Brewed Awakening

After a long morning studying, I grabbed my books. It was time to head home.

I hadn’t even been paying attention to the weather. I knew it was cold, sure, but I wasn’t paying attention to anything except my dental assignment—my oral surgery assignment—because that professor had a way of turning air into pressure. I was exhausted, frustrated, and confused.

And I was angry.

Not the loud kind of angry. It was the kind of anger that weighed heavily on your chest, causing you to grind your teeth without even realizing it.

I had done everything I was supposed to do. Everything. I followed the instructions, I did the research, and I gave the right answers—and still, he challenged me again. It didn’t matter what I turned in. He always found something to critique, something to twist, something to “correct,” even when he was wrong.

So instead of blowing up, instead of getting dragged into another argument that would somehow become my fault, I went to the library and studied harder. Fine, I told myself. Next time you try me, I’ll be ready.

But after hours in that building, the library started to feel like a trap. It was getting crowded. The people I didn’t want to see were going to come in soon—the ones who liked to orbit you just to drain you.

So it was time to go.

I headed toward my favorite spot downtown near Chinatown, right by the railroad tracks.

It’s a little mom-and-pop coffee shop. Nothing flashy. Nothing “influencer-friendly. ” Just warm lights, worn chairs, and a smell that could hypnotize a monk. The prices are fair for broke college kids, which is basically a miracle in itself.

And the pastries?

Man.

Every time I walk past that place, it feels as if the donuts are whispering my name.

Cinnamon rolls. Glazed donuts. Maple cream sticks. And if you somehow survive the donut gauntlet, you get hit with the second wave: butter-flake dinner rolls, French loaf, and banana bread.

There’s no escape. They make cookies that feel like they were lab-engineered to heal your soul and take your money.

So before I took myself to the bus stop or the train back to my apartment, I stopped in.

This time I went to say hello.

That’s what I told myself, anyway.

The owners are always good to me. It’s one of the only places I can walk into and not feel watched, sized up, judged, or measured like I’m something that needs to be “managed.”

But the second I stepped inside, my stomach reminded me I hadn’t eaten like a human being all day.

I ordered cookies—three chocolate chip, three oatmeal raisin, and three sugar. That was the mood. Simple. Safe.

Mrs. B took my order.

I call her Mrs. B because I can’t pronounce her last name, and honestly she wears “Mrs. B” like a crown anyway. Eccentric doesn’t even cover it. She’s the type of person who’ll tell you your aura looks tired and then hand you something warm like she’s about to cast a blessing.

She leaned in like she was about to tell me a secret.

“You should try my new drink,” she said.

I blinked. “Mrs. B… what are you talking about?”

“I created something special,” she said, dead serious. “It keeps you warm and touches your soul. It’s magical. Just give it a shot.”

I laughed because… that’s what you do when someone says a drink will touch your soul.

“Mrs. B,” I said, “you know I’m fussy. And you know my least favorite drink is coffee.”

Her eyes widened like I had personally offended her ancestors.

“My dear son,” she said, “today is the day you become a coffee connoisseur.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Yes, sir.”

I sighed. “I barely drink tea in the summer. Coffee stains teeth. Tea stains teeth. And hot drinks in the summer feel like punishment.”

She waved her hand like she was swatting away excuses. “We are not talking about summer. We are in the dead of winter.”

That’s when I finally looked outside.

Snow was falling.

It wasn't a dramatic, blizzard-like snow, but rather a quiet, steady snow that made the world appear softer, even though I was still falling apart within.

I hadn’t even noticed.

That’s how stressed I’d been. That’s how deep dental school had gotten into my head.

Mrs. B tilted her head. “You look like you’re carrying something heavy.”

I didn’t plan on talking. But something about that place—the smell of sugar and bread, the warmth, the way nobody was trying to compete with me—made the truth spill out.

I told her about my professor.

How he kept coming at me. How I could be correct and still somehow be wrong. He always had something slick to say, something disrespectful, or some new assignment he'd "suddenly remembered."

I told her how he’d referred me to the College Dental Boards four or five times already—every time I embarrassed him by being right in the middle of his presentation.

I told her I knew he was trying to kick me out.

Because his son was in my class.

And I was getting better grades than his son.

Mrs. B didn’t interrupt. She didn’t do that fake “mm-hmm” thing people do when they’re not really listening. She looked at me like she was filing every word away.

I said, “I thought when I got this scholarship, it was going to be about performance. Grades. Skill. I didn’t realize some professors grade you based on what you look like, what you wear, your tattoos… who your parents are… how much money you have.”

The words tasted bitter coming out of my mouth, but they were real.

“I’m doing the work,” I said. “I’m not using influence. I’m not connected. I’m just… doing the work. And no matter how much work I do, he has a problem with me.”

Mrs. B’s jaw tightened just slightly.

I lowered my voice. “I think I figured it out. I’m a minority in his program, and I’m still holding a 4.5 GPA. He can’t crack me. He’s tried. He’s sent students to test me. It doesn’t work.”

I looked down at my hands. “So I pierced both my ears.”

Mrs. B blinked. “You what?”

“I did it on purpose,” I said. “I got tired of the racist comments. The earrings are a distraction. Now they can be upset about something else besides my skin.”

Mrs. B stared at me for a second… then nodded slowly.

“That is… strategic,” she said.

“It worked,” I said. “Now people discuss my earrings as if they were part of a crime scene.” The professor demanded I write a report on bylaws—earring bylaws. So I spent two hours writing it. And the bylaws say I’m allowed. Strict shape and size rules. I followed them.”

I exhaled, half-laughing, half-not. “If he has a problem, he can talk to the Dean.”

Mrs. B reached under the counter.

“I made this for you,” she said.

She set a cup in front of me.

Steam curled up like it had somewhere to be.

The smell hit first: coffee, yes—but softened. Wrapped in cinnamon. Sweetened with chocolate. Something warm and nostalgic in it, like it belonged to a memory you didn’t know you still had.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Spanish coffee,” she said. “But my version.”

I hesitated.

Then I took a sip.

And the world snapped backward.

Not gently. Not politely.

One sip and I was fourteen again.

Winter.

Snow on the ground.

The air was cold but not deadly, maybe forty degrees—until the wind gusts made it feel like twelve.

I was walking home from school with friends. We were laughing, talking about homework, and trying to be normal kids even though nothing around us was normal.

And then they pulled up.

Older kids. Ski masks. Semi-automatic weapons. Broad daylight like they didn’t care who saw.

Before I could even understand what was happening, a guy hit me on the side of the head with the back of a gun. My head started bleeding.

I wanted to fight back.

Then a .45 pressed to my temple.

Another guy forced a 9mm into my mouth and said if I blinked, I was gone.

Fourteen of us. Lined up. Beaten one by one. Guns out like they were props.

And the part that still burns when I think about it—

Two police cars pulled up to the intersection.

They saw everything.

Thirty guys in ski masks were armed with weapons.

And they did a U-turn and left us.

Like we were nothing.

That’s when I thought, I’m going to die.

Some of my friends started fighting back. One of my friends, built like a football player and strong as a tank, refused to succumb to the robbery. He wrestled, used a guy like a shield, and caused chaos everywhere.

In the midst of the chaos, girls emerged from a store, diverting the attention of two gunmen who were watching me. They started pretending they didn’t have weapons, like girls can’t see reality with their own eyes.

While everyone else was distracted, I took a moment to pray.

Not fancy.

Not poetic.

Just real.

God, if you get me out of this, I’ll change my ways.

Then a skinny guy grabbed me anyway.

“No, no, no,” he said. “You ain’t going nowhere.”

He stripped me down. Took my clothes, shoes, jewelry, backpack—everything. He left me wearing only boxers and a tank top in the frigid weather.

I was bleeding. Swollen. Lip busted. Humiliated.

And then… I saw my chance.

They weren’t watching me anymore.

So I ran.

I took three steps and leaped over a car.

A car.

I don’t know where that strength came from. Pure survival. Pure fear. Something ancient in my blood.

I ran half-naked through the cold until I saw the first office I could find.

I burst inside screaming for help.

That office belonged to Dr. James.

He looked at me like I was crazy.

“Boy,” he said, “what are you wearing?”

“I was robbed,” I told him. “Held at gunpoint. They’re outside. They’re trying to kill people.”

He went to the window. Looked. His face changed.

Then he said, “You’re safe in here.”

But then he added, like he was making a deal with the universe:

“If you’re going to hide in my office, you’re going to work.”

“Work?” I said, not understanding.

“You’ll owe me for clothes,” he said. “You’ll owe me for shoes. And I’m going to have to deal with these people. So yes. You’ll work.”

And then the gangsters came to the door asking for me.

Dr. James stepped out and met them.

“Why are you here?” he asked them. “Why are you looking for my employee?”

Employee.

He called me his employee like he’d already claimed me away from the streets.

He told them he’d called the cops.

Then he showed them a shotgun.

“I got guns too,” he said. “And I have the right to defend my building.”

They left.

Sirens came later. Some got arrested. Some ran.

And I stood there in the back of that office realizing something I didn’t know I needed:

Someone was willing to stand between me and the world.

Dr. James came back to the break room where I was hiding.

“Now,” he said, “are you ready to work for me?”

I wiped my face. I stopped eating the sugar cookie he handed me.

And with tears in my eyes, I said, “Yes, sir. Whatever you need.”

Because I’d been watching my friends disappear.

Jail. Death. More death.

I was chasing street credit like it was worth something, but it was really just a receipt for a funeral.

And Dr. James gave me a chance.

He handed me tools, metal wires, and a paper with pictures.

“If you can make these wires match these shapes,” he said, “I’ll pay you.”

He didn’t say how much.

But it didn’t matter.

I started bending the wires. The first one was terrible. Then better. Then cleaner.

And the more I learned, the more I wanted to learn.

That office became my safe haven. My home away from home.

Dentistry didn’t just give me a skill.

It saved me.

And now—years later—one sip of Mrs. B’s drink dragged all of that back into my chest like a heartbeat.

I blinked hard.

Mrs. B was watching me, quiet.

I stared at the cup like it had spoken to me.

“This,” I said slowly, “tastes like… the first day I changed my life.”

She nodded like she already knew.

And right there, with snow tapping the window and warmth in my hands, I felt something I hadn’t felt in weeks.

Not peace.

But purpose.

I looked at Mrs. B and said, “I’m going to finish this program.”

She smiled. “I know.”

“I’m going to finish it,” I repeated, because I needed to hear it out loud. “Because if I made it through that… if I survived being a kid in my underwear running for my life in winter…”

My throat tightened.

“…then nothing these professors do is going to send me back.”

Mrs. B reached over and tapped the lid of the cup.

“Drink,” she said. “Get warm. Then go home. Tomorrow you fight again. But tonight you remember who you are.”

I held that cup with both hands like it was a promise.

Outside, the snow kept falling—quiet, steady, unstoppable.

And for the first time in a long time, I watched it without feeling like I was losing.

I watched it like I was still here.

Like I had earned the right to be.