Accepting my father’s death has been the greatest challenge of my life. He passed away from colon cancer in August of 2006. My dad was a visual artist, musician, and author. His unfinished autobiography, Waiting For My YaYa, inspired the name of our used bookstore and we are launching on his birthday, October 18th!
YaYa Books was also inspired by the community that I grew up in, right off of Cleveland Ave (the real ones call it OV). More specifically, by the children who live there. I built a relationship with the girls as an attempt to be a buffer between them and the negative imagery and messaging that they were receiving. After work, I would walk home from the bus stop and they’d come running towards me with their big, beautiful eyes and smiles. “Ms. Alyssa!” “Ms. Alyssa!” “Ms. Alyssa, can you teach us about niceness?”
We’d just sit and talk about a black girl’s identity and all of the nuances in between. I realized that children just need someone to take them seriously. Someone to listen. I think that we all do.
In 2018, I attended a book fair and came home with 10 copies of I Am Enough by Grace Byers for each of them. I wanted them to see images and read words that speak to the beauty and magic of their existence.
Not all black stories are beautiful or magical. Some are full of sorrow and heartbreak but they are necessary. They are a part of us and they help to foster a deeper understanding of who we are. They can totally rip us apart and put us back together.
I can't say that I grew up immersed in the culture of black literature. When I look back on my childhood, I am met with recollections of Beowulf, The Catcher in the Rye, The Great Gatsby and the Canterbury Tales.
Sure, I was aware of house hold names like Maya Angelou and Sister Souljah. I had watched The Color Purple, Beloved, ROOTS and a Raisin In the Sun a gazillion times but I didn't know the minds behind the stories that I watched on television. I didn't know that Alice Walker depended so heavily on a script because she believed that she didn't possess the ability to speak freely and eloquently.
Somehow, I became a poet, despite my ignorance. I guess the gatekeepers of black lit had mercy on me. All of these years later, here I am, afraid of committing my work to memory and depending on scripts because I never trusted myself enough to just be free with my words. Maybe if I had known about Alice, it would have helped to understand me better.
I am thankful for her. I am thankful for Maya Angelou. I am thankful for Sister Souljah. I am thankful for black male and female scribes, past and present. I am grateful for the fruit that they left behind and the fruit that is continuously harvested with each new generation.
My 20s have been full of searching, discovering, re-connecting, identifying and embracing. The older that I get, the deeper I rise in love with blackness. The more I understand the importance of telling and sharing black stories. To be black is to be a poem all your own. The stories made us so it is only right that we honor them.
YaYa is for my father.
YaYa is for the children in my community.
YaYa is for you.
YaYa is for your children.
I pray that you find us to be a buffer, a balance, a light leak, a remembrance and celebration of your ancient, present and futuristic being.
For years, I have been trying to figure out what my Father’s definition of YaYa was.
Waiting for his mother?
Waiting for his peace?
Waiting for his love?
Waiting for his joy?
Waiting for his self?
Waiting for his God?
Waiting for his freedom?
YaYa is a tribute to him and all who seek and wait for answers. Sometimes, the things that we need can only be found in literature. Whatever you are waiting for, may it meet you here at YaYa Books.