Bluestockings Blues

Graphic by Zoe Gigis

Do you ever step into a place and just feel like home? You walk in and you get the sense that things are going to be okay because no matter what, you’re not alone. That was Bluestockings for me. There were times when it felt more like home to me than home ever did.

When it was housed in the Lower East Side, at 116 Suffolk Street, Bluestockings was nestled amongst clubs and art galleries, the warm lights glowing from inside a stark contrast from the red mood lighting of the music venue a few doors down. The glow leaked out onto the sidewalk through the gaps between the pride flags that hang in the window. Bluestockings wasn’t just a bookstore, it was an activist center, a safe haven for members of the community from the hustle and bustle of the city. New Yorkers could walk in off the street, grab a book and start reading if they wanted, or they could attend one of the many events the store hosted daily.  I was a part of the former group.

My first time visiting Bluestockings, I was admittedly unimpressed. I was exploring the neighborhood with an ex of mine, right before summer started my freshman year. We walked in, looking for an escape from the cloying heat outside. Upon our entrance, we were met with both chilling AC and strong perfume of incense. The bookshelves that normally lined the store were pushed to the sides, leaving the center of the store open. A woman led a group of people in guided meditation, timing their breathing to bass-heavy music. We left after a few minutes, unable to browse, but I was intrigued by the allure of the store. 

I returned a few months and a breakup later. In desperate need of an escape, my friends shepherded me out of my dorm room, onto the M15, down into the Lower East Side, and into Bluestockings. This was the first time I got to see the store in all its glory. Thousands of books sat on their shelves, colorful soldiers sitting at attention, waiting to be read. This wasn’t just any bookstore though; they had the usual, young adult, poetry, and graphic novel sections. But they also had sections dedicated to LGBTQ+ studies, tables dedicated to environmentalism, a whole corner dedicated to Wicca. This time I was hooked.

Bluestockings offered me, and for many others over the years, a place where I felt safe to be myself. While I was still exploring being out at college, the shop was a safe space, where no one expected anything of me. I could just arrive with my friends, snag a corner by the windows and work for hours on notes, the store’s low-fi beats scoring my time behind my computer. A counter at the front offered up knick-knacks galore, all the pins you could ask for, one for every pride flag. They sold vinyl stickers decrying racism and sexually positive keychains. If it was a confection you were looking for there was always an array of vegan goodies on display in a glass case. They sold matcha cookies with jasmine glaze, chocolate chip doughnuts, and muffins that paired perfectly with the coffee that was always freshly brewed. I’d always take a deep breath when I walked through the front door, the smell of the fresh grounds invigorating me. 

I probably spent more of my sophomore and junior years of college in Bluestockings than at my actual school. I had an especially hard time with college, particularly my sophomore year; my mental health was declining, and my first relationship had come to an abrupt, devastating end. Whenever the silence and loneliness of my dorm room got to be too much, I’d pack my journal into my bag and hop on the M15 to get to my favorite place in the city. Sometimes my friends accompanied me on the weekends and those were my favorite days. We would try to get work done but would inevitably get sidetracked talking about everything life threw at us. And yes, some days we would get work done but even sitting in the silence and working with my friends was better at Bluestockings. 

The days my friends couldn’t come were special in their own way. Most times I’d find myself having a nice conversation with a complete stranger sitting next to me, unsure of how it started and not wanting it to end. That’s the kind of place Bluestockings was, a place where strangers came to meet for a few hours to talk. A place where you could walk in alone and leave having made three new friends. The store has since relocated to a different part of the city, with plans to make it bigger and more accessible. While I’m sad I never got the chance to say a proper goodbye to the original storefront, I look forward to walking through the Bluestockings doors again, buying a coffee, and making a new friend.