The Many Faces of LYSs

We all love a good local yarn store. LYSs are where we fiber artists can come together with people who love the hobbies we love, talk shop, and be talked into buying beautiful yarns that we can’t find anywhere else just to enhance our stashes. You can meet people, take classes, listen to talks. LYSs are community hubs, and they’re just another wonderful thing about this hobby I love.

But as a Black person, I must admit, the idea of going to an LYS sometimes worries me. I’ve heard plenty of horror stories from other Black knitters and crocheters about walking into new-to-them LYSs and the responses they get. They’re given The Look™ - the “what are you doing here? You don’t belong here” look. They’re followed around the shop like they’re going to steal yarn and notions. They’re told prices of wares through sneers as though they’re too poor to be in there. They’re ignored altogether. They’re made to feel that they are unwelcome.

I’ve been insanely lucky. My LYS, Cream City Yarn in Brookfield, Wisconsin, is an amazing place. From the moment I first walked in, I was made to feel as if I belonged by every single employee. Whenever I walk in, I feel like family. I live a truly charmed life to have found them.

But - I’m on my way to a yarn crawl in the next few days, where I’ll be walking into shops far outside of my city that I’ve never been to before, and I can’t help but worry. Worry about how I’ll be perceived when I walk into shops that I don’t have experience with. Worry about how I’ll be treated - worse because of the color of my skin? Better because I’ll be with white friends? Will I be followed around the shop, or whispered about, or or or…?

I’d like to think we’re beyond that as a society, but the last few years have unfortunately taught me otherwise.

But there’s been some hope in it all, too. A few weeks ago I went on a day trip to Chicago and had the honor of stopping into a yarn store I’d only followed on Instagram up until then: Miss Purl. I knew a few things from following them on social media: that they were Black-owned, that the shop itself was adorable, and that everyone who stopped in had a truck-load of fun.

I didn’t know, however, just how transformative that trip would be for me. My sibling and I stopped in early in the day and met the owner, Kamaca, who was as sweet as pie. We were so excited to finally meet each other in person, and she made my sibling feel welcome even though they aren’t a fiber artist. She led me over to a counter where she had one of my patterns on display, to my surprise and eternal gratitude! We talked for so long, she gave us a tour of the shop, talked for even longer (my ride might not have appreciated that) and went on IG Live together. I had so much fun that day.

When I left Miss Purl, I felt invigorated. Not only had I found a fun new shop, but it was Black-owned! It was owned by someone who looked like me! I saw myself in Kamaca, and in her patrons. Some of you may know, it’s a distant dream of mine to one day work in or own a yarn shop myself (although being disabled and low income, I do mean a distant dream). And being in that shop made me feel like it was just that much more possible.

I’ve said it before, I’ll said it again: Representation is so, so important.