2. 1
Table of Contents
i. Author’s Statement
ii. Black
iii. Take Me to Church
iv. Big Brother, Big Mouth
v. La Artista
vi. Daddy Please
3. 2
Being a writer is not a hobby. It isn't a switch you can simply turn off. Ideas are
constantly flowing within the mind, and only a true writer would have the urgency to write them
down, no matter the place or time.
I demand attention in my writing. Growing up, I would often speak but was never heard
and I vowed to myself that my words would one day be ingrained into the memory of a reader.
Words have power and I refuse to let them go to waste if I have even the slightest chance of
changing someone's mind.
Within this portfolio, each individual piece has an identity of its own. Pushing boundaries
is always what I aspired to do, in form and subject matter. “Black” was a piece where I detailed
my journey to loving myself in a world that teaches me not to. In “Take Me To Church,” I urged
myself to write a suspenseful and controversial story of a Catholic priest who blatantly chooses
to hide a small boy in a church in spite of the stereotypical connotations of his career. “Big
Brother, Big Mouth” is my first poem about race in America. Today, race is a sensitive topic,
because many people refuse to see color and understand that there is actually a problem. “La
Artista” is a short story that took me three months to perfect so I could fully develop characters.
Lastly, Daddy Please is one of the most important works I've written, considering the fact that it
took me years to be able to finish something about my dad.
This piece about self reflection was published in the 2015 Girls Write Now yearly anthology,Voice to Voice.
4. 3
Black
"Black is just a color," I've heard people say.
Technically, they're wrong. Black is the presence of all colors. But black is deeper than
"just a color".
Black is my roots, the vines of my family tree twisting their way across the Atlantic
Ocean on a straight path to the motherland. Black is my complexion, the skin tone stretching
over the canvas of my body, encasing every crevice on the surface. Black is beautiful, and black
is what makes me, me.
But as a child, black was a curse.
Black meant I wasn't as pretty as the other girls in my class. Black meant chemically
damaging my hair since the age of five just to get that pin straight perfection of the girls with an
ivory complexion. Black was the crayon I never used in my 64-pack crayon box because my
friends always said to me how dark and ugly it was.
And to my current disappointment, I thought black meant failure.
My whole life, due to my skin tone, I felt like I wasn't important enough to speak so that
people would listen to me. I felt as if my color was an obstacle I could never overcome.
I went through a period of self-hatred, beating myself up, trying to fix myself even
though I was nowhere near broken. I would straighten my hair constantly, burning it to the root,
just to be "pretty enough". I would cry endlessly when girls of all colors used to berate me
because I wasn't light enough or I was "too African to actually be considered black".
It took me a while of self inflicted mental torture to realize that being black was not
hindering me, but actually propelling me.
When I visited Nigeria with my mother and my brother, I remember us driving past a
billboard that read "black is not a color, but is actually an attitude."
That was the day I realized, why should I hate myself for something I have no control
over? Why should I see what I am as a curse instead of a blessing?
After I finally came to terms with myself, I looked around and realized that my story was
a sad one told twice over. There are many other girls my skin color that went and are still going
through this disheartening journey.
5. 4
But my mission now is to release all the black girls from the shackles society has
weighed down on them, and bring them to finally see how beautiful they are.
Black is beautiful, and black is me.
6. 5
This piece was a product of attempting to write outside of my usual genre.
Take Me To Church
"In the name of the Father, and of the son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen."
The congregation bowed their heads in the pews as Father Douglas Monroe led the
service. As usual, the Catholic Church gave off a cold, unfriendly aura that swept its way over
the parishioners and seeped into their half darkened hearts.
The mass ended and the crowd flocked out one by one, some stopping for small talk on
the way to the door.
The church hands walked around the altar that reeked of incense, putting out the candles
one by one, but Father Monroe stopped them.
"It's alright, I've got it from here," he reassured them, sending them his familiar friendly
smile, his crow’s feet crinkling as his mouth widened.
Barbara, one of the younger altar servers, stopped in her tracks. "Are you sure you don't
need more help?"
He shook his head and thanked her before sending everyone else on their way home.
Once he was sure the church was completely vacant, he walked around the perimeter of
the building, making sure all the doors were locked before removing his robe.
Dropping his robe into one of the pews near the altar, he rolled his neck to relieve tension
and pushed the heavy altar table aside to reveal a small wooden trap door.
Cautiously, he lifted the wooden door and peered into the dark before descending down
the narrow set of steps. At the base of the staircase, he pulled the drawstring on a single light
bulb that barely lit the room and looked around.
7. 6
"Oh, Nicholas?" He sing-songed into the darkness with a smile while looking around the
room. "You haven't greeted me like you were supposed to."
All of a sudden, a flash passed by him, and the small boy started to run up the stairs.
Grabbing him by the leg, Douglas yanked him back down the steps and pushed him back
into the small room behind him.
Nicholas screamed and struggled in protest, but the father paid no mind to him before
pushing him into the wall behind him like a ragdoll.
"What did I tell you about trying to escape?" Douglas cooed lovingly as he unbuckled
the belt on his dress pants.
"I'll be punished if I ever try to leave!" He cried, tears streaming down his face as he
cowered in the door. "No!"
Nick's cries were instantly silenced with a spank on his backside. Father Monroe sighed,
before pulling down his briefs.
"Please," the little boy whispered, his voice cracking.
"It won't hurt as much this time, Little Nicky," the priest murmured before thrusting
himself into him. “I promise you.”
Screams of both pleasure and agony echoed through the cellar walls.
This poem was featured in the 2016 Girls Write Now anthology, (R)evolution, and also featured
in Newsweek. This poem is also important to me because I used to be tentative when speaking on
issues regarding my race and identity, but I’m now comfortable speaking on it through writing.
8. 7
Big Brother, Big Mouth
I always wished my voice were louder when I was a young child.
Oh dear god, yes, I had a big mouth
but what is the use if it moved without purpose?
I wish I were less naïve
when I thought just being myself was enough.
As if there aren’t people
who want to see me suffer.
As if there aren’t people
who want my brother shot in the street, dead.
I wish I were as carefree as I was when I was a child,
unaware of the trouble life had ahead of me.
Oh dear god, I wish.
August 9th, 2014.
I didn’t see Michael Brown’s name plastered all over CNN.
I saw “MY BROTHER,” because that’s who it could’ve been.
Oh dear god, I pray every night to keep him safe.
I say, “Thank God my brother isn’t six feet, or he’d be six feet under.”
This piece was inspired by a visit to an art museum in downtown Brooklyn.
La Artista
9. 8
On December 14th 2014, Antonio Sanderas' art gallery opened for the first time in
downtown Brooklyn, and I almost choked on my champagne when I saw myself all over the
walls.
Paintings of my face were scattered about in a disarray of colors and the critics milled
around while drinking white wine, trying to guess who this muse could possibly be. "Beautiful,
she is breathtaking!" They complimented while pushing past me to see the other sections.
The gallery was named "Arabella Bellissimo", and instantly flashbacks played through
my mind.
"Arabella, amore," Antonio used to beg when I wouldn't stand still or keep a pose.
"Please, hold for only one minute more!"
Of course, one minute would suddenly warp into hours on end with me posing in various
positions and outfits. Antonio was never a man to keep his word.
I didn't mind much, after all he was paying me in large sums to help pay off my student
loans. When we first met, it was from me responding to his newspaper ad for an art assisting job.
Being jobless and fresh out of college with a seemingly useless philosophy degree, I was
desperate for any job over minimum wage and this odd job paid $40 an hour. How could I pass
up something like that?
So I threw my dignity in the trash, poured my sanity down the drain, and headed to his
studio to see what life had waiting for me.
Now, as I am presently standing in front of a painting of me sprawled across a red sofa in
a t-shirt and a pair of cutoff shorts, I can only ask one question: how did he manage to make me
look so stellar and unfamiliar?
I recognized my eyes, lips, nose, and even the birthmark on my upper thigh. My dark,
often messy brown hair was accurate down to each individual strand, and I could almost count
the freckles on the bridge of my nose.
All of these paintings were incredibly vivid in detail, and up until this moment, I never
realized how much he must've been paying attention to me.
"Anna!" An excited voice startled me out of my reverie, and I turned around to see one of
my friends from college, Eliza.
10. 9
"Hey," I greeted, forcing a smile onto my face. I was hoping to not spot anyone I knew
here tonight, so it would be easier to leave. "How's everything?"
She grinned at me knowingly, as if she were the cat that ate the cream. "When were you
going to tell me that you were Antonio's muse—"
"Shut up!" I interrupted her harshly, not wanting anyone to hear. "Keep your voice
down!"
Rolling her eyes, Eliza patted me on my shoulder. "Oh please! These critics are too busy
trying to find some hidden meaning to his work, they won't even connect the dots."
I laughed, because she was completely right. The critics from earlier breezed by me
without so much as a second glance.
"But honestly, were you his muse the entire time you said you were his art assistant?"
She questioned, sipping on the champagne and her glass.
"Not really," I admitted, taking a look at another painting of myself. "It started off slowly.
He would ask me to pose here and there, nothing serious or solid."
"This is nothing serious to you? "She asked in disbelief, waving her arms around to
gesture to the whole gallery. "Wake up, Anna. This isn't normal. This doesn't happen to just
anyone."
As much as I didn't want to agree with Eliza, I couldn't lie to myself any longer. This
honestly was not normal.
Normal was not having someone who spent endless conversations over the last year
trying to convince me that he was no good and unfit to love anyone paint you on every canvas in
the room.
"I know you must've heard about muses in history, especially with Picasso's pink period
being the inspiration for today’s sleazy artists," he had said, while moving my arms in a pose as I
sat on a tall wooden stool. "But I can assure you that whatever you heard isn't my intention with
you."
It was an extremely warm day in May, and I was sweating through my white T-shirt and
ripped jean shorts.
11. 10
"I don't even care about what you're saying to me right now. I didn't know my art job
came with becoming a model to some no-name artist with a trust fund behind him," I barked
irritably before wrenching my sweaty arm from his grasp to fan myself.
I was already annoyed because it was hotter than the pits of Tartarus in the studio, and
instead of organizing his art supplies like I was supposed to do, he took one look at me and
ushered me over to the stool. Apparently, my "flushed doll-like facial features were something
he couldn't help but paint".
"Don't worry," he replied while ignoring my insult. "This is the last time."
Of course, judging by the size of this exhibit, that definitely was not the last time. It was
only the start.
The sound of a microphone being tapped caught my attention and I turned my body
towards the makeshift podium in the center of the room.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the woman presented. "May I introduce the reason why we are
all here: the brilliant Antonio Sanderas!"
When the thunderous applause ensued, it was only then that I realized how much
attention he had garnered in the past years. He was popular, and he didn't even have to die like
Picasso. Or cut off his own ear and try to poison himself like Van Gogh.
But as I saw him appear from the back door, all the noise that surrounded me suddenly
disappeared and he was all I could focus on.
It was Antonio in the flesh.
As expected of him, he wore an untucked white tee shirt and a pair of blue jeans, with a
glass of champagne in his hand. He hadn't shaved in a while, but he didn't look unkempt. His
demeanor was calm, unlike mine, and he was all smiles and waves.
He got to the podium and drummed his fingers on the wood, which were covered in pen
marks and scribbles. I almost sighed with relief at the familiar habit, because some things never
changed.
"It's him!" Eliza squealed quietly, as if I didn't just see him waltz in with everybody else
in the room.
12. 11
I shrugged and sloshed the wine around in my glass, trying not to look at the podium for
too long. It was like reopening old wounds and dousing them with lemon and salt. Seeing the
smile that infiltrated my dreams from time to time was scary. It hurt to be here, and with him
smiling in a room with my portrait on almost every single wall.
Turning towards the exit, I rushed forward as quickly as I could in my sky high heels but
as if the universe was against me, my bracelet got caught in the sequins of a woman's dress, and
her elbow accidentally knocked into my wine glass, which shattered against the wood floor.
The noise wasn't loud enough to attract much attention, but I knew Antonio. He could
hear a pin drop from across the room.
It took approximately three seconds for him to meet my gaze. The first second he spent
scanning the crowd, trying to pinpoint where the glass broke. The second second, he zeroed in on
my section of the room. And the third was when his eyes met mine.
His grey eyes widened, and his head jerked back as if I had slapped him in the face with
just a look. He clearly wasn't expecting me here, after all we went through.
"A-Anna?" He stammered into the mic, the sound of my name echoing through the space.
Oh no. The crowd started to murmur and follow his stare to me, and I could feel my
invisibility cloak slowly fading away. I tried so hard during film school to be the face behind the
camera, and my efforts were dwindling.
"Wait… that is her!" Someone commented from the audience. "She's the girl in all the
paintings!"
Shaking my head, I turned and sped as fast as I could in heels towards the door. I couldn't
be here. I shouldn't be here.
When the chilling outside air breezed over my bare arms and legs, I realized I had
forgotten my jacket in coat check. But I was too stubborn to go back, and if I would freeze, so be
it.
I waved my hands frantically for a cab, and three passed by me before one finally slowed
to a stop.
Sighing with relief, I made a move to open the door but a hand quickly slammed it back
shut.
13. 12
I didn't have to turn around to know who it was. "Antonio."
I wanted to ignore him; just push him to the back of my thoughts like I'd been doing for
the past two years. Just pretend he wasn't the reason I was doing what I'd always wanted in film
school because of the glowing recommendations he wrote after I left. Even after how we left
things: loose, messy, and broken.
"Arabella—"
I cut him off, not wanting to hear that godforsaken pet name.
"Don't you dare utter that name to me," I spat venomously, snatching my hand away from
his and finally gaining the courage to look into his eyes.
Again, he flinched, and I wanted to slap him. All of my bottled-up emotions were
pushing me over the edge.
"Why are you like this?" He asked, his eyes scanning my frame as if my body was going
to be the answer to his question.
"'Why am I like this?'" I repeated mockingly, almost tempted to pair it with a bitter laugh.
"Being told I can't get anywhere without you made me like this."
"You're the one who left me," he told me, anger now creeping into his voice.
"No, you left me!" I shot back, moving away from him. "As soon as I was finally happy
and trying to make something of myself, you got mad and ran off like a scared little child
because I was finally doing something for me!"
"I got you into film school!" He argued, taking steps closer to me as he spoke. "Without
me, your career would be nothing!"
"You don't think I know that?!" I stepped away from him, unable to contain myself from
lashing out. "I wanted to do what I love, just like you did."
The day we parted ways left an acrid aftertaste on my tongue.
I had been so excited when I got home and saw my acceptance letter to film school in the
mail. Immediately, I rushed back to Antonio’s studio to tell him the good news.
"You got in?" He said, not as enthusiastically as I originally hoped.
14. 13
"Yeah, I can't believe it," I gushed, rereading the acceptance letter as it listed the
components of my short film that got me in.
"But what about…this?" He asked after a moment of silence. "Where does that leave us?”
"You honestly didn't expect me to do this forever, did you?" I asked before chuckling a
little.
When he didn't join in, I realized he was completely serious. "Antonio, film school is so
important to me. I can't forfeit my life passion to fulfill yours."
He sighed and walked over to me, before leaning his forehead on mine, which was an
action of affection I wasn't used to receiving from him. "Arabella, I can give you all the money
you could ever make in film school," he tried to bargain. "Why would you have to do this?"
"I wouldn't expect you of all people to understand why am doing this," I said, detaching
myself from him and rolling my eyes.
"'You of all people'?" He parroted, his eyebrow raising. "What the hell does that mean?"
"You are able to live your life without worrying about money because of your trust fund
from your rich parents," I told him, gesturing to his studio, which was located in a penthouse on
the Upper East Side. "Some people have to work for what they have."
A wintery, hostile laugh escaped his throat. "Anna, if you think for a second that you got
anywhere in the art world without me, you're more naïve than when I first met you."
I lifted my hand to slap him, just so he would understand how hurt I was. But I couldn't
will my hand to move because he was right. When we first met, I was fresh out of college and
confused with a degree that would get me nowhere but a dead-end job. But that didn't mean it
didn't hurt to hear it out loud.
"Anna," he sighed. "Let's just talk about this…"
"Goodbye, Antonio," I whispered, snatching my letter off the desk next to us. "Find
another muse to fill the void in your life."
And after that day, I didn't see him again until an invitation to the opening of his art
gallery appeared in my mailbox.
15. 14
"Antonio," I said, feeling like the same amateur college student I was before as I wrapped
my arms around myself to shield myself from the chilly night and him. "Why am I here? Why is
my face all over the walls of your exhibit? To guilt trip me?"
I was suddenly exhausted, tired of this back and forth nonsense. We weren't twenty-one-
year-olds anymore, and it was time to grow up.
He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "It's cold out here, can't we go back inside—"
"No," I cut him off, shifting away from his hand that kept trying to grab my wrist. "You
are going to give me an explanation right now, and then I will get in a cab and leave all this
behind."
"Okay," he agreed, nodding his head. "I painted all of these when I was infatuated with
you."
"Infatuated?" I repeated, my eyes wide with surprise. I wasn't expecting something like
that. There was a word to describe the nature of our relationship, and that would not be a word I
would use.
"Yes, when you first walked into my studio asking about a job, I knew you were the one,"
he explained, pacing back and forth on the pavement, like he used to do when he was figuring
something out. "You were my muse.
"And when you wanted to leave, I lost it because you were the most infallible person to
ever step into my life, even if I was just paying you to do it. You couldn't just leave me, so I
painted you with all the pictures I swore I would never look at again."
I shook my head. A minute ago, I wanted an explanation, but I didn't want to hear it
anymore. It was all too much. "Please, I—"
"Let me finish," he said softly, grabbing my hand to silence my words. It worked.
"I sketched and painted your face all day and night until my hands cramped and my
fingernails bled, all because I thought it would help me get over you. God, if only you knew how
bad my heart was pounding when I put your invitation in the mail. I didn't even expect you to
show up after how we left things, but I did this whole exhibit to say I'm sorry."
Tears threatened to fall from my eyes and I wrapped my arms around him in a hug as he
sobbed into my shoulder while apologizing repeatedly.
16. 15
"Why did you have to leave for Paris?" I expressed the question I’d had sitting in my
mind for three years. "I came back to the studio the next day and you were gone."
"I was scared," he admitted, his teary eyes looking into mine. "I didn't want to be the one
who was left, so I left you first. I was so in love with you and running seemed like the best
option."
We stood in silence, with the noise of the city blurring itself out. Our silence spoke for
itself, and three years worth of emotion that I kept bottled up was now set free.
"You know, I did love you once," I murmured, my fingers reaching up to stroke his hair.
"And if circumstances were different, I'm sure I would love you now."
"That's all that matters," he replied, with his head still buried in my shoulder. "That's all
that matters."
Daddy Please
daddy, please come home. home is where the heart is, so why aren't you here?
why were you snatched away from my mother so soon, leaving her to cry herself to sleep at
night, when she thinks I'm asleep and can't hear her sobs?
sometimes she thinks I don't care, but I keep my sobs so silent, I think it's a secret between me
and God.
daddy, please come back. who's going to walk me down the aisle when I find a boy who won't
break my heart into millions of pieces and won't steal things from me that aren't his to take?
17. 16
daddy, I grew up too fast to keep my mother young. if you were here, you'd tell me I should've
known better. that I'm such a smart girl.
but you're not. and now I'm lost and confused and trying to be the adult that I'm not supposed to
be just yet.
I just want to be daddy's little girl again. for you to give me a hug, so I can touch the top of your
bald head, and smell your aftershave, and hear comforting words that only a father can give his
daughter.
But I can't raise the dead, and I never believed you were truly gone until this very moment as I'm
writing this ode to you.
God, I miss our walks around the park in the morning, I miss the stories you used to tell, I miss
the way you tried to make me happy (like on your 51st birthday when you wore that silly
"birthday boy" hat that I bought for you or when you bought me that longboard that you knew I
was never really going to ride, but you only did it to make me happy).
I wish I wasn't so ungrateful back then, so I didn't take you for granted.
daddy, please. please, please, please. I hope you're finding peace. kachifonu, may we meet again.
