The Musings of a Latte Queen: Narratives of Everyday Life

 It is Turkey Day. That quiet time of the morning when home chefs are busy in the kitchen. If you are African American or have family origins in the American south, that kitchen has homemade cornbread ready for the oven, sweet potato pies and pound cakes cooling, it has greens being cleaned and four kinds of cheeses ready for the Mac-and-cheese that now only my youngest daughter can make to perfection. The onions and celery would be sautéing in some butter while the sage sausage is being crumbled and fried for the dressing. The counters and kitchen table would be set up for the budding sous chefs. That turkey may be fried or the way I grew up, seasoned, rubbed with butter, stuffed with onions and celery and apples and sealed up in a brown grocery bag - long before those oven bags came out. The green beans and sweet potatoes -nothing from a can. The sweet tea, lemonade, and sparking cider. It was the sights and sounds. When my kids were all home for the holidays, I would be making c...

 Zora Neale Hurston once said that there was no agony like having an untold story inside you (my paraphrase). I think I have been living in that space for a while. Yes, I’ve been writing and have published some pieces, but the story that my son keeps telling me I need to write is probably the story I have been waiting the longest to expose to the world. My husband says that we do not owe anyone our story. In light of the Twitter take over and my previous statements about social media, I began to contemplate a bit more of how much of our lives are already under the naked glare of the blue light of smart phones. Who are  these people we have invited into our atmosphere at the mere swipe? When are our lives objects to be consumed in ten seconds or less? What is the harm we have done to ourselves and others by always trying to be provocative or alluring enough for one to stay on our page long enough to ramp up clicks, followers, or likes? I am an introvert. An INFJ actually, part ...

 There are a thousand messages telling us of what it will take to make us acceptable, worthy of being counted, of being awarded a contract or job or presence. Constantly having to prove our lives are counted as one good enough to care if we live or breathe. I have been thinking a lot about it. Perhaps it is the time of year, October is a month of reckoning and loss, of changes and remembering. How long does one pay a price to be alive in the world? Just the other day, I was musing about the ways that social media has overtaken our lives and connections when it was supposed to be a way of connection. The problem, it became, seems to be the over exaggerated ways of our lives being worthy enough for likes, clicks, and views. Is simply breathing and walking and being human enough to be among the cherished in the world? When I think about the ways that human beings are with each other, I often think of the ways that we miss celebrating just the sheer essence of breathing in this world w...

 There is a scripture the says “life and death is in the power of the tongue.”  In the Hebrew Bible, there are so many poems related to what one says and how what comes out impacts so many lives.  I am a writer.  We live and breathe on the words that swirl around in our minds that eventually make it to the end of our pen on paper or fingers on a keyboard.   We all want to persuade, encourage, motivate, and call people to action of some sort. To make an impact is the goal of every writer of every genre, to be remembered is even better. The other day, I wrote about how I was getting a divorce from social media and after the official Twitter take over yesterday, it looks like that separation will be not just on Facebook.  Over the past decade that I’ve used what I called the virtual picket fence, I’ve noticed the severe lack of civility that comes with the anonymity of the keys. People don’t really know each other that if they posted and then ran into them at ...

 When was the last time you took a moment to really truly discover something sweet? Something new? And just relish it? Appreciate it? For me, that has been pomegranates. I’ve had them served on a Chaat Dog at a local Indian street food restaurant in New Haven and they were sprinkled on top as a garnish. It added a gentle flavor and crunch to the treat, offsetting the other flavors. Then, of course I’ve had them purchased in the little containers from the grocery store.This s I decided to get a real one. This summer, during the height of fruit season, I picked up one from the farm up at Bishop’s Orchard.  I was preparing a rice dish - heirloom rice with sautéed pecans and wanted to add a pop of color and sweet to the dish. I was still a vegetarian and was always looking for ways to enhance my diet.  It’s shell is touch, can’t really peel it with your hands, you need to cut it. Then you have to pull it apart. I will admit I was a bit shocked and in awe of what I saw inside....

 I am getting a divorce. No, not from my husband. From Facebook. It has come to the place of irreconcilable differences. Can’t get past the habits of the BOTS and the constant clones. Yesterday, last evening in fact, I wished my elder cousin a very happy birthday. He turned seventy-two and for my paternal side, that was a milestone that just a generation before never achieved. Barely did I press the little blue arrow to post the comment then I get a yellow warning notice that my account is not visible and I can’t use it. Of course, I refuted it and then the notice said if they find I my account is in keeping with their community standards - I will be able to use it again and if it isn’t, my account would be permanently disabled and click the button to download my information. Maybe my spider sense could be going off and this could be a bot, but it had me thinking of how much time I’ve spent on the platform. “Cousin Toni, you should get on Facebook,” one of my younger cousins told m...

 A year ago, after a difficult summer, I made the choice to center my voice, myself, and not stay in the shadow of networks that stifled life and creativity. I inhaled deeply, said, "I will be a collector of me, and put meat on my soul." And loosed the chokehold. Once free, I discovered and reclaimed my pens. I pulled up on my intellectual and scholarly work. Ministry focus changed from one state to another to embrace this particular calling My health truly became my wealth and justice  The youngest daughter had the fullness of me and not the silenced stressed me with my eyes glossed over from the blue light scream of a screen Creativity sparked a new literary conversation across lines of being Suitcases were packed and cars on roads went to new places and met new people and ate new foods And in it all, I found some things about myself That I am worth my ask That I am one of 100 WOC making change but honestly, I am one of a kind being me That being an empath is a strength and...