How Does Alice Walker Take Her Coffee?
By Valerie Conklin
I work in an East Village café to pay my bills. I sometimes serve coffee, tea, and smoothies to some amazing artists. I can tell you that Alan Cumming always brings his dog with him and that he likes our blueberry-yogurt muffins more than our blueberry muffins. I can tell you Phillip Glass is always in the middle of an engrossing conversation whenever he comes in to buy his small coffee, never medium, never large.
Now I wonder how Alice Walker likes her coffee, or if she even likes coffee at all. A cursory internet search doesn’t uncover the answer. Google doesn’t seem to know if she likes hot beverages. Maybe she prefers tea. We serve some excellent teas in my café. Our Earl Gray is particularly good. Maybe Alice Walker would like it.
Each of my coworkers handles the customers they recognize differently. I try to treat our famous customers the same way I’d treat anyone else. I do this, not because I think it matters to anyone else, but for my own sake. I get so starstruck and nervous around people I admire that I can barely think or speak, let alone make a latte. If I focus on the coffee and the transaction, rather than the person paying me for their coffee, then everything goes smoothly. So I smile at Alan Cumming, but don’t tell him that I love every single performance he’s done, especially the silly ones. I don’t interrupt Phillip Glass to tell him that I listen to his albums of piano when I’m studying. They’ve probably heard everything I have to say before from other admirers. But maybe I can serve them exceptionally good food and drinks. That’s how I can tell them I admire them and thank them for their work.
If I ever meet Alice Walker, I hope it’s in the café where I work. Then I’d know how she takes her coffee. Who knows what she might say if I ask her, “How can I help you?” If she asks me what’s good, I’ll tell her that I really like our Earl Gray tea. I’ll say, “It’s brighter than most other blends I’ve had, very citrusy! I like mine with some steamed milk.” Maybe she’d like our Earl Grey, or maybe bergamot tastes too floral for her. Whatever it is, I will make her a drink and put a pastry of her choice on one of our brown paper plates. I’ll tell her the price and while she finds her wallet in her bag, I’ll tell her I like what she’s wearing. I’ve never seen Alice Walker deliver a speech or interview in anything that didn’t look both beautiful and comfortable. How admirable! I’ll often sacrifice either aesthetics or comfort for the other, especially when I’m at work.
In all likelihood, if Alice Walker came into my café and I recognized her and served her breakfast (or lunch or dinner; we’re open all day), I’d smile extra wide, compliment her appearance, and hold my tongue about her writing. It would make my day, and I’d brag about the encounter to my mom, my librarian friend, and my favorite aunt, but I wouldn’t tell Alice Walker I recognized her. I’d only make sure I gave her coffee from the freshest pot, heated her croissant in the toaster instead of the microwave, and counted her change perfectly the first time. I’d tell her she looked nice today so I could be a good part of her day. She has meant so much to so many people, myself included. This is what I could give her in return.
But what if Alice Walker noticed that I recognized her? What if she asked me to take my break and come talk with her?
I like going to events where creators I admire speak about their work and answer fans’ questions. I rarely ask questions of my own. I have no trouble speaking in front of an audience, but if I try to speak to someone who wrote something I like, all my thoughts fall right out of my head. With nothing but white noise between my ears, grinding my way through whatever I wanted to say becomes immensely difficult. But I like sitting and listening to artists talk. It’s wonderful to be in the same space as these people whose work I enjoy. It reminds me that they are human. I’m human too, so maybe someday I can make something as remarkable as they did.
If I saw Alice Walker in my cafe and I served her, I wonder if that exchange would override the part of my brain that gets starstruck. If I met Alice Walker at work and if our conversation started with how she takes her coffee, then maybe I could speak to her about who she is and what she’s created. I could ask her my questions without stuttering to a stop.
It’s nice to imagine myself being able to shrug off my awe, untie my apron, and talk to Alice Walker. I am so curious about her mind! It must be amazing to live in the head that wrote The Color Purple and so much beautiful poetry. How does she write things that happen to everyone? How does she write such personal, specific pieces, that so many people can see themselves in? When I read Gray it felt so much like she was writing about someone I knew turning gray and loving different.
I could ask her, “Who did you write Gray about? Do you know the same women I know?” Maybe she’d say yes.
“What’s it like speaking to poetry? How do you put your feelings into words so well, that anyone who reads them can feel the same? I’m no good at poetry but I Said to Poetry makes me feel like I should write some anyway.” Maybe she could tell me the secret to putting your feelings on paper.
“Why was Miss Wangero in Everyday Use so bad? She was thoughtless and disrespectful, but what was her life like? Do you know? Do you think about your characters after you’re done writing a piece?”
I’d probably ask her about her life, the way it’s affected by being a woman who loves women. The Color Purple is considered such a great work, and the fact that it is written by a bisexual woman and depicts so many different relationships between women—including romantic ones—is so important to the book, to its audience, and to me. I am so grateful that the world has Alice Walker.
So much of a relationship to somebody’s work is selfish. When I like something I’ve read, it’s because I see myself and my own experiences in it. That’s alright because people have told stories to each other for millennia. It’s how people learn and relate. It’s easy for me to feel like I know some of what Alice Walker is like. I know a piece of her—the piece she writes down. So if she ever came into my café, I’d recognize her and know her, but I’d be a stranger to her. It’s interesting to think about the way writing can connect people in this way.
I’ve been down a bit of a rabbit hole with Alice Walker, watching speeches she’s given for days as I thought about writing this essay. I watched interviews with her friends too. Gloria Steinem says she is just the kind of person, the kind of friend, that you would envision based on what she’s written. If that’s true, then Alice Walker is wise and kind in the face of the tragedy and misery the world sometimes throws at us. I imagine if I were to talk to her and ask her my questions, she’d tell me that everyone has hurt in their lives, and being truthful about that—with each other and in our writing—can help that hurt heal.
Maybe giving Alice Walker a hot drink to enjoy and thanking her for her writing can heal that hurt too.
SPRING 2024
Illustrations were done in collaboration with the New Media Artspace at Baruch College. The New Media Artspace is a teaching exhibition space in the Department of Fine and Performing Arts at Baruch College. Housed in the Newman Library, the New Media Artspace showcases curated experimental media and interdisciplinary artworks by international artists, students, alumni, and faculty. Special thanks to docent Anya Ballantyne for creating artwork for this piece.
Visit the New Media Artspace at http://www.newmediartspace.info/