Evil Coffee Beans
Dunkin’ Donuts coffee is bad. Starbucks is the worst. I’ll smash empty cups. Tear cardboard heat protector cup holders. I gag at the smell of fresh ground. Have I tasted it? Never. But why should I have to?! It’s addictive and drives people wreckless tearing apart families.
Sound a bit over the top? Of course it is! But you could never convince the 9-15yr. old Keila any different. My family would be eating ground turkey and rice for dinner while my dad took from the grocery fund to buy his precious cups of coffee. Coffee from the home pot wouldn’t suffice. No, his cups had to come from the coffee shop and the more expensive the cup, the better. His cravings were insatiable during the times my mother hated it most.
Dunkin’ coffee is bad. Starbucks is worst.
“Have a sip…” My father leans over to offer me the bitter poop colored liquid.
“No!” I pull away my shoulder and turn my back on him shamelessly displaying my displeasure.
“I want some daddy!” Leila’s voice rose from the backseat as she reached towards him, lapping her tongue like a desperate puppy.
I’ll smash his empty cup. Rip apart the cup holder to a million pieces. Maybe I can destroy his desire for the cup over the care for each of us.
I gag at the smell of fresh ground coffee beans. They cause my mother’s eyes to water outside the shop when He’s inside. I’ll never drink that blasted drink drug that’s driving my father away from us. I’ll never risk the chance to be addicted to the evil coffee beans. Coffee beans stink.
Dunkin’ Donuts coffee is bad. Starbucks is worst…
What’s ironic is that I had to get over my fallible point of view abruptly as I was offered a job at my Muslim friend’s uncle’s Dunkin’ Donuts to save money for my summer abroad as a student ambassador. I justified my accepting the offer as the act of desperation it was having no other options at the moment. I vowed to never drink a drop of coffee in my time there. Though it puzzled each of my co-workers, I successfully went through the 3 month period of work drinking green tea and iced vanilla lattes which I considered different than the normal hot brew.
Slowly, I began to see coffee for what it was: an energy-giving food item that could be manipulated into different forms for the pleasure of the consumer. My every-day customers weren’t home wreckers, they had formed a habit they enjoyed and could more or less afford. Coffee wasn’t for me, but it no longer immediately incriminated the character of its drinkers. On the contrary, as my anger towards the “offence” of coffee dissolved, the roots of hate and bitterness for the offender, my father, grew stronger. The irrationally displaced anger relocated as I grew to love coffee drinkers and eventually enjoy it myself during my international ventures. (As a side note: Honduras has the best coffee in the world.)
I refuse to drink it on a regular basis because it is a costly habit and even the teas, smoothies, and juices I love are not a daily priority. I’m exercising self-control. Something I realized everyone makes a choice to tap into or neglect. My father chose neglect it. His deciding to have no self-control meant an unhappy wife and emotional strain for his children. It wasn’t the “evil coffee beans” that tore us apart, it was his own selfishness.