The Musings of a Latte Queen: Narratives of Everyday Life

This is always an interesting, reflective time of year.  It is when people profess to be thankful for the people in their lives, their health, etc., etc., Then go out and shop for junk on Black Friday, now, right on Thanksgiving Day. Oh how American it is. The "holiday" itself is ingrained in the folklore of the country.  The President pardons the turkey, schools are closed, often, the entire last half of the week is a holiday.  Until the National Federation of Retailers decided that Friday was a slow day and made up a shopping holiday, most retail employees could be guaranteed at least Thanksgiving and Christmas days off. Not anymore. The national thankfulness and appreciation of all that this country is of supposed brotherhood and kindness has given way to sales advertised before the Halloween candy is even digested. It has to stop and it can only stop with the American consumer, even that work, consumer is troubling, deciding that they will not "consume...

I was going to write about something else today, but as my Modern and Contemporary Poetry class ended yesterday and I received the feedback of our final assignment, thought I would post it here today. Next week is that food fest we call Thanksgiving.  It is when my husband will drive down to Alabama to bring home my youngest son, when my elderly aunt and clan will be in Atlanta for fellowship, when families from near and far will gather together to fellowship, and eat. Yet for some, for many, there will be no turkey and all the fixings, no pound cake, no greens, nothing. It was for that reason and the hunger around us that I chose to revisit one of my own poems for the class assignment.  We were to either take a poet's work we studied in class or one of our own, create our spine and run the work through John Cage's mesostic.  Alternately, we could take one of our own works or one in class and do a Bernadette Mayer assignment like Lori Widmer did with her piece, Mot...

Thanks to a fellow Huffington Post blogger, I have a great topic for readers, especially men, to muse upon today. I took the liberty of calling attention to some of his statements in bold.  Hopefully, some men will reconsider the next time they want to call a woman crazy. On Labeling Women 'Crazy' by Harris O'Malley Posted: 11/12/2013 9:35 am Follow Relationships ,  Relationship Advice ,  Crazy Women ,  Men ,  Love and Relationships , Relationship Tips ,  Respecting Women ,  Women News GET WOMEN NEWSLETTERS: SUBSCRIBE I've had to quit telling stories about crazy exes or women I've dated. The problem was that I started realizing that when my friends and I would talk about our crazy exes or what-have-you, more often than not, we weren't talking about ex-girlfriends or random dates who exhibited signs of genuine mental health issues. Now I did have a few where I would qualify my story with, "No, I don't mean ...

I spent the other day thinking about college. My youngest son is away at school, everything fully paid, experiencing what life at an HBCU has to offer a kid who mostly grew up in the suburbs. He is thirty years my junior and in listening to him talk about his campus, rail on the food or the administration, his courseload and how busy he is, and wanting to come home for Thanksgiving Weekend, I thought about my own experience all those years ago. Tuskegee, Philander Smith, and Fisk were the only three colleges my late father talked to me about when I was growing up.  There wasn't an expectation that we would do anything other than attend an HBCU and Lincoln University, just on the other side of Jeff City, as not in my father's plan for my life. Plans and life changes. In the regrouping of life, I was back in Jeff City at my parents and enrolled at Nichols Career Center.  Daddy put on his practical hat and told me that it was a noble profession in 1983 to be a secretary...

There are more years behind me than in front of me. My daddy used to say that to me all the time and I would always refute it with, "no daddy, you will live forever." He didn't. He was just 69 years, 6 months old when spirit left clay and he could no longer call me "Taye" and flash that dimpled smile, hug me close to him, his height and girth protecting me from all harm. I am 49 years young and am hearing my father's words in my mind. There are more years behind me than in front of me and I am wondering about those that are left. I have experienced ageism, most recently in a 57-day long consulting gig that was supposed to be longer, but my age and station in life proved to be too intimidating to the barely college graduated peers.  It was that encounter and others that has me thinking, am I, one of the last of the Baby Boomer generation, finished? If left up to the republicans, no, we would work  until our feeble knees buckle and we are kissing...

I am reaching my jubilee in about six months.  I've spent a lot of time thinking about life, talking to friends and family, and meditating about this journey.  Here are my fifty musings: 1. We only have one life, one dash, make the most of it. 2. As painful as it may be, leaving the handsome hometown man behind may be the best thing for you. 3. You are never too young to make a difference or too old to dream 4. Elders have a lot of wisdom. 5. Tradition is important, but not so much that it can't change if it is wrong, or be improved on, if it is right 6. Kids will form their own identities 7. Careers are great, but they are not life 8. Americans are uptight 9. Travel the world 10. Gays can love the Lord just as much as straights 11. Denomination separates 12. Going to college just to pledge a BGLO is stupid, especially if you drop out after going over 13. Black people need to get over it - there are lesbians and gays among us 14. White people need to get over it...

May my daughter never marry a messy man like my husband. May she never have a stubborn daughter like I do. May she never wake up in the morning to find dishes in the sink and the dishwasher not turned on. May she never have tween girls who think they are too special to do chores. May she never have to put aside writing her novel to do a load of laundry that goes un-put-away. May she never know the frustration of waiting and waiting for yet another costume change. May she never clean toilets daily that she never uses. May she not trip down the stairs because her daughter left yet another book on the floor. May she not carry baskets up and down the stairs to only hear, "I Have Nothing To Wear." May she never have to hide snacks from her husband and daughters who inhale them daily. May she never sleep to only hear the TV turned back on to the whiny voice of a Disney show. May she never step on a Lego piece left in the sitting room. May she never find that...

Someone close to me wondered today why they should acknowledge that today is that day. Someone wondered why I am still talking about my son or why I pause to remember, to muse, to cry, to smile, to whatever journey my feelings take me on the second day my life changed forever. I do it because he was and is and he mattered.  His life was more than the way he died and in the past years when I have actively remembered, it has given me back the special bond I had with my firstborn.  It reminded me of why I do the things I do now with his younger siblings, and why I do not take for granted their presence in my life.  I do it because he is still alive to me, he always will be. It may be "exhausting" or "over-the-top" or "tiring" for some, but never for me. No one knows how one will feel unless it happens to them. I was a young woman, barely, and sheltered.  I didn't know anything.  Any my son was killed. How was I supposed to process that? Who ...