Ana Maria

Ana Maria

He speaks not to me, not to her, but is sound in his resolution. Her, being Angelica, the fierce Honduran American sitting beside me on the beach. Hours earlier, she had driven us to this strip of island on Florida's West Coast so we could stare at the blue. And Ana Maria Island is all blue. A seven-plus mile long expanse of land and sand strewn into the Gulf of Mexico to remind you, yes you, that you are living your best life. It is generous. 

Read More

"Take Your Broken Heart, Make it Into Art"

** Quote from Meryl Streep's 2016 Golden Globes Speech

2017 is a year for flexing my creative muscles and releasing into the world the things I am not sure of, the ones that feel too vulnerable to make and state. As such, I offer a litany of broken hearts sold as poetry. Of a nonbeliever perpetually in love. The poems (below) are arranged under different titles. The titles themselves, drawn from the work of another artist I greatly admire, Jim Chuchu, whose multimedia exhibit, The Bones Remember, led me to new questions on art and claiming identity. 



Feature Image: Taken at Buddy Brew Coffee, Tampa, Florida

My Demons Won Today

My Demons Won Today

On February 8th, 2016, MarShawn killed himself on the steps of the Ohio State Capitol. He was 23, a Black Lives Matter Organizer, and a promising leader who said heaven wasn't worth waiting for if it meant living in hell. In one of his last tweets, he posted, "If we don't don't have to live through hell just to get to heaven. I'ma stay right here."

Read More

Night

Night

Nights are the hardest. Drenched with anxiety over yet another night to be spent tossing and turning. A nightly routine predicated on the nagging fear of watching the clock yawn into the night, numbers falling off to be replaced by even more menacing ones. My heart beats faster. Unsure if I am more afraid of suddenly been caught awake in what are the sleeping hours or the fear that there is still much to be done.

Read More

Letters

Letters

Sometime in the last two years, I lost myself. Like the spin cycle on a washer, I couldn’t hold onto anything stable that defined me. In 2004, I had arrived in the U.S., a fresh faced teenager and now I was nearing 30 in the midst of America’s reckoning with its systemic racism and my own grapple with identity as a Black Kenyan immigrant. The trauma of living in a Black body in America was becoming too much. Meanwhile, I had never felt more Black, yet significantly less Kenyan and less African—an unsettling thing when these are the things meant to define you.

Read More