The Musings of a Latte Queen: Narratives of Everyday Life

A good friend of mine told me one day that everyone is not pure of heart, everyone is not of pure motives, everyone does not have a pure mind. It struck me that even at my age, I can feel betrayed and disappointed in people that I have encountered who I thought were working for the same thing I was working for. The sting of it and the cut of it is deep. One result was me doing what I have often done, examining myself ad nauseum to see where I missed the mark, where I didn't notice the envy or jealousy, the narcissm or greed. When did I just gloss over their reasons for why they should "get paid" or how that out-of-country trip was "for the people" while you were getting paid in a used gift card from a client whose lie of "it is important to me" turned into "well, times are tight." The well spung up in a week of back-to-back reveals and it made me wonder was my head buried in the sand, did I owe those with fewer resources more because ...

Last week, I had to sit down and wonder about what had been going on in my city and across the nation. It was in my silenced response to the actions of some young activists that gave me pause. Was it worth my time and voice to keep speaking up and out when the end goal was a few coins to be spent on the open market? Was the concentrated actions of a few at the expense of the many worth all the time invested over the past ten months? A lot of my thoughts and questions were responded to by Jamala Rogers  in her article on the #cutthecheck action. I let that sit with me and then read a very poignant response by  John Chasnoff of The Police State Project  that I hope will put a pause button on some of the future actions so that strategic minds can create a collective outcome. Movement work, dismantling racism, confronting sexism, breaking systems, all this requires a collective focus and not an individualized approach. It was also in wondering that it hit me how none ...

This is always a favorite week for me and my household. Aside from the immediate shift from cold to warm in this part of the midwest with the accompanying blowing winds, pollen, and chirping birds, it is birthday week! My youngest son became a legal adult on Monday. That threw me for a moment to stop and realize that that much time had elapsed between his improbable beginning. He is doing everything I ever wanted him to do. When I think about this place in his life - almost a college senior as soon as he finishes his last final, following his passion in opera, enjoying being young, and meeting a wonderful young lady - I pause to think about the blessing of being a black mother with a black son who hasn't been a statistic. My son is almost my birthday twin. We are two days and a whole lot of years apart. Today is my birthday. I woke up to my plus one day. It felt fresh, unpackaged, expectant. I remember the combination of fear, anxiety, celebration, and happiness I f...

This morning, after dropping my daugthers off to school, folding a load of towels, starting another load, and putting on the water for my first cup of coffee, I opened the email that precipated this post. Originally shared on my facebook page and developed more in depth, I found myself defending the "angry black woman" in this climate of racialized murder, genderized legislation, and economic apartheid wrecking havoc in many of our cities. Polite conversation would tell me that someone of my caliber of education, experience, and even status (husband's?) should not have had such a public display of emotion. I almost didn't post it. One of the things that has been a hallmark of my brand has been my authentcity, vulnerability, transparency, and determination to keep going. Why change that because I could be worried about what the invisible "others" would think of me. So, on this day after my youngest son's 21st birthday and the eve before my not...

It was no surprise to my friends and family that the pace of the past nine months was beginning to take a toll on me. Sleep became a luxury that one could scarcely afford to take. The former every-twenty-eight-hours had reduced to almost one every-eight-hours. The trauma of one began to fall like bricks, the stack building a wall around me that was becoming impenetrable. While I have not personally had the unspeakable horror of my son or daughter lying facedown in the hot sun, or slaughtered on their sofa, or eating a late-night-snack, or disoriented after an accident, or shopping for a toy, or simply opening the door, the shock to my soul felt like I could not breathe again. My friends and I would talk about what was going on, always with our cell phones nearby for that familiar alert that another had been lynched. No, this is not 1945 or 1965, it is 2015 and the death toll has reached genocidal proportions. Two Saturday's ago, just when I was hitting the wall, waking up t...