The Musings of a Latte Queen: Narratives of Everyday Life

I remember the old days when kids revered and respected their elders.  Remember those days?  When Mr. Sam or Mrs. Esther down the block could tell you to behave, hey, they could even spank you if you were out of line and then tell your parents before you could even wrap it around your mind to sassy-mouth them and say, "I'm gonna tell my mama!"  Remember those days when kids were respectful of their elders and understood the meaning of discipline, honor, respect, and just plain behaving? I wanted to tell not only my daughter, my son, but my grandson's mother to go out back and cut a switch down from the tree so they could get an old fashioned spanking! You remember the ones that left your behind a little stingy and your eyes a little misty but you tried your hardest to not cry.  The ones where your mother was out-of-breath from preaching to you about the evils of disobedience while you two did this funny one arm dance around the family room.  You know the o...

This morning I woke up to the unusual quiet of my son still in bed.  Usually this kid is racing up and down the stairs getting ready for school.  This does not happen miraculously, it is after the heavy pounding of my husband's fist on his bedroom door, followed by his deep commands to "get ready for school."  None of that assaulted my dreams this morning.  I woke up at 6:38am and decided to skip my now morning routine of working out beside my bed.  I jumped in the shower and when I came out, still quiet.  What was going on? I dressed - makeup and hair - and opened the bedroom door, even my husband was quiet downstairs.  A knock on the teen's bedroom door was met with quiet.  I opened the door, "Hey Joshua!  It is 6:54am!  Get up and get ready for school."  "Ma, we don't have school, snow day."  "No Joshua, there is school."  "Ma, really, they called...didn't you hear the phone???"  I looked at him quizzically and w...

I have been trolling the online news reports, alternating between Huffingtonpost, CNN, MSNBC, and facebook, to stay abreast about Haiti.  And I feel helpless.  I am here, in my warm bedroom, having just showered and put on fresh pajamas, sipping an herbal tea, and all I can do is pray and text donations. I.am.so.immensely.blessed. The hours have turned into days and the anguish is still fresh. It has been almost two centuries since my foremother was kidnapped from her native Dominican Republic and my forefathers fled Saint Domingue (Haiti) during the revolution. Yet, my heart is in Hispaniola.  It is my identity, if not for there, New Orleans and St. Louis never would have happened. So yes, in response to my friends, it does bother me that this earthquake happened there.  To a people already punished by the western powers for daring to standing up to French tyranny and mulatto indifference to become a nation of freed slaves - by force.  They realized i...

Happy New Year!  It is officially 1/1/2010 at 12:02am.  A new year, a new day. What will 2010 brings as we also celebrate the decade of a new century?  Will dreams come true?  Will challenges be met?  Will change happen? I sat quietly and meditated for a moment and then my eight-year-old daughter ran into the room with her youthful exuberance to wish me happy new year.  I started off this year with the unconditional love and acceptance from the little girl who captured my heart.  Moments after that in came the six-year-old daughter with her happy joie d'vie and proceeded to dance in the new year.  She is the smile that crosses my face and the twinkle in my eye. Even as the year as turned the pages of the decade, I take a moment to reflect on the things that are different.  My youngest son, a teenager now, is bringing in the new year with his friends.  My middle son already celebrated the new year almost a day ago as he is in Japan....

All the presents have been unwrapped to the sounds of children's glee. The evergreen still holds center court with presents still under the tree.  The Wii was a hit for everyone and the girls proved they are sports stars.  The teenager has more clothes to make a mall and there is still wrapping paper down the hall.  It was a wonderful Friday with a moment to reflect on the real reason we celebrate the giving of gifts.  From the youngest to the teenage child, they read the story of the Christmas child.  Each one, in voices clear, read the story our hearts hold dear.  Their father prayed in his booming voice, giving thanks to God and for the moment to rejoice.  The gift-giver took her job with glee and handed out presents to everyone...even to me.  She smiled and she sang as she skipped about, covering her ears when her sister let out a shout!  "Just what I wanted, I'm so happy to have it."  She moved and danced and could hardly sit. ...

One week from now the presents will already be opened, the wrapping in the recycle bins, ribbons and candy canes about the sitting room, perhaps an ornament or two fallen off the tree, the dining room will have the remnants of the leftover holiday meal, the children may have already forgotten some of their new toys and went to sleep with their old faithful teddy bear, and some people will already be lining up outside the retail stores to pick up even more stuff. Why? The shopping frenzy took our nation by storm, as it does every Black Friday, and for a month we have been bombarded with television, radio, internet, newspaper, and mailbox ads touting one store's midnight madness or better-than-black-friday sale.  And the purpose of it all?  To do what Americans do - shop.  To get, conquer (only five in the store, come early for the best bargains!!!!!) and acquire even more things that are meaningless, take up space, and do not fill the void that rests like an insatiable...

Reprinted from Pink Latte Publishing There was a primal scream so loud is shattered the chandelier overhead. Fists pummeled the stiff body lying in repose on the velvet cushions inside the polished mahogany. Utterances of anguish emerged from many decades of compliant silence. Unanswered prayers now to be buried in the heavy chamber of clay. Fury burned the eyes were widows tears should rest. Strong limbs enveloped heaving frame pulling back to life. Wells of bottled tears erupted like a levy broken flooding out unspent waters. Screams of rebuke to the sewn lips and penny shut eyes for the years of fire from a controlling tongue. Weeping and sobbing to heaving and breathing the clay to burn fury in hulking frame no more. Gentle touches and breezes to douse the pent up searing of the soul to be released for a tomorrow yet to be. Too much living lost waiting on the dying to end the chain that binds.