MCKENNA JACKSON is a writer and financial analyst based in Austin, TX. Her work can also be found in Wilderness House Review, and she is currently working on a novel.
Coffee as sin.
It isn’t allowed, and we don’t know why. The rules work in mysterious ways. Sometimes we must pit logic against obedience just to see where everyone falls.
For twenty-two years, I stood with the believers. It’s difficult to pinpoint the turning point. I don’t remember ordering my first coffee, but I picture myself afraid. I picture myself emboldened.
Coffee as defeat.
I stand in line for a caramel macchiato at an uninspiring café chain. I’m starting my last year at a religious university that prohibits coffee, so I stay attentive to my surroundings. I’ve now weathered three crises in the space of six months: faith, identity, then sexuality. An unfortunate thought dwells in my mind: I didn’t want to be here.
I didn’t want to dismantle my worldview. I didn’t want to pick apart my existence the same way I might sort through childhood memorabilia, holding each piece to the light to determine what I could keep. I didn’t want to see the harm, the faults, or the cracks. But once I looked, I couldn’t turn away. Coffee was my meager consolation prize.
Coffee as rebellion.
Take a sip every time something said over the pulpit makes you squirm. Every time the men who lead the church say that women are equal, despite how it looks. Every time you think of the words benevolent sexism. Every time you hear the phrase struggled with same-sex attraction.
Take a sip as you disappoint the beautiful people who raised you. As you think of the love that lives in this institution. As you mourn the joy of community. As you watch other people find peace and hope at church. Swallow your jealousy.
Take a sip because the hymns still make you cry. Because your anger outlived your faith. Because you fell for the oldest sin in the history of humanity: tasting the forbidden.
Take enough sips, and you’ll begin to enjoy coffee. You’ll come to crave it.
Coffee as indulgence.
The creamy lightness of a latte. The caffeine buzz on a tired day. The charges to my checking account. A practice of self-care. A practice of not caring.
Coffee as mental gymnastics.
I can exist in the church and drink coffee. I can be queer in this religion because I am married to a man. If I reinterpret the rules, I am not sinning. I feel no guilt. (That doesn't make me right.) I justify my actions. (That doesn’t make me wrong.)
Coffee as identity.
Google search, 2022, private window: Bisexual coffee orders. Result: Lavender Oat Milk Latte.
The coffee shop in my parents’ town has a rainbow flag in the window. I’m certain that the barista sees my soul when she takes my order. I sense her cataloging the evidence: tote bag, cuffed jeans, rainbow pin, wedding ring. I’m married to a man, which means I’m not queer enough, or too queer, depending on who you ask.
Seven dollars and fourteen cents, give or take. They call my name; I hold my entire identity in a plastic cup.
Coffee as anxiety.
I drink a latte before therapy. My leg shakes beneath the desk. The video call begins. Lately I’ve been afraid that I am wrong, and they are right, and I’ll spend the afterlife separated from my family. I do not expect my therapist to have an answer for this.
Sometimes I wish to exit my body. Sometimes I wish to exit my life. I’d walk off into the wings and hear that it was a nice first attempt but they’re still hashing out the character. Let’s try it again with less self-loathing. No, that’s still not it. The protagonist needs to be more defined, more compelling, more likable. Let’s do another take. Maybe two more. She’s still uncertain of herself. Maybe we’ll just scrap this project and start over.
Coffee as connection.
I move to a new city after graduating from college. It is a lonely relief to exist in a space that is vastly untouched by my prior religion. The barista on 4th street knows my name. She is the first person in my neighborhood to learn anything about me. I order an iced latte with maple and blackberry syrup. It is a small joy to hear my name spoken by a near-stranger. My sanity is built on small joys.
Coffee as productivity.
I am surprised and pleased to find myself here, in a career I didn’t know I would have. I grew up under a strange set of assumptions: working wasn’t emphasized for women the same way motherhood was. I still found my way to a corporate job. I savor the caffeinated mornings, walks to the café with my coworkers, and bursts of productivity. Coffee rings on my desk. Spreadsheets and emails. It is luxurious to feel so normal.
Coffee as shame.
Even today, in certain company, I feel a pang of guilt for drinking coffee. Humans are wired to adhere to groups. If you leave your tribe, you die. This is what the animal inside me screams.
Coffee as ethical dilemma.
My moral system is wiped clean, and I must handwrite every rule. It was easier to be a good person when the rubric was laid out for me. Does questioning one system ruin them all? Is it ethical to eat meat? To eat anything? Is my coffee consumption perpetuating sustainability and labor issues?
Does “Fair Trade” solve the problem or mask it? Is it ethical for me to have a child? To be alive? (In the end, we must press forward—I learned this from religion, too.)
Coffee as hobby.
I receive an espresso machine from my husband for my birthday. I am clumsy, spilling grounds on the floor. I do not know how fine to grind the beans, how much water to pour in, when to stop pulling the shot. I am a twenty-five-year-old child. I am filled with newness.
Coffee as itself.
Bitter. Sweet. An optical illusion, the swirl of cream on the surface. Good for me. Bad for me. Of the earth. Of the gods. Historic; a common thread through time. Catalyst. Inhibitor. Comfort. (There is no metaphor. It is only itself.)
Coffee as ritual.
I was raised on repetition. Three hours of church on Sundays, one hour before school every day. Wednesday nights meant youth group. The tip of a Sacrament cup—blessed water into my throat. Colorful dresses and kitten heels. The scent of the chapel: crayons and carpet. Still holy, all of it, in my memory. Leaving religion created a void, not of spirituality, but of repetition.
Enter: coffee. Every morning, most afternoons. Do we design rituals around the sacred, or does something become sacred through ritual? I swear the coffee gets holier each time I touch it. I swear I taste heaven in this bitter cup.
Volume 15.1, Winter 25
McKenna Jackson
