The Musings of a Latte Queen: Narratives of Everyday Life

 I'm a Black woman, born of a Black woman and a Black man. When my mother died, it was my father who nurtured me and instilled in me a sense of pride of self, of my race, of my abilities to do whatever I put my mind to do. He never imposed limitations on me as a Black woman. The only caution he ever gave me was to not burn my candle at both ends and to be mindful of my health, I am an asthmatic. He never stopped me from trying anything and always encouraged me. Daddy was a strong Black man who introduced me to Shirley Chisholm when I was a little girl. He reminded me of the fortitude of my late mother's quest for gender equality in the workplace and of the namesake who marched at Selma.  He is the one who gave me my pseudonym, Tayé. Daddy was a strong tower of empowerment and fought all the way to his last breath for social, gender, and racial justice. It is in remembering my father this morning that I'm asking the brothers, can we talk? What is it, especially those of my g...

It is the wee hours of the morning, when darkness surrounds, and sleep should be sweet.  It is still and very quiet in my home, situated in a wooded town near Yale. Our house is on a serene tucked away cut-de-sac of colonials on lots of land, trees in the landscape, the ocean a mere 15-20 minute drive in any direction, peaceful. Yet, I am not peaceful, I can not just marvel at the beauty around me. I turned off social media upon the advise of a dear sister who told all of us Black women to attend to ourselves. I told my husband this vegetarian needed fried chicken, greens, cornbread, and some pound cake with strong coffee - comfort foods I remembered from my late aunts. He brought home some fried shrimp for me and we sat at the table with our youngest daughter to listen to her . She knew what happened and it was written all over her face. We were still processing the death of Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg on Rosh Hashanah and that her family hadn't even had the service before ...

 I've moved from the Midwest to the Northeast. Moving is motion. It was set in motion over a year ago. In the year-and-a-half since I said I wanted to move, so many things in the world snatched my breath away. January 2020 was the kickoff of what was supposed to be a huge celebration year for me and my family. It was my sorority centennial, two of my children were graduating, my husband and I were celebrating a big double digit anniversary, our first daughter was turning eighteen, college was looming, so many things we had planned.  Then, like everyone, our world stopped. Almost as if we were watching a slow motion movie in reverse, we could see the year become one long calendar page of not-moving. It started on March 5. That was the date the first Covid-19 case came to our suburban region. There was still so much unknown about it, we weren't in the Northeast at the time, we hadn't been to Italy, the ones who brought it in had. My girl was a writer for her school newspaper ...