The Musings of a Latte Queen: Narratives of Everyday Life

Generations and centuries ago, I believe one of my foremothers prayed for the strength of her female lineage. I believed she looked up at the midnight sky and hoped for a time different than the time of limitations. I believe my Grandmother, born in 1896, also looked up at the midnight sky and prayed for a different future for her female lineage. I believe my mother, born in 1924, held back by the limitations of racism and sexism, looked up at the midnight sky and prayed for a different future for her female lineage. I, born in 1964, look up at the midnight sky and pray for a future of possibility and unlimited fulfillment for my two daughters, born in 2001 and 2003. The great cloud of witness of these strong women are envisioned sitting on a high spiritual mountain looking down on the two girls, the 8th generation from our known beginning. They must be smiling at the six-year-old who is ever considerate, responsible, observant, problem-solving, creative, dancing, and writing. She is t...

Something makes me sad this morning. I'm researching our family origins. We are one of the few multi-generational black families in America that can actually pinpoint a place outside the United States as our origin. Many generations and more than a century ago, our foremother was taken from the island of Hispaniola (now Haiti/Dominican Republic) and brought to New Orleans, LA. The descendants of this woman are of the colorful and vibrant Creole culture. Our ancestors included wealthy Creole women and French men who lived, worked, and prospered on the French Quarter during the famed New Orleans ante-bellum heyday. The three-tier, decidedly French society, included my family, the Guyols, gens de coeuler libre, or "free people of color." Their world was one of refinement, social graces, balls, cotillions, servants, and education. Their wealth came from sugar plantations back on the islands, real estate, and business holdings in the states. As was the custom in creol...

Sometimes you just have to sit and listen. Today I visited my elderly aunt. She is eighty-two years old, having just seen this birthday, her body is failing but her mind is sharp. I sat in her company for two and one-half hours to talk, listen, and learn. Mostly, I listened. Our oral history is rich with nuggets, a wealth of knowledge locked up in the minds of our nation's elders. I realized this evening, though I've had numerous conversations with this aunt, the historian, there was still much to learn. The time I had to hold her hand, touch her arm, feel her touch my hand was precious, I felt as if I was reaching across time as we shared a laugh and a knowing smile. There truly is nothing new under the sun. This is the year of a few important 40th year anniversaries including Dr. Martin Luther King Jr,'s assassination, my mother's death, and my life as a mother-less child. As I was sitting in the company of my aunt, watching her eyes look in a lens of a time long ago,...

I have a dear uncle who greets me with "May the Peace of the Lord be With You my Darling." Remembering my Catholic roots, I would respond, "And also with you Uncle." We would then launch into a lively conversation that lasts for hours. I thought of his greeting this morning and on the surface, one could take it lightly as "just one of those Catholic things" especially since I am a disciple, a born-again Christian, not a skirt-donning, no make-up wearing, no-fun having Christian, just a simple woman who found real relationship in Christ and in the company of other believers. So, this greeting could be dismissed in other religious circles, but as divine providence has it, it really can't be dismissed if you listen to the hope and promise and prayer in that greeting. May the Peace of the Lord, what better peace than that in these times of war and corruption and recession and hatred? What better prayer to give to our fellow man than the peace of God a...

Thoughts of my mother have filled my soul. It has been the thing that made me different, my entire youth I was the one whose mother died as a little. There was the hidden tragedy in the voice of the ones who said it, in hushed tones, and sullen eyes. My curious nature propelled me to ask endless questions of my dad who told me everything he remembered and tried to paint vivid pictures of this woman, my mother. There remained a deep hole in the center of my essence because I didn't have her. I was only a few months into being a four year old when my mother took her last breath. My mind tries desperately to search for images or words but comes up empty, save for the stories of my elders. Would I ever reach into the past and know this complex, beautiful, and talented woman whose face I see when I look in the mirror? My eyes are looking out at the quaint neighborhood, my home, and I glance at a picture of her when she was sixteen. Her smile held such innocence, such hope, such p...

I am sitting here this morning, latte in hand as usual, thinking about life. The Christmas break afforded me the moments to sit back and ponder the space between the beginning and ending. It was also a time for me to think about how sudden it can all change. Our family lost a dear cousin a few days after Christmas. We are all still in shock because she looked so beautiful at a recent party. The airwaves were working overtime as the news traveled across the United States and reached into France. I sat in my car as my Uncle told me the sudden, sad news. This beautiful woman would not be there at the reunion, she wouldn't look at me and smile, she wouldn't touch me with the love of someone who loved me before I knew myself. It is the new year and her funeral will be soon now that all her children have made it home. The hole in the heart is collective, we are still shaking our head, how did this happen? She was into her 70s so one could say it was her age, but her cousins,...