Savannah was a city of wealth and importance, the heart of a very different economy, one built upon enslaved labor. Savannah was also a major port for exporting cotton. Just off of River Street still stands the Savannah Cotton Exchange, a brick building whose original gothic architecture remains intact, a witness to the deals and wealth traded inside these walls and out. The ships that arrived at the ports on River Street brought more than dry goods. They held enslaved people, particularly African people, who were then forced off the ships and sold at auction. The majority of the enslaved people came from the region of Sierra Leone in West Africa, chosen for their knowledge of rice farming and agricultural expertise. These people would become the foundation of the Gullah Geechee culture.
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Through this oppression, something extraordinary took root: a language, a culture, and a group of people who refused to be erased. In the fields and in the quarters of plantations, enslaved West Africans formed their own communities, ones that grew the Gullah Geechee culture. They found ways to preserve memories of their home: songs, beliefs, stories, and ways of speaking. The language they used is referred to as Gullah Geechee (also referred to as Geechee) and is an Americanized version of Creole, with vocabulary and grammar coming from African and European roots. It is commonly confused with broken English, and can also be confused with a strong southern accent. The language was never meant for the plantation owners to understand. It was a secret language, a shield from society.
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Through the Gullah Geechee language, enslaved people shared stories, warned of danger, and preserved their history through spoken word. What may have sounded strange to outsiders was in fact a language layered with nuance and meaning. Over time, as generations passed, the language spread along the southeastern coastline, from the Carolinas through Georgia to northern Florida. This language, which was created as a means for survival and protection, has influenced traditional southern speech styles and vocabulary to this day.
Even now, traces of Gullah Geechee speech survive not just in isolated communities, but in the everyday vernacular of the South. Words, rhythms, and intonations passed down through centuries now lay in the drawls of Southern speech. When someone in Savannah says “fixin’ to,” or draws words out musically, they are repeating patterns born from African speech.
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When slavery ended, the Gullah Geechee people didn’t disappear. Rather than assimilate into dominant white culture, they remained in close-knit communities along the coast, places where their traditions could continue to flourish. They built close-knit communities and continued to pass down stories, customs, recipes, and their language—not for museums or textbooks, but as a lived culture they could pass onto their descendants. These communities became pockets of cultural preservation and autonomy. Isolated by geography and bonded by shared history, the Gullah remained rooted even as the world changed around them.
The legacy of the Gullah Geechee people doesn’t end with language. It shaped what we know as Southern culture, often without acknowledgment. The dishes celebrated as “Southern comfort food” began as food for survival, meals created by what was available, stretched, and transformed into nourishment. Rice, okra, yams, black-eyed peas, peanuts, and watermelon- staples of Southern cooking- were introduced, cultivated, and sustained by enslaved Africans who carried their agricultural knowledge with them across the Atlantic. These crops flourished in the hot, humid climate of the coastal South because the Gullah people who worked the land knew how to make them flourish. Gullah Geechee cooks developed ingenious methods of combining African ingredients with local ones, creating new dishes that told stories of adaptation and remembrance. Gumbo, a popular Southern stew, takes its name from the West African word for okra—ki ngombo—and uses the same thickening and layering techniques found in African soups. Red rice also traces its lineage back to African rice dishes, often flavored with peppers, onions, and smoked meats. Even shrimp and grits, often served in Savannah’s restaurants today as a Southern delicacy, began as a Gullah fisherman’s breakfast, a simple dish eaten after long mornings along the coast.
Food was a form of preservation, both of physical life and of cultural identity. Recipes were rarely written down; they were remembered and repeated by hand. Cooking was communal, spiritual, and artistic. The flavors of Savannah, the collard greens simmered for hours, the rice dishes flavored with smoked meat, the sweet potato pie served at family gatherings, are all echoes of the Gullah Geechee palate.
Music, too, carries the heartbeat of Gullah Geechee culture. Gullah Geechee music shaped the emotional and spiritual core of African American life, and, by extension, American music itself. These songs were not created merely as entertainment for people; they were survival tools. In the fields, rhythmic work songs set the pace for labor and offered coded messages of hope or escape. When you hear gospel choirs in Southern churches, their harmonies echo Gullah gatherings. When you hear blues musicians bending notes on street corners, you’re hearing variations of ancestral Gullah melodies. Jazz, which grew in nearby New Orleans, borrows heavily from the improvisation and communal rhythm rooted in Gullah tradition. Even modern music genres, R&B, soul, hip-hop, carry remnants of those early African cadences.
The music of the South has always been deeply spiritual, but that spirituality stems from Gullah Geechee expressions of faith and endurance. For many enslaved Africans, Christianity became fused with African religious traditions, producing a unique blend of music that emphasized liberation, resilience, and justice. The field songs that once carried coded directions on the Underground Railroad later evolved into the sorrow songs W.E.B. Du Bois wrote about—songs that became the backbone of blues and gospel. The modern American sound, in all of its genres, can trace its roots back to these first hymns of the enslaved, rising from the rice fields of Georgia and the coasts of South Carolina.
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In recent years, efforts to preserve and honor the Gullah culture have gained momentum. The Gullah Geechee Cultural Heritage Corridor, a federally designated National Heritage Area, spans 12,000 square miles along the coasts of Florida, Georgia, South Carolina, and North Carolina. Managed by the National Park Service, the corridor supports educational programs, preservation, and awareness of Gullah heritage. It ensures that the memory of the Gullah people is not only honored but continued. That their contributions to our society today are named, celebrated, and protected from the erasure that often happens to colonized people and their histories. The Gullah Geechee people are not a footnote. They are not folklore. They are the foundation of the city of Savannah.
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To understand the South is to understand its history. In order to appreciate Savannah for what it is today, we must honor those whose voices carried through oppression and violence, whose words still ripple through the southern air. Every culture that arrives in America brings something with it, whether it be a language, a recipe, a rhythm, a prayer. For the Gullah Geechee people, it was all of the above, and more. Through their language and traditions, they carved out a culture that not only survived, but shaped the very soul of the South.
Citations
Baul, Chantel. “Betcha Didn't Know These Facts about River Street.” Visit Savannah, Visit Savannah ©2023, 8 Apr. 2020, https://visitsavannah.com/list/betcha-didnt-know-these-5-facts-about-river-street.
Campbell, Dr. Emory. “Language.” Georgia Historical Society, https://georgiahistory.com/education-outreach/online-exhibits/online-exhibits/interpreting-the-gullahgeechee-heritage-in-the-21st-century/language/.
Rodman, Sue. “Gullah Geechee Savannah GA: Understanding the True History of Savannah.” 365 Atlanta Traveler, 365 Atlanta Traveler ©2023, 28 Mar. 2023, https://365atlantatraveler.com/history-of-savannah/.
Ghahramani, Ladan, et al. “Minority Community Resilience and Cultural Heritage Preservation: A Case Study of the Gullah Geechee Community.” MDPI, 13 Mar. 2020, www.mdpi.com/2071-1050/12/6/2266.
“African American Life in the Georgia Lowcountry.” Google Books, books.google.com/books?hl=en&lr=&id=7dzdCgAAQBAJ&oi=fnd&pg=PA1&dq=Gullah%2BGeechee%2B&ots=o1wh56_vNn&sig=p3GalAwac4DF8tXqUekE9ycsexU#v=onepage&q=Gullah%20Geechee&f=false. Accessed 2 June 2023.
“The Gullah Geechee - Gullah Geechee Cultural Heritage Corridor.” Gullah Geechee Cultural Heritage Corridor - Where Gullah Geechee Culture Lives, Gullah Geechee Cultural Heritage Corridor Commission ©2023, 8 July 2022, https://gullahgeecheecorridor.org/about/.
Music/Opinion
Lemonade: The Film
By Skylar Brennan
Lemonade, Beyoncé’s sixth studio album, comprises eight songs. The album reflects on Beyoncé's personal struggles and experiences, particularly regarding her marriage with Jay-Z and the challenges they faced. Lemonade is accompanied by a 65 minute visual album released in 2016. In Lemonade’s visual album, there is incredible cinematography and spoken word poetry, as well as the songs themselves. It's not only a collection of songs and music videos, but also a narrative film that delves into themes of infidelity, empowerment, race, and womanhood.
One of the most compelling parts of the Lemonade film is the spoken word poetry. Beyoncé collaborated with Somali-English poet Warsan Shire on the different pieces of poetry read, accompanied by snapshots and video of the southern gothic imagery that is depicted throughout the film. One of the poems, "Anger", reflects on the jealousy and rage someone can feel after dealing with infidelity in a relationship. My favorite quote from this poem is, “Her sternum, my bedazzled cane. We can pose for a photograph, all three of us. Immortalized ... you and your perfect girl” (Beyoncé). The audible delivery is bone-chilling, and the agony is felt through the simplistic yet cutting wording. The poetry is a huge part of why this film is so impactful for me, as the spoken word is truly one of the best and most gut-wrenching parts of the film.
Lemonade is delivered as a story, specifically a story of the different stages of grief and its emotional highs and lows. The different stages of grief are shown in each of the different “scenes” which consist of the written poetry and songs, and also through the costumes and imagery. Each of the emotions have a different persona with different clothing, hairstyle, and energy overall. The overall theme and energy of the film is a southern gothic feel with modern twists, reflecting on ancestors and specifically what black women have faced as a minority group. There are reflections on Beyoncé’s experience with her parents and the domestic abuse she witnessed as a child, as well as reflections of the ancestors that came before her. These reflections are shown throughout the film, transporting us to a different time.
The imagery in the film is often shot through a vintage lense, distorting the image or delivering it grainy or black and white. It gives some of the moments very vintage and almost haunted energy as they flash across the screen. One specific clip features a group of women dressed in modest, long white dresses swaying in a circle, which felt like a clip straight out of American Horror Story or Ari Aster's Midsommar. It was moments like this in the film that felt like a flashback to the time of her ancestors, a reflection of how we have gotten where we are today, and how some struggles we face today as women have been battled for centuries.
The Lemonade film is a story of the expression of emotions and grief, from anger and betrayal to forgiveness and resilience. The lyrics are deeply personal and introspective, showcasing growth and strength in the face of adversity. The cinematography is picturesque and the poetry is incredible, and it overall is an incredibly moving and multi-faceted project.
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Fiction
Savior
By Skylar Brennan
Bacon sizzled on the stove as reggaeton played on the kitchen stereo. Isabella loved this part of the morning, when Mama sang and danced around the kitchen, her curlers still in her hair before her shift at the hospital. Isabella was watching cartoons with her little brother Miguel in the living room, waiting for breakfast to be ready. The prayer candles made the apartment smell warm and slightly sweet. “Breakfast!” Mama called, and Isabella raced to the table. Banana pancakes steamed on her plate, syrup pooling around the edges. She ate fast, barely tasting her food, a nervous rock in her stomach. She just started riding her bike to school this year; she couldn’t be late, not with math class first period.
“Hurry, mija,” Mama said gently, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “We’ll pray, then you go.”
They bowed their heads for the quick prayer, then Isabella bolted, tugging her skirt straight, glancing back once at Miguel’s syrupy smile before she slammed the door and hopped on her bike.
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The Milwaukee morning air was cool on her cheeks as she pedaled. For a moment, she thought she heard someone call her name — but when she glanced back, no one was there.
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Isabella groaned as a bolt of pain shot through her skull, the pain making her eyes blur from pressure. She held her throbbing head, her eyes darted to where her bedside table should have been, where Mama always left a glass of water for her, but the space beside her was empty. There was no lamp or framed photo of her and Miguel at the church fair, no chipped mug covered in daisies. Rubbing the goose egg forming on her scalp, her stomach sank.
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She blinked rapidly, trying to force her vision to clear. This was not her bedroom. Her pink walls were painted white concrete. She scrambled to her feet from the dingy mattress on the floor, her body aching with every movement. Her thoughts were racing, where was Mama? Her skirt was torn, and she immediately thought about what Mama would say. The anxiety in her stomach rose, and she bit her lip nervously. Mama had saved up to buy them for her so she wouldn’t be teased by the other kids anymore about wearing the lower school’s dress years later. They cost thirty dollars from the church, and they were too expensive to replace. The headmaster would surely call her into the office for a demerit. As she worried about the tear, Isabella shivered. Where are my shoes?
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There was a metal door, but as much as Isabella pushed and slammed her small body against the door, it wouldn't open. She clawed her hands at the sides of the door, but they kept slipping off the smooth surface. There wasn’t a doorknob or a handle, there was no escape. Her stomach turned, and she remembered breakfast that morning. Isabella stepped back from the door, shaking. She didn’t remember getting to the church for school, she just remembered riding her bike. She remembered fragments- the crunch of the gravel beneath her bike, the smell of leaves in the air. She looked down at the scrape on her left thigh, a bruise blossoming down her leg. Her pulse raced.
“Help!” Isabella screamed, pounding on the door again, but she desperately needed water and the strain on her throat made her wince.
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The room around her was bare, except for the mattress on the floor. A bible sat idly by, the red crimson being the only thing of color in the room. The concrete floor beneath her feet was smooth, and very cold. She chattered, tears forming in her eyes. It was only September, but there was a cold snap in Milwaukee that week, and Isabella forgot to wear a sweater that morning. Isabella dank to the flow and bowed her head. God...I’m so scared. Please, please help me. I know you're still here.. Please protect me. Send someone to find me. Show me a way out. Do something. Please don’t leave me. In Jesus’ name, Amen. She wiped her tears, screaming again.
A loud hum rose, piercing the silence like a knife.
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“Isabella, please don’t scream. You're going to hurt yourself”, a voice said over a speaker. Her face twisted in horror, the confusion and fear enveloping her into a panic.
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“It’s okay Isabella, you're saved now.” The voice said.
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“Who are you? Let me out! Please, I want to go home.” Isabella pleaded, pounding on the door.
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“It’s not safe there, Bella. Here, you will be protected. Your mother can’t do that by herself, now can she?”
Isabella winced. Her father had left them three months ago, but it still stung when she thought about it. She could still picture him at the kitchen table, eating his cornflakes and reading the newspaper. Her mother cried constantly, especially after church. People always stared at them, probably wondering where her Dad was. She wondered the same thing. On her first day of seventh grade, her Dad wasn’t there at dinner to ask her how her day was, about her teachers. She missed that. How did this person know about her Dad?
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“How do you know about my dad?” She asked, her voice shaking,“Just let me go, please.”
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“This is for the best, Bella. I will check on you later.”
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“Wait please!” Isabella said, but the humming stopped, and there was no sound except for her own breath—fast, shallow, ragged.
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Isabella clawed at the cinderblocks for hours, until her fingers bled. The lightbulb in the middle of the room buzzed, the LED light hurting her already pounding head.
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“Please, I think I need a doctor,” Isabella shouted.
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“Hello?”
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A few minutes went by, and then there was a noise. A loud thud, then the sound of keys. Isabella jumped to her feet, wobbling. Isabella’s breath caught in her throat. Every part of her wanted to run and hide, but there was nowhere to go. No corner to vanish into. Just the white concrete, and that awful buzzing light.
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Her legs wobbled as she backed toward the wall. Her fingernails were broken and red, her hands scraped raw. They stung under the weight of her body. Her body was tired, but her mind wouldn’t stop racing. Why was someone keeping her, why is there only a bible in here? When will they let her go?
She wanted Mama. She wanted her room, and her brother arguing with her over the maple syrup, and the morning sun through the curtains. Her thoughts spiraled: What if they lied? What if they don’t want to help me? What if no one’s coming? What if I never get out? What if God isn’t even listening?
Suddenly, she felt her heart sink.
What if God isn’t even listening?
She swallowed hard, her chest tightening with each breath.
For years, she’d believed what they told her at church: that God was with her, that He saw her, that He loved her — even in the bad times. She squeezed her eyes shut. Her mind flashed with different prayers — not just the ones from chapel, but the ones Mama whispered to herself at night. The way they all held hands before school and prayed Jesús, cuídala. The way she said God will take care of us to herself even when the fridge was empty. What if God stopped watching? She felt a sob start to rise, but she swallowed it. She looked over at the Bible lying by the mattress. She didn’t want to open it. She wanted to leave this room.
I’m trying to believe you're still with me. Please don’t let this be the end of my story.
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Then the door clicked. Isabella didn’t move. She held her breath, waiting to see what kind of monster would do this to a kid.
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“Hi, Bella. How’s your leg?”
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Isabella stared at him. Shocked, she found herself asking, “Pastor Eldin?”
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Her church's youth pastor, Pastor Eldin, stood before her, towering over her. He was very tall, and his normally polished hair was greasy and a mess. He looked differently than he did at church. He smiled at her, as if this was a normal conversation they were having in the youth group, not in an empty room that felt like a prison. Isabella backed away from him slowly, confused.
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“Don’t be afraid, Bella. Come here.” Pastor Eldin stepped forward and squeezed her tightly. “Youre safe here, with me.”
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​​Isabella stood frozen. She thought about last week’s counseling session, how upset she’d been about her dad, how the Headmaster had suggested Pastor Eldin help since she wasn’t doing as well in school. She thought about Mama’s trust in him, about his calm voice, his promises. He smelled musky and stale, like he needed a shower. His collar was buttoned wrong, his hair slick with sweat, and his eyes, once kind, were now glassy and distant, like someone looking through her instead of at her.
"I know this was scary. I know you're confused. But it's better this way." Pastor Eldin said, rocking a silent, horrified Isabella back and forth in his arms. “You said it yourself, remember? That the world feels broken. That no one listens. That you’re scared all the time. I heard you. I saw you. God showed me you needed someone who wouldn’t abandon you.
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Pastor Eldin put his hands on both her shoulders and smiled wide. “I saved you, Bella.”
Op Ed Piece
The Exhaustion of Constant Maintenance
By Skylar Brennan
Some days I wake up feeling already behind, already exhausted from the 30 minutes I feel I have to spend at my vanity. Before getting coffee or starting school, there’s work to do: under-eye circles to erase, hair to tame, pimples to cover, eyebrows to manage, skin to hydrate. Beauty is sold as “self-care,” but in practice, it often feels like a job I never signed up for—and one we feel we can never quit.
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The societal pressure is subtle, but constant. We get ads for products as popups , and our social media pages are oversaturated with “get ready with me’s” and glow up tutorials. “Effortless” beauty is anything but. It’s a rotation of serums, concealers, hair appointments, tanning products, manicures, facials. It’s time, money, and energy poured into meeting a certain standard that is ever changing. There's judgement if you fall behind in your upkeep, where if you don’t keep up with your roots or you don't cover your acne, it symbolizes neglect, a sign you're letting yourself go.
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The judgement faced regarding beauty can often weigh heaviest on those already struggling. Depression has risen 60% in the last decade, according to the National Health and Nutrition Examination Survey. It's not surprising due to the rise in social media and beauty influencers, the constant comparison people do to the people on our screens. For people living with depression, beauty maintenance can feel impossible. When even showering or brushing teeth is a victory, the expectation to appear polished and “effortless” becomes unbearable. Sometimes these steps to look put together for people is draining, asking for a mental energy that simply isn’t there. Yet society rarely offers compassion; instead, it interprets unpainted nails or undone hair as laziness, rather than a symptom of an illness.
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The expectation that beauty must be maintained at all costs turns beauty routines into obligations. What might once have been playful experimentation with makeup or hair has grown into an endless cycle of upkeep. It is a never ending hamster wheel that drains our emotions and finances. The result is an exhausting kind of vigilance, one that eats away at time, self-worth, and joy.
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The cost isn’t just emotional. It’s financial. Skincare and cosmetics are marketed as necessities, not luxuries, and the price tags prove it. The average woman spends thousands annually on beauty maintenance, and that doesn’t even count procedures like Botox, fillers, or laser treatments—now casually framed as “basic upkeep.” The global beauty industry is worth 450 billion dollars, with brands capitalizing off of what we feel is necessary for our outward appearance, cashing in on our insecurities.
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To be clear, there is nothing wrong with makeup or skincare. For some, they’re routines are genuinely enjoyable, a part of their day solely dedicated to themselves and a time to unwind. But exhaustion sets in when beauty stops being about expression and becomes about avoiding penalty. When rest, imperfection, or showing up barefaced feels unacceptable, beauty isn’t a choice anymore—it’s compliance.
If we want beauty to be the empowering space we crave, we need space to opt out of the upkeep and the trends without shame. We need permission to exist as we are, without apology or constant correction. That means challenging not just the industry that profits from our insecurities, but also the quiet cultural policing that notices the chipped nail or tired skin.
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Sometimes beauty looks like a full face of makeup or a full blowout. Sometimes it looks like skipping the entire routine and still being enough. The exhaustion of maintenance won’t ease until we stop demanding that women appear ageless and “effortless” at all times. True self-care isn’t about perfect upkeep—it’s about letting yourself rest, barefaced, and still feeling worthy.
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Citations
https://www.mckinsey.com/industries/consumer-packaged-goods/our-insights/state-of-beauty
https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2024/nov/27/cost-of-beauty-culture-benefits
Feature Piece
The Savannah College Of Art and Design Film Festival: A testament to the creativity of students and filmmakers alike.
By Skylar Brennan
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Every fall, the streets of Savannah come alive with anticipation transforming into a bustling hub of excitement as eager students set up their makeshift campsites. Blankets line the sidewalks while students huddle together in their folding chairs, patiently braving long hours in line for the chance to secure coveted tickets to the Savannah College of Art and Designs Film Festival. The SCAD Savannah Film Festival is more than just a week of movie screenings. The annual event is a grand celebration of cinematic artistry, a testament to the passion and dedication of both SCAD students and alumni, as well as filmmakers hailing from all corners of the globe. For many students, it’s the highlight of the academic year, and for some, it's a truly life-changing experience.
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The SCAD Film Festival stands as a vibrant platform for a diverse array of cinematic creations, drawing not only from the creative wellsprings of SCAD's talented student body and accomplished alumni but also from the imaginative minds of filmmakers from around the world. The streets of Savannah come alive with the palpable energy of aspiring and established filmmakers alike, united by their shared love for the cinematic arts and their experiences at the festival. This annual gathering has become a significant milestone in the lives of many students, serving as an opportunity to immerse themselves in the world of film and connect with a global community of fellow cinephiles, all while exploring the multifaceted realm of cinema.
The Festival serves as a vital stage for both up-and-coming and established filmmakers, offering them an opportunity to spotlight their talents and forge meaningful connections with seasoned industry professionals. It also serves as a great learning experience for students. Within the festival's packed schedule of events and activities, attendees can expect an array of immersive experiences. Film screenings, at the heart of the festival, bring the magic of cinema to life. The silver screen lights up with a diverse selection of cinematic works, providing a captivating journey through the artistic visions of the participating filmmakers. From compelling narratives to groundbreaking documentaries and cutting-edge experimental films, the festival's screenings showcase a wide spectrum of storytelling, with over a dozen films and shorts shown throughout the week.
Getting into the festival isn’t easy. Students wait for hours, sometimes overnight, with sleeping bags, snacks, and portable chairs, hoping to snag a ticket to the festival's most sought after events. . Zach Salter, a documentary filmmaking alumni, ended up waiting in line for six hours last year. “It’s worth every minute,” he said. “This is like the Coachella of SCAD.”
With screenings often selling out in minutes, a resale economy has emerged. Some students resell tickets online at inflated prices, while others are willing to pay double just to attend a specific panel or film. It’s chaotic, it’s competitive—and it’s all part of the tradition.
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This year's festival, running from October 25th to November 1st, features a diverse slate of films, documentaries, and experimental shorts. Students not only attend but often contribute behind the scenes. One highlight from years past is May December, a 2023 film several SCAD students had the chance to work on, giving them firsthand insight into professional production environments. From major premieres to independent gems, the festival’s lineup offers a little bit of everything. Screenings are followed by Q&As with directors, actors, and producers, creating a rare chance for students to hear directly from the creators behind the camera.
The festival also serves as a pop-up film crash course, offering intensive workshops in directing, editing, sound design, post-production, and more. These hands-on sessions, often led by award-winning professionals, give students the chance to test their skills under expert guidance. In addition to the screenings, panel discussions assemble experts and visionaries from the film world. These thought-provoking conversations delve into the craft of filmmaking, industry trends, and the art of storytelling, offering valuable insights and inspiration to both emerging and established talents. Lucy Lee, a SCAD Writing alumni, sat in for the Across the Spider Verse panel, and found it a very fruitful experience, one that gave her a whole new perspective. “He was talking about how art isn’t necessarily what we create, but art is the conversation that occurs when people come together to view something,” Lee explains, “I definitely want to take that into account when I create my own written pieces.” Even though the panel was mainly targeted to animation majors, Lee found that she took away a lot of valuable information in regards to the way directors and producers come up with stories. The various panels' broader insights into storytelling resonated far beyond one medium, and that's the beauty of the festival, it blurs the lines between disciplines, encouraging cross-pollination of ideas and inspiration.
Hands-on workshops are another cornerstone of the Festival, available for students looking to hone in on their craft. Workshops are an intimate component of the Festival, allowing attendees to refine their skills and gain practical knowledge in small group settings. These sessions might cover various aspects of filmmaking, from scriptwriting and cinematography to post-production and marketing strategies. ​​These discussions often involve all of the film making process, both the positives and the negatives. These discussions don’t shy away from the realities of working in film, they cover rejection, burnout, collaboration, and the resilience needed to succeed.
For the week of Film Fest, the entire energy of Savannah life changes. Classrooms empty, lecture halls echo, and theaters are packed. Students plan their entire quarter around this one week, often saving their excused absences specifically so they can attend as many events as possible. . For many students, this is the most exciting week of the academic year.
“The energy is unmatched,” said Olivia Hernandez, a third-year student studying film. “We’re all running on three hours of sleep, but no one wants to miss anything. It feels like we’re part of something bigger than school, it’s like we’re already part of the industry.”
The festival also unites the wider Savannah community. Locals attend screenings and support the movie buzz by hosting related events, pop-ups, and themed nights in bars, restaurants, and galleries across the city. It’s an economic and cultural boost that turns Savannah into a mini Sundance.
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The networking opportunities at the SCAD Film Festival are a cornerstone of the event. Filmmakers, students, and industry insiders come together in an environment that encourages collaboration and professional growth. There is a lot of excitement in the air, as students meet their favorite directors or are just caught up in the hustle and bustle of the festivities. Between the panels, screenings, and after-parties, there’s a constant flow of interaction between students and professionals. Whether during formal networking events or chance encounters in the vibrant atmosphere of the festival, these connections often lead to collaborations, mentorships, and career opportunities.
“I think it's very valuable for the students to have this opportunity to meet these filmmakers, because it's a huge inspiration.” Salter explained, as the panelists and directors discuss their process and their keys to success. “You never know who you’ll bump into,” said Salter. “I met a producer last year just by asking a question at a Q&A. He gave me his card, and we have actually been in touch.” SCAD makes these connections intentional. There are daily meet-and-greets, alumni mixers, and portfolio review sessions that allow students to put their work in front of industry eyes.
Perhaps the most emotional part of the festival is when student-made films are shown alongside professional projects. SCAD’s own student showcase gives filmmakers a chance to premiere their work in front of packed audiences, sometimes for the first time. These premieres aren’t just symbolic—they’re stepping stones for the young film makers. Many student films screened at the SCAD festival go on to win awards at national and international festivals. The exposure, feedback, and confidence gained from screening in Savannah stays with students long after the applause fades.
The SCAD Film Festival is a dynamic and multifaceted celebration of the cinematic arts, where creativity flourishes, knowledge is shared, and the bridge between emerging talents and established industry professionals is built. The SCAD Film Festival is an event like no other, with hundreds of students sitting in and learning from leaders in the film industry. It's a transformative experience for all who participate, fostering growth and camaraderie within the world of film.
As the lights dim and the screen flickers to life, students and professors lean forward in their seats, eyes wide, notebooks ready. For one transformative week, Savannah becomes a classroom without walls, where every conversation, every screening, and every panel is a lesson in creativity, resilience, and ambition. The SCAD Film Festival is not just about watching movies—it’s about discovering your place within them.