The Musings of a Latte Queen: Narratives of Everyday Life

 Am I surprised? No. I am sad, angry, enraged. Another eighteen year old white boy. 18. The time he should be less than a month from high school graduation and thinking about college, he was devising ways to destroy innocent human beings because he was fed an unending diet of hate. It was Saturday. May 14. Graduation Day for some melanated people I know and love. It was errand day and getting-ready-for-prom day and in most Black households I know, it is also chore day.  Music was probably popping early in the morning when the Lysol came out to clean the bathrooms and kitchen counters. Sunday dinner prep was in the making, including that trip to the grocery store to get supplies. No one, not one of them knew that they would encounter barely-a-man armed with a weapon of mass destruction worse than anything devised in the minds of super scared white people after 9-11. That boy was armed with over four hundred years of murderous intent just because some people were sun kissed and ...

 When I started writing here, my husband once told me that my voice was strong. Back in 2008, people were worried about ruffling feathers. The first Black Presidential candidate was turning people's heads with the possibilities of what could be. I was an activist and consultant in a town trying to wrap it's head around a tragedy in city hall earlier that same year. By the time the November election rolled around, people were ready to embrace a future they could hope for. The euphoria did not last long. The same obstructionists who on the night of the inauguration decided he would do whatever he could to stop the success of this moderate President, are the same ones who rushed through Supreme Court Justices who were essentially stolen from the prior President and the current President. They kept saying they were for life when they were for power and control. Control of Black bodies and specifically control of Black women' bodies.  Like the times of enslavement, they wanted m...

 The meaning of my name - Antona - is "of inestimable value and great worth." Sounds pretty haughty, assured, treasured, a rare jewel, cherished. My mother gave me that name. Really, my name is Mary Antona, named after the only Black nun who marched at Selma and who was a social and racial justice advocate. I was given a name with intention and aspiration. Today is my birthday, my 58th birthday, in fact. I woke up this morning and declared that I am the prize. Me. In all my Taurean stubbornness and determination, in my introverted reflection and intuition observation, I am the prize, you win with me in your life and in your corner. If you know me, the last week has been a bit of a shock and a bit difficult, I contracted Covid in my home from my husband who got it at a big Earth Day event at the college where he is CEO.  All the emotions raged through me, shock, anger, denial, and of course, acceptance that this thing I avoided for two years, finally caught me. I always mask -...

 It's May Day It's College Decision Day. It's Making Sense of It All Day. How did I end up testing positive for Covid??? If you know me, like so many people who were watching in horror in March 2020 when this dreaded virus first burst it's way into our lives and consumed every part of it, you did all you could to avoid it. We came home. Cancelled Spring and Summer 2020 everything - college trips to my daughter's final choices, prom, cotillion, graduation parties.  Everything that was delivered had a table outside our house. I am already a very conscious person about cleaning and had plenty of peroxide, alcohol and washing our hands was something that we did all the time so a news show telling us how to do it wasn't necessary. We had this things down. My husband was the one who went out. In the early days, he was the designated go-to-the-store guy and the one we watched like a hawk so if "covidiy" came into our home we could trace the origins.  We cut d...