To the man who made me a better human.

I thought that writing this post was going to kill me. It turns out the love I have for my father is stronger than my grief.

I don’t even know where to begin. How does a daughter begin to describe the love she has for her father? My father, Yancey Freeland Martin, died the day before my birthday, on May 22, 2024. I’m choosing to see the humor and love in this. While most people may feel like their birthday is now ruined moving forward, I feel like my Dad went out like “I’ma make damn sure she always remembers me.”

BFFs my entire life ❤️

In the weeks since his transition, grief has absolutely kicked my ass. I’ve been in complete survival mode, trying to allow myself to succumb to my total devastation over losing one of my very best friends. I’ve been simultaneously flooded with memories and panic over not remembering what it feels like to hug my Dad or to hold his hand. This experience has been equal parts beautiful and terrible. But as I’ve said over and over in my brain and at his eulogy, if what I’m feeling now is the price to pay for loving my Dad and for experiencing his love, then it’s a fair price.

I’ve avoided The Road We Trod for so long for so many reasons, including the fact that my brain felt completely broken for a month, but as I’ve gone through the process of reflecting over and celebrating his life, I finally feel like I’m ready to talk about him here. Part of me feels like I’ve already said so much these last 8 weeks, but also said so little. I will probably never stop running out of things to say about my wonderful father, but for the sake of this newsletter, I’m going to tell you all why he is the inspiration behind it.

My Dad grew up in Montgomery, Alabama as the youngest of seven in the 1940s and 1950s. Although one could argue there has never been a good time to grow up as a Black man in America, these decades were of course particularly dangerous and awful. Thankfully he was part of a tight-knit Black community in Montgomery and grew up firmly middle class, having many advantages a lot of other Black families did not, thanks to my grandfather’s job with the U.S. Railway postal service and role as Grand Secretary with the Prince Hall Masons. For example, during the Montgomery Bus Boycott in 1955-56, my Dad was one of the few college students whose parents owned a car, so he drove protesters wherever they needed to go during his summer and holiday breaks from school.

It would be poetic for me to say that this pivotal moment in American history was a turning point for him and marked the beginning of his dedication to civil rights…because it did…but I feel like that also makes it sound like he had a choice. I think what people fail to understand about the civil rights movement is that for most Black people, getting involved in the fight to be treated like a human being was not something they just decided to do one day when they were upset by one flashpoint moment. There was no flashpoint. The disrespect, violence and terror was constant. At the time, no one was calling it the “civil rights movement”. Every single day was a life or death battle, yes for things like voting rights and fair treatment, but also for the opportunity to support themselves, raise a family and literally LIVE.

Dad at work with Senator Ted Kennedy and Julian Bond; me and Dad with Reverend C.T. Vivian; Christmas morning with a portrait of one of his heroes, Frederick Douglass

Growing up in this environment shaped everything about my Dad, and having him as my Father crafted an unshakable foundation within myself as a Black woman in America. I was raised by a man who dedicated his life to the advancement of Black people. His friends and contemporaries in Alabama included Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. (who visited my Dad when he was in the military in Paris on his way to Olso to receive his Nobel Peace Prize), Reverend Ralph Abernathy, Reverend C.T. Vivian, Reverend Fred Shuttlesworth and more. They all worked together to fight segregation in Alabama, Georgia and throughout the United States. Then Pops moved into politics, working to register Black voters and support the election of Black candidates to local and state offices in the old Confederacy.

By the time I came along, my Dad had lived a LIFEEEEE honey. He’d had more of a life than most people have in all of their days by the time he was 50. I like to think my Mom and I mellowed him out by the time I was born, but looking back, I’ve realized they just took me on all of their adventures. I’m so inspired by the fact that parenthood didn’t seem to greatly affect their lifestyles at all. I grew up being the only little one at political fundraisers held at our home in Arlington, attending civil rights marches while sitting on my Dad’s shoulders and taking pictures with Rosa Parks. My Dad always reminded me both verbally and by how he lived that I could do and be anything I wanted. He supported all my varying interests, and always welcomed my presence. He taught me all his favorite things: how to cook, how to garden, how to pour into my friendships, how to know and respect Black history, how to keep family traditions, how to gracefully defend myself, how to respect my elders and how to love life.

One of the best gifts my father gave me was his love for exploring the world. Before I was seven years old, my parents had taken me to Hawaii, Mexico, Puerto Rico and all over the United States, usually in a quest for fantastic cuisine. While in the military, he lived in France for three years and became a complete Francophile. While other kids were having ice cream for dessert, I was having brie with sliced baguette. They took me to France for the first time when I was 8 to visit Paris and the champagne region. This early exposure to different cultures, cuisines and people fueled my curiosity about the world and helped me feel comfortable in every room I enter. As an adult, I also think that growing up watching a gregarious, charming Black man travel the world in such comfort, making friends wherever he went, instilled a faith in me that people are inherently good. That we are more alike than we are different.

L-R: Papa looking chic in Paris, us getting splashed by a wave in Puerto Rico, drop top in Hawaii, Dad frolicking and me judging him in Puerto Rico again lol, visiting a champagne house in France, a beachside lunch in the Dominican Republic, hand-in-hand in Charleston, playing tourists at home in DC, with my French "grandparents" in Deauville

We went to France and Spain again when I was 14, this time traveling to the shores of Normandy and the Loire Valley to visit friends my parents made while traveling on their honeymoon. Oh, he also spoke fluent French which stunned and delighted everyone we met. He also THOUGHT he spoke Spanish but I can assure you he did not do it well even though everyone we met in Spain adored him for trying. At this point I’m just rambling about my beautiful Father, but what I really want to say is that all of these aspects of who he was (I can’t believe I have to use the past tense) are a direct line into who I am and why I do what I do. His love of travel and getting outside of his comfort zone made him completely comfortable with who he was, and it has done the same for me. His desire to want more and better for the Black community is my same desire, and just like it was for him, this dedication to a freer life for Black people isn’t a choice for me. The only difference I can see is that his fight was for the basic human rights required to live a full life, and my fight is for deep and vibrant joy within that life. The joy that I was lucky enough to watch my father pursue until the very end.

I know to the depths of my soul that my father is proud of me. He read every single one of my stories, asked for daily updates during all my trips (whether he approved of my journeys or not), and constantly told me how much he loved me. I wonder though, if he knew how much all I do is influenced by how fearlessly he lived his life. I pray that he knew how much his love, support and guidance fueled me and so often plucked me out of the waters of self-doubt. If he didn’t know it then, I believe he knows it now. I feel him everywhere and see him whenever I spot a cardinal (which feels so often as of late), a bird we always tried to find when I learned they were the Virginia state bird in second grade lol.

How do you even begin to get through the loss of a love like this? 💔💔💔

Still…I’m so incredibly sad. I miss him so much and will for the rest of my life, but I feel more inspired than ever to continue my mission of sharing and celebrating Black stories and Black history through travel. I ask for your continued grace during this time as I navigate my grief. I can’t guarantee how often I will publish here, but I can say that every time I am able to sit down and write, I feel better and lighter.

Thank you all for sticking with me thus far and for all the prayers, flowers, and love you’ve sent my way. You have no idea how much your support has sustained me.

With so much gratitude,
Shayla