The Musings of a Latte Queen: Narratives of Everyday Life

Water is that life force that feeds my spirit. I am not sure if it is my Lake Michigan heritage, summers spent at the Pier, walking in the sand, looking out over the expanse of water, pondering life. It could be my time along the Gulf Coast, or simply a remnant of my heritage as a Caribbean descended woman. I'm not sure what it is, but it is life for me. I found myself yearning for clarity and peace.  There has been so much that has happened around me, living twenty-five minutes south of Ferguson. I have been innundated in "the movement," whatever that is. My inbox, my outbox, my box was full and I needed to empty out. Just before school started and after celebrating the birth of my first grandchild, my daughters and I did a big purge. We cleaned out four bags of items from their elementary school years and six bags of clothes. I rearranged my office to have morenatural light streaming into my townhouse office. My son's bedroom had become my beach oasis. Yet, ...

I, like many others in my city, woke up to what looks like a car zone. Tear gas, rubber bullets, sound bombs, lighting to conflict with cell device camera, armored tanks, and row upon row of armored personnel. It was not in Iraq or Afganisthan. It was on the west side of St. Louis. An area forgotten by the city fathers who segregated in the poorest of the poor black people. A place where time, opportunity, and escape completely forgot, a place where even a high school diploma would not result in the police killing an 18-year-old black  man. Yesterday, on the same anniversary of the Kajeme Powell, a memorial vigil was set for 11am with an action at 12 noon. I did not attend. It was set at the St. Louis Justice Center to demand that the Circuit Attorney bring charges against the police. At the same time, a young black man was killed by the police who said he was running from a drug house that was being served a warrant and the young man waved a gun at the police. I wasn...

It would be disingenuous of me to minimize the difficulty of the last year. The family, first and foremost, suffered the most egregious loss imaginable. Their firstborn son was not only murdered by the Ferguson Police Department, but his body was left in the middle of the street, to bake in hot August sun, for four-and-one-half-hours. His mother was kept from his body. His community had to look at his body. Mothers in the community had to answer unconsciouble questions from their own children. There were many whys. The hours wore on and hell was breaking loose in Canfield. While this was happening, I was first at a funeral and repass and then a later-night-dinner, celebrating and honoring the life of one of three family elder gentleman who went from life-to-reward. We all turned our phones off to be present, to mourn together and remember together. Family pictures were taken, cousins who lived across the nation from each other were smiling behind tears. Then, sitting ...

When one is met with life without a mother for the majority of those years of life, one is often left wandering in a sea of uncertainty, sometimes insecurity, and always a feeling of disconnectedness. This feeling has followed me the majority of my life because I was four when my mother died. I was seven when my father remarried and was sixteen when that eleven eyar nightmare ended wiht me moving to another state. To be unmothered is a place that leaves one keenly observant and keenly aware of the emotional hurt and need in others. When Mike Brown was murdered in August 2014, the eternal mother in me sprung into action. To know one needs comfort is the keen awareness of one who most needed it in herself. I recognized the need to gather the children together and make them feel safe. It was in that safety gathering that I realized there was a piece of vulnerability in me that I protected with helping others, with writing, with nurturing, but still needing to tend to that scared n...