by Aaron Foley
Jay DeMoir likes to joke that he’s the “male version of Belle from ‘Beauty and the Beast.’” Like the Disney heroine, DeMoir identifies as a bookworm, finding more solace between pages than idle town gossip.
But DeMoir, a former teacher, says he never considered opening a bookstore until the day he asked his students what they wanted the rest of their lives to look like. They flipped the question back on him: If you love books so much, why are you working in a classroom instead of a bookstore?
The answer was simple — and frustrating.
“I live in a city whose population is 68% Black, and we didn’t have any bookstores independently owned by Black people,” DeMoir says. “A lot of our indie bookstores are white-owned, and their titles reflected that.”
So in 2021, he opened DeMoir Books & Things in downtown Memphis — a long way from Belle’s French countryside, but right in the middle of a city steeped in Black history, culture, and tourism.
Since opening up shop, he’s drawn on the strength of the many Black luminaries who hail from or are inspired by the Tennessee city. (A running theme for DeMoir is explaining to customers that James Baldwin’s “If Beale Street Could Talk,” named for Memphis’ most famous thoroughfare, doesn’t actually take place there.)
“I just think about every amazing Black leader that we’ve had just refusing to back down and give up,” DeMoir says.
That inspiration was needed early on when DeMoir intentionally centered novels, children’s books, and nonfiction books by Black authors in prominent displays in the store.
“Initially, there was backlash from some people that we promoted Black authors too much,” he says, noting that the store carries works from authors regardless of identity. “My response was that we take up space everywhere. It’s continuously important because of the consistent erasure that happens with Black voices.”
A Bookstore For Us, By Us
DeMoir’s store arrived at a literary inflection point: Black-owned bookstores popping up across the country, TikTok-fueled conversation about the representation of voices of color in literature, and publishers ramping up commitments to amplify Black voices.
“When I created the store, it was supposed to be for us, by us — literally FUBU,” DeMoir says. “The representation for Black books, queer books, banned books, the disenfranchised — we became that space.”
Spotlighting queer titles has also been a necessary mission for DeMoir, who is queer himself.
Dial Into Someone Else’s Story
“There’s still this massive barrier between LGBT and African-American titles,” he says. When customers ask for recommendations, he nudges them beyond their comfort zones. ”I always ask them about what they typically read, and try to push that envelope to get them to read something different.”
Over time, non-Black customers came around, too. And in many ways, he’s still an educator. “Books are that space to dial into someone else’s story,” he says.
DeMoir’s approach mirrors Dr. Rudine Sims-Bishop’s famed “Windows, Mirrors, and Sliding Glass Doors” framework. Some stories act like windows, letting you peek into somebody else’s truth. Others are “mirrors,” healing because they allow people to see their lives and experiences reflected and validated. The sliding doors allow people to step into different worlds.
“We’d have more empathy for each other if we knew each other’s story,” DeMoir says.
One of DeMoir’s bigger triumphs — and other Black bookstores, he notes — is hosting Black authors for readings and signings. The first waves of Black bookstores didn’t have social media to amplify their work, and Black authors weren’t always sent on the big, publisher-funded cross-country tours afforded to white authors.
Now, visitors to local bookstores can tag a Black author if they purchase one of their works at a store, or the bookstore can tag authors themselves. The former is how some authors have found out their book is being carried by a Black-owned bookstore that is not on their radar, DeMoir says, and he’s facilitated author visits that way.
Next up? A new, larger space. After four years, it’s time to graduate from the downtown Memphis storefront.
“We’re officially a toddler now,” DeMoir laughs. “We’re starting Pre-K.”
