Honoring Shay Youngblood

I thought of her today...and decided to write about her. Then, I learned...

Playwright and Author Shay Youngblood (October 16, 1959 - June 11, 2024)

Sitting at my writing table, I thought about Shay Youngblood and decided to write a piece about her works. She has been quite influential in my life as a literary mother after seeing her stageplay, ‘Shaking the Mess Outta Misery’ several years ago. As I began preparing the piece, I did a quick Google search for a few background facts such as birth date and place only to come across an article in the New York Times about her passing away in June. I was floored. The article wasn’t published until July 1 which is one day before my birthday and as of this year, the same date that my only remaining grandparent, my Ma-Dear, passed away at the age of 92. Youngblood was 64 years and suffered from ovarian cancer.

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Youngblood’s work was rooted in the mysticism and matriarchy of Black Life. Losing her mother at two years old, her writing is full of maternal wisdom and the essence of womanly joy and pain. Upon my first time seeing ‘Shaking the Mess Outta Misery’, I was captivated by her command of language, the presence of the historical contexts of Black womanhood and her gift of storytelling. In the play, a young girl is dealing with the absence and passing of her mother. While her mother as a spirit is present but not seen by the daughter, the grandmother serves as a present figure of mothering but also a connection to the past, distant and immediate. The grandmother’s stories nurture and comfort the heart of the daughter.

As I approach one year of my own mother’s passing coupled with losing my maternal grandmother nine months later, Youngblood’s work resonates even more. It registers deeply as I attempt to recall the familial connections, the stories, the ways of both my mother and grandmother so I can glean from their living and embody the very best of them. In spite of being a very grown woman, to be on Earth as motherless is still a reality that has to be navigated through strength, prayer, ritual, and tears. Then, to know that Youngblood is now an ancestral literary mother like Ntozake Shange and Toni Morrison means that my work as a Black woman writer has become even more crucial.

I owe this gift of letters to the literary mothers who came before me like Youngblood and I owe it to the legacy of the beautiful and resilient women of my bloodline to represent them in an era of the fragmented families, communities, and a generation that would much rather critique the former for their shortcomings rather than honoring them for doing the best they can. We have to make Black living beautiful, in spite of the ever-present obstacles. If we don’t do it, who will?

Auntie Shay, may your soul soar throughout Eternity in sweet peace and joy. Thank you for visiting me today and letting me know you were over there and not here anymore and in doing so, reminding me of why I am here.