The bookstores that I frequent are not the typical black owned ones I would have encountered as a child growing up in a predominantly white neighborhood.
They are, on the contrary, mostly run by women, and they are also often run by older black women who have the luxury of being able to stay at home.
But I still think about them as black owned.
There are a few exceptions.
When I visit the bookstores in New York City, I am always struck by the diversity of the people who are there.
I was at the book store of a family friend who, like many women, is very involved in the local black community.
The bookshelves are lined with books on black history, African-American culture, black art, and culture, and the staff are there to support the customers.
I find myself thinking of these stores, and their staff, when I think of the book-shop owners of my hometown in the 1980s.
Black bookstores had a different story, but it was a story of a lot of people working together to create a common space, one that was open to all.
I remember walking into the bookstore on the evening of September 19, 1986, the day before I was to meet a cousin of my family, who was going to marry my cousin’s cousin.
The bookstore was closed, but a crowd of people had gathered outside to celebrate the marriage, and I could see that the bookshelving was full.
I looked around, and people were reading books, eating food, and talking about what was happening around them.
A group of women were seated in the middle of the space, reading a book, and were chatting to the customers, who were all men.
It was a quiet space, with no people in sight.
The people reading books were women.
There was no overt hostility between them and the customers in the bookstore.
They were reading from a book about the relationship between a black man and his white wife, the wife of a white man, and a white woman.
They looked up at the men, and smiled.
They smiled because they understood what was going on, and wanted to be able to enjoy reading from their favorite books, too.
A woman, sitting on the other side of the store, had her head bowed in silence, as if she had just finished reading a favorite book.
It is hard to imagine what it would be like to sit in the same space with women reading books.
It would feel like you were in a museum, or a library, and you could not see your friends and family.
It may have been a place where you could go and be a part of something that made you feel special.
But that wasn’t the experience I had.
The book-seller in my neighborhood was an older white woman, and her job was to help the customers find books and to make sure that the customers had the books they needed.
It’s a similar story in many bookstores around the country.
There is a common feeling that the store is closed, that there are no customers, no customers.
But in fact, that is exactly the way that the book stores in the black community function.
These stores are open to the public.
People come in and buy books and listen to the women who are reading books in the bookshops.
They walk out the doors with books and with the knowledge that they have found something that they really like.
In many ways, black bookstores serve the same purpose as the black owned stores that I have been talking about.
Books are a way to connect to other people, to other cultures, to different races.
The same bookstores I have mentioned can also serve as a safe space for the black and brown community.
I used to go to a black owned bookstore on a Saturday afternoon when I was young, and that bookstore was a real sanctuary.
I had friends from different parts of my neighborhood who came in.
They had no reason to go out, but they would come in, read a book that I had bought for them, and then go back to their homes.
They would come back to the store and look for books.
And there were people of color in those bookstores too.
They could find books on African American history, or on African culture, or other things that would help them understand what was important to them.
I could read a lot about my grandmother and other African American women that I did not know, and it made me feel special to know that they were reading.
When the booksellers in my own neighborhood closed, the books were gone, and in many ways I felt like I was going back to a time when I had never been.
The store had a quiet feel to it, as though the books had been there all along, and there was no one there to disturb them.
But if I had gone back to that time, I would not have been so surprised.
My book collection is almost all books I have