There are only so many cups of coffee you can consume. I say this with the same sentiment I feel towards men and the art of consuming them. Before my present relationship, I had attempted to find myself in the arms and beds of other men. In the wake of these suicide missions, I believe I am the lucky one: the one who walked away with third degree burns and a fear of fire; the prey turned predator turned benevolent assassin.

This may be the reason I am so hard on poets today.

While touring Europe, I watched several "Rock Star" poets headed down a path of self-destruction. No matter the poet, they all had the same plan of attack: introduction to an awestruck fan after the performance; coy glances led to an exchange of whispers...

All of these actions I could pinpoint without looking because I lived it, once. When you are good with words, you have a tendency to say what might sound good to the ear without any concerns for the long-term effects.

This is where I usually black out.

Back home in Oakland, California I met a man who smiled at me like they all do when they want something. After the poetry reading, we went to a diner. I ordered the coffee, he ordered something nirvanic. I have never liked my coffee plain and black; I need it to be light and sweet. Maybe that can be linked to my obsession with lighter skin. Plagued with the “good enough” questions all my life, as a darker toned Black girl in a family of fair-skinned beauties, I have been battling the urge to purchase skin bleach ever since.

Or maybe it‘s my Grandfather’s fault that I am invested in cream and sugar. My first cup of coffee was courtesy of him. He was a strict man, if you asked his 7 children, but his grandkids could get away with murder. My 10-year-young legs would carry me into the kitchen on mornings when his instant coffee (gasp!) was being stirred; when I slid my own cup next to his and waited for my ration of the coffee goodness.

This was something my family thought was strange, and in turn made me feel bad about my love for the warmth. My Grandfather never made me feel any particular way about my dark skin; I was just happy to sit under his gaze.

In that Oakland diner with a faceless and forgettable man, I found a place that didn’t hurt so much and took comfort in the chance to sit under any man who would stare at me, almost certain they didn’t want to know the real me, just the “me” they found intriguing on stage. I learned to stay in character. That night I wrote a poem for him. It was horrible in its transparency and my blue pen tore at the coffee-stained napkin until I ran out of clever things to say.

In Brooklyn, at a quaint coffee shop called Ozzie’s -- where hipsters with thick-rimmed glasses on barstools intrude upon my space; shoulders crouched, eyeing people who crowd the condiments station with New York skepticism -- I come back to that incident.

“Too much sugar…Cream is for baking – not sipping. Anyone that can mess up a good cup of coffee can mess up a perfectly good life.”

We are all damaged.

Even the “Rock Stars” carry smashed hearts like warm gummy bears in their pockets, names of women who didn’t know their smile could cause so much devastation written on them.

I, too, have my place.

On stage, I never look as insecure or desperate as anyone might rightfully feel after a string of cheating boyfriends. On stage, I am strong and powerful and convincing that I am over my fear of being left, again. It’s a conundrum to say the least. And there are many days even the coffee cup looks daunting to me.

But the poetry audience is a forgiving one. It is there that I have a chance to see myself for all that I am. My words render me as beautiful as the day my Grandfather introduced me to coffee. The way he looked at me, eyes glowing for the first grandchild named after him, proud of the mistakes that would shape me.

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Keywords : Coffee, Brooklyn, Oakland, Love, Racism, Family

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