A Piece of YaYa's Writing Story, Part I: How My Breasts Saved My Life

I have wanted to write ever since my parents and babysitters began reading to me and I understood the power of words and the magic of stories. Once my second grade teacher, Mrs. Cherry, confirmed I had talent, my course was set. At the time, the only black female writers I knew of were the poets Gwendolyn Brooks and Phyllis Wheatley (first published African American poet.)

I literally dreamed of writing. My father would bring home reams of paper from the trash bins of the stationers, who were customers of my grandfather’s rubbish business, just for me. (One person’s trash is another person’s treasure.) I read voraciously, just like my mother, and created books and magazines with my free paper. I even read the “how to become a writer” ads in the back of Richie Rich comic books, and I dreamed.

Every other Friday evening, I read Brenda Starr comic books as I sat in the chair at the beauty parlor, while Mrs. Grantham, the beautician, untangled the knots in my thick hair. She combed (it seemed like for hours) and I fantasized about myself as a black version of Brenda. Remember her?

"Brenda Starr, the tempestuous and flamboyant redhead was always impeccably dressed and coifed as she traveled the globe on one exciting assignment after another for her newspaper, The Flash.  Each adventure was filled with glamour, romance and intrigue as this remarkable heroine was perpetually torn between the demands of her career and the many loves of her personal life.

Brenda showed readers a new type of heroine as she fought, from the very first day on the job at The Flash, for her right to be treated as an equal.  Always on the cutting edge of fashion, Brenda has a sleek and sexy style that conveys the allure and independence of a workingwoman at the top of her career." www.effanbeedoll.com/2004BreandaStarr.htm

(Hey, what’s up with my emulation of redheads? See Hail to Pippi, my July 4 blog post.)


I excelled in English and creative writing in high school; I majored in English Literature and Journalism at Georgetown University. I worked for both Department of Defense’s and NASA’s public information offices while in Washington, D.C. Upon graduation in 1976, I was hired by my hometown daily newspaper. I was a feature writer there for a year when I was invited to apply for a public relations writer and editor position for a pharmaceutical company.

Truthfully, this is where I veered off the path I had navigated for myself. Enticed by the salary and my need to pay off college loans, I began a 10-year career of corporate writing and editing, moving further and further away from my dream to write literature.

I knew two years into my corporate career that being a creative type in companies like Warner-Lambert (now Pfizer) and Exxon (now ExxonMobile) was like being a conductor in a straight jacket. At this rate, I would never explore creative writing.

I loved my work as a public relations person, but the corporate mold was just too tight. I was a square peg trying to fit into a round hole. I was losing the ability to hear my creative voice. The only voice I could detect was a teeny-weeny one that seemed to be whimpering at the bottom of a well: “P-l-e-e-e-z e don’t do this to me. I’m dying in here. Let me out.”  (Kinda like Tinkerbelle on Quaaludes.)

And then there was the rumblings of my internal bully, Bruiser the Abuser: "Are you crazy! You'll never make this kind of money again. Buck up, shut up, and keep twisting your self into knots. Make money and invest. So what if you get an ulcer? So what if you have migraine headaches? So what if you are depressed?  Save those touchy-feely writing dreams until you are a millionaire and you have the time to write."

Eight years and four surgeries to remove (benign) breast tumors later, I decided to leave the stultifying corporate corridors. But not before a crisis occurred that became a defining moment in my life.


Before the last cancer scare, in 1985, the surgeon recommended that we remove both breasts as a preventive measure. I was 32-years-old with no history of breast cancer in my lineage. The doctor callously told me that since I had not breast-fed any babies at my age, I was at an increased risk for breast cancer. "One day, you are likely to have a tumor that is cancerous. And, since you have no plans to become a mother (yes, that part was true,)... you do not need them (the breasts!) anyway." What?!? So why not lop them off? (Oh, yes he did.)

By this time, a chorus had joined Tinkerbelle at the bottom of the well, and they were singing out to my heart: “This is a time of reckoning. Weigh your choice carefully. Be true to yourself and 1) save your life or 2) bet the breasts in order to stay in the rat race.” When your spirit serves it up that starkly, you'd better have some clarity when you make your decision.

So, I chose to change my lifestyle--its pace, its focus. I got off the merry-go-round. I packed my bags, packed my car, and drove across country to the San Francisco Bay Area. Trained to follow formal routes, I enrolled in graduate school rather than jump right into writing. I earned a MA in Speech and Communication Studies in 1990 with the hopes that I would write non-fiction pieces on communication and relationships while I tried to retrieve my creative writing self. I expected that I would teach during the day to support myself while I worked in the evenings and on the week-end on my own writing projects.

So far, so good, right? I was forging my own path, taking risks, growing in faith.

I met Chaz in 1991 while I was training to become a mediator.  Chaz was one of the workshop leaders. We would later joke that he “trained” me. The irony does not elude me!

To be continued next week.