I Found A Black-Owned Bookstore:

In a new but familiar town I set sail on a quest for literary adventure. I was not disappointed. Google guided me to the treasure I sought, a black owned bookstore named Pyramid Art, Books and Custom Framing. I sat outside for 15 minutes before they opened as I concluded my phone therapy session, said a quick prayer, and set an intention for the day’s endeavor. This is for the bookstagram, I whispered to myself. I raised my iPhone to capture the scene before walking up the platform to the entrance. Three members of the staff grinned widely behind their masks. I could not see the mouths that greeted me, but the warm vibrations embraced me all the same. The lady who held the door for me introduced herself as Garbo. She was minute in stature with butterscotch colored skin and a cloud hued afro like a younger Nikki Giovanni. Garbo introduced the other employees and then began a soft inquiry about who sent me. I returned the banter like an Osaka serve—swift and on target. I let her know I wasn’t one of the infamous ‘them’ taking pictures to report to Big Brother.

“My name is Jymyaka and I’m a book blogger,” I said.

That’s the first time I ever said that aloud and it felt good. The room gave me a collective ohhh like the ones you get from your parents as an elementary school artist.

They caught the cue to be impressed but still had to follow up with, “And what is that, baby?” I was delighted to share my off-the-dome elevator pitch.

“I grew up in Memphis as a lover of words, stories and all things literary. I use my talents for writing and photography to express my love of books.” Garbo nodded and I could see the understanding rest on her shoulders as she began to show me around.

“These are our books. Lots of books but still not enough,” she said.

She beamed with pride as I glanced around the collection of prominent black names and titles including Barack and Michelle Obama. I recognized Reclaiming Our Space by Feminista Jones and did a little dance inside my heart.

“What’s enough?” I quipped. “There’s no such thing as enough books!” We shared a lighthearted chuckle. She broke the rhythm of our bouncing shoulders abruptly for a pop quiz.

“Do you know who Richard Wright is?”

“Yes!” I zipped through the files of my mind’s index card catalogue. “He wrote Native Son!”

“And Black Boy,” she added.

It’s a part of my home library. A book I collected because it is a classic, but I haven’t read it yet. Garbo directed my attention to the counter where I saw a new title by Richard Wright.. I lowered my brow wondering if this was something like a posthumous Tupac Makaveli album.

“His daughter, Julia Wright, spoke to us about how she found a manuscript for The Man Who Lived Underground. She said that the publishers had rejected it. They refused to publish it then. Now it’s as relevant today as it was back then.”

I examined the stone that the builder refused and appreciated the gift from the literary ancestors. Garbo went on to explain how the shop remained relevant in the time of COVID by hosting virtual events such as the Zoom call featuring Julia Wright. I appreciated the innovation of the elders. Garbo offered me some water and disappeared in the back to handle more business. A customer called and her intern needed direction in the adjacent art gallery.

I purveyed the art-decorated walls and overflowing shelves, then took special notice of the “Arkansas Authors” shelf. Pyramid had all the basic ingredients of a black bookstore with a special sprinkle of local appeal. It was intimate yet still professional. It was decorative but not too crowded. It contained almost everything you could ask for from a bookstore—except coffee. But where they lacked coffee to warm my body, they presented a fine art gallery to warm my poetic soul. In the fine art gallery, I arrived at the intersection of visual art and the written word. Phoebe Beasley’s painting paired with Langston Hughes’ “The Negro Speaks of Rivers” is a three-dimensional literary device in and of itself. I heard the river rush in my ears and felt the catfish splash on me as I stood there.

I walked a little further and was escorted through a portal to a pleasant childhood memory when I read, “Aunt Sue’s Stories”. None of my aunts are named Sue but my mom and her sisters call Arkansas home. When I was still knee high to a grasshopper, I loved sitting in their laps listening to them narrate the adventures of their youth. I felt a light wind escort me past the sculptures of musical instruments and what looked like a jazz aesthetic. My hands began to ache for clay. That is an urge I suppressed since my pre-teen children were toddlers. I no longer have tiny tots to mask my creative outburst. But just as quickly as that thought passed, a deeper truth arrived. I do not need permission to be free. I envied visual artists because I could never quite get my creations up to the standard of beauty my Venusian heart aspired to. In the back of the gallery, I talked to a young intern who is a graphic designer. I recognized that art comes in many forms and beauty is in my reflection and therefore my possession. All I have to do is accept it. My hands ached for clay to construct something physical to display the joy I felt while moving through the spaces. Instead, I leaned into one of the greatest gifts God gave me: my words. And I use each letter to cement a foundation for my altar.