revised introduction letter

hello, my name is Danielle, i want to become an art teacher and i enjoyed enw 210 very much. in this site, you will see the works that i have produced with the help of my classmates and professor’s advise. my goal for this class was to have at least one work that i was really proud of, and even though i hoped for more i did enjoy writing all of them. i do know though that this class had produced many future writers, or more so introduced me to them and i really hope we all continue to do what we have been taught.

self assessment

i feel that the further we got into the semester the more of myself that i relieved.

the fictional piece had no connection to me or anybody that I know and care for so it was easy to write. I feel that a lot of people thought this in the class including the teacher. which is why it was the first one to go. though I say it’s easy it took me some time to figure out an idea. at first, I wanted to do a type of peter pan theme or alice in wonderland one wrong.

but I went with the therapist route in which the therapist isn’t really there. in fact, allows the patient to go on and on. in mine the therapist allows the character to write a book to vent out. this becomes her diary in a way or more so an autobiography that allows her to see that its not her fault. i feel that it could have been better but i had fun in making it

the poetry piece was something I had a lot of fun with and i really expressed the way i was feeling at the moment. we always have insecurities, well i always do. so to write something short but expressive like poems was something that i needed. i feel that with things that need me to write more then a few lines always makes me over exaggerate my responses in which the true meaning is gone. i feel that both poems expressed something that not only i can relate to but others in the classroom. i also realized how versatile my language in describing, its either very literal or it can take some time to get the idea.

for my two poems, i think the second one was the most difficult. the first one was, or more is, an idea that i have had to boil in my brain for many many years. while the topic of the second topic is more of something that i have been dealing with more recently. so my wording didn’t come out as fluid as my flower poem. but i did enjoy writing and i hope that the professor continues on showing various artist to allow people to see that frost ain’t the only poet in the world.

the memoir was the most difficult because i had to dissect everything that i had in my brain to the point i had a way too much to write about that it took a while for one clear topic. there are so many ideas and lessons one learns in life it was difficult to choose. i was stuck between ideas such as when i first started to question my faith, or what should i base my morals on. but i went with the topic i went with because of its something that I’ve been dealing with for a long time.

though now thinking back i feel that the topic of faith might have been an easier entry especially being that a reason why it seemed so difficult for my father to accept others was due to the faith he was brought up with. but i went against it being that we have never spoken about faith as a conversation just between us, our religious mothers were always the stars of that conversation. i learned that i should talk about this more with my father in not only car rides because writing it reminded me of how important that conversation was to me.

the monologue was fun to write but not to act, though it just shows how much I need to work on my confidence in a classroom ( or just don’t act at all). I remember that acting it out was just me with my face down and my cheeks flaming red. literally, my hands were cold against my face. but it was nice to write it out, it was also an appreciation for my mother is that in most of my works it seemed that she was just not there. but she is and is a very prominent part of my life. and is honestly doing exactly what my character had said to want to do.

i also found it cool that we were allowed to act both in class and online to see what setting we could add that we couldn’t in class. i feel that a lot of this class would have been great to have in a block for the freshman, specifically the one i had in my freshman year, being that playwriting was important to that class. i feel that this assignment showed me how i remained the same as that girl who not only entered class but just college in general and i want to work on that.

the pro folio was something fun to as the end of the semester project. Not only does it allow us to see what else cuny offers students but it was a nice toe in the water to the introduction on blogging. and it allowed showing a bit more of ourselves with decorating and such for the profile. i feel that the portfolio was a smart way to organize everything and to make sure that everyone had done there work in case blackboard decided to be funny.

i feel that this assignment was meant to give us students a view point and want to publish something that we are proud enough to not only show the teacher but too any other cuny student in the country. and i feel that was what the class was building up to be in the discussions and such, creating a mindset to connect with readers such as we did with the class mates.

Danielle Reyes

Professor Sidibe

NEW 210

3/10/2019

Warsan Shire is a poet and activist born in August 1, 1988, Kenya and raised in London since the age of one by her Somali parents. She is currently under “ flipped eye” and is aswell the poetry editor of Spook Magazine and Literary arts mashup. She has a Bachelor of Arts degree in Creative Writing., a digital album called Warsan Versus Melancholy, has had her work featured in music such as Beyonce’s lemonade album and Benedict Cumberbatch “help is coming” charity single. She has been writing since the age of eleven and winning awards since sixteen. Some of the many she has won is the Brunel University African Poetry Prize and Young Poet Laureate for London.  shire  is known for her  raw works in which give a voice to those who are usually kept silent such as immigrants , refugees and victims of sorts as well as discussing topics of love, past generations, cultural assumptions, birth, death, and much more . all her works poses an emotional depth which could reside in being  that she has said in the past that most of her characters are the voices of people she knows or her herself. Saying “I either know, or I am every person I have written about, for or as. But I do imagine them in their most intimate settings.” Her work is very intimate which can be seen in poems like the one we have read this week “ The House”

The house is a poem in which i interpreted as the story of someone with a traumatic history of sexual encounters and the lack of actual stable love in their life. Throughout the story i did not get the feeling of her blaming the men , or so i couldn’t fully understand the piece to understand the tone, who left or barged in but more aloof almost as if this were normal( making jokes and such for example the knock knock joke). We are introduced to the ideas of the narrator’s  inner rooms by the advice of her mother which can state in how the action is common. How she warns her daughter of the men with keys and the ones with hammers. The ones who were welcomed and those who force their way. In the second stanza we are introduced to a line in somalia“Nin soo joog laga waayo, soo jiifso aa laga helaa” which means A man who is missing, lying down. Then followed by the lines of “I said Stop, I said No and he did not listen.” this brings the idea of what rape does to the victim ,makes them lose a part of themselves , without giving the details of what had happened.  

The narrator mixes in her encounters with those who have entered her house and telling others about the intrusions. We don’t get much info if anyone does react in a way that could aid the narrator, the only reaction we truly get was those of the party who do not see the turmoil in the statement she had said of how she is where love comes to die.  Shire uses a lot of metaphors and similes in this work in which you don’t quite get where on the narratordan the room is placed but you know the feeling. The feeling of stuffing two fingers in a jar or a hand in a drawer. She writes in a way in which we imagine us become these inanimate objects that we use, abuse, and throw away. And i think that is the main story of the narrator that throughout her life she has been used, abused, and thrown away, at times the men did not enter for years or like jhonny forced his way through. These actions come and live with her in her home, they stay within her and leave traces of their footsteps on her floor.  And events like these stay with the victims and can cause a catalyst of insecurities, lack of trust, and detachment. That even if they seem fine going out to parties and such the event is “always chained up in the basement with their fears.”

Questions:

!) why do you think shire used a house specifically to describe herself, and not something more visually similar to a human body?

2)  in stanza V we are given the scene of the father on a dining room table stuffed with a red apple, what do you think the symbolism in that scene is?

https://youtu.be/dh1yMJb_FF4

Danielle Reyes

Professor Sidibe

Enw 210

418/19

                                           “flare gun”

I have  a mix feelings for cars, great for us bad for the earth. As a kid, the car was the best thing. Any vehicle was the best cause it meant out of the house and go somewhere new. My parents were always very protective of us (still are) so that meant not hanging out with any friends after school, or going to the bodega by yourself no matter how badly the house needs toilet paper. It’s   just the way how I was raised, it’s honestly a good thing I like my siblings cause god knows what would have happened to me if I didn’t like the people. One person I made a connection with is my father. He is an average sized man, BALD, eyes that when he grins the crow’s feet and laugh lines have nowhere to hide yet somehow he doesn’t look anything older than 40. A scruffy beard filled with grays and bald patches. And a Niño de jesùs necklace present he has  around his neck that has been on since the fourth grade that my little sister gave to him. This is a man that most would have wanted to have as their own father, a man that when spoken about there’s nothing but good things to say. I for one have as well fallen for this man’s charm, but in an unconditional love type of way not in a Sigmund Freud type of way. He is to me the way all men should be. He was also my driver for all my life whether my mother was in the car or someone else when we were in the car he always wanted to drive.

There’s never a silent moment in a car with my father. Whether it is him telling old stories of when he was younger in America, the Dominican Republic, of his siblings the car was just our talk time. He started this cycle when I was about five years old. Back then I would try to stay up as long as i could with my dad in car rides because he always ended up having to be in silence because the rest of my siblings had fallen asleep. He would get so happy to see me awake when he would turn around to check on us on red lights to make sure we weren’t breaking our necks sleeping. His first story that i could remember was while we were on a grocery run for the bodega he had around Yankee stadium. It was a  huge rusty smoke colored toyota van, with that scratchy television static colored rug you would see at a doctors office. The song that was playing was Beso a Beso by Tono Rosario “Chula, you know that you used to sing this song when you were two. At the top of your lungs, you’d be like BECHU a BECHUO ME AMORER DE TI . I think you knew more Spanish then you do now” which back then I would just laugh and then play a round of I spy with my younger sister. My dad, he kept recalling the times when we used to sing the songs or try to pronounce the words but it was honestly the sign of how unaware of our culture I was till the age of 13. And I don’t mean the historical facts, I mean the basic survival skills which is the language. I was singing Zacharias and Anthony Santos songs since I was three but half of the time I didn’t know what the fuck I was talking about. Not only was my father someone who I had a very close relationship with but also the figure of my culture for me as a child since my mother spent most of her time at work. His stories when i was around this age would always be of when he was my age. In how he used to sell bread with this local boy every Sunday, or how he would ride horses in San Francisco to get to the river and back in time to do some farm work. He created this picture of a land in which i felt free, a land where I would dream about sleeping in the land where “dreams come true”. As I ate up these car filling stories I put my father’s voice on a pedestal like no other, his podium made of steel backed by a lifetime’s worth of support and a coat of marble that dominates the eye.

I think it was around the age of  fifteen that I started to realize this attraction to both male and females( and like can you blame me have you seen Zendaya and Kim Taehyung like hello!)  We were passing by cemetery driving down the highway late on a winter night in my dad Toyota black minivan . so while laying my head on its creme gray chair  while la mega was on talking about how this celebrity had come out as gay. One of the announcers said their opinion on how he was against that way of living and I said: “that’s not right!”. It got incredibly quiet in the car, my dad lowered the thumping volume of the radio and exhaled. And when a Spanish man puts down la mega during the bachata remix hour it’s serious. “Daniela….there was once this old man who lived in the same building as me. Every night that I came back home drunk and ended up sleeping on the stairwell he would wake me up with a can of Sprite with a cup of coffee in the other. He was my neighbor so I knew him well. Until one night I saw a man coming out of his house and they kissed. When I tell you I was livid, that I had let a faggot into my home, into my life i went straight to my house and avoided him the best I could. Pero las cosas que queremos evitar más son las que aparecen primero. I was hungover again and again and each time he would still come no matter how much I spat and screamed at him. Until one day I asked him ‘why do you still treat me like this, I don’t like ya kind.’ and all he did was laugh and said ‘Mijo, si odiara a todos los que no me aceptaron, mi propio padre no tendría una casa para vivir en Puerto Rico … eres un buen niño Danny y todavía creo que lo eres.’ and he just walked away smiling. Honestly, he’s the reason why I’m okay with them, he showed me a different side and I respected him and enjoyed his company until he died. That’s why I don’t mind that you have friends that are gay i’ll respect them and treat them like any other with open arms.” Now when I tell you I was beaming in that backseat,  I was so happy that my father felt this way. That this man’s image just kept shining more and more as I grew up. That was until he said “ But if any of you turned out like that I wouldn’t know what to do, ill fucking… I wouldn’t know” we were officially parked in front of my house but it felt like we just crashed. It honestly felt like he knew, like he stated that sentence in a way that the sound could hit me in every direction like a caves echo. And I didn’t say anything we just sat there until my little sister said ‘can we leave now I need to go pee”

 it was the first time that I felt my dad might actually end up not loving me, and I just sat there watching. Because that’s what I was taught to do,  that me as a daughter, a women, should sit there and listen and not vocally oppose. And I kept that concern bottled up from not only my father but everyone. For about two years I kept this part of me inside me like I was smuggling a gun. And this worry of me not being accepted by my parents, my culture, really messed with my head as you would think. I blame it for me looking twenty-five when i’m only twenty with late nights up . I blame it for the loss of time and happiness throughout my senior year and freshman year of college. I blame “it” when its actually me. Understanding this “it”  was difficult because there was nothing not only in my household but in my family like this to ever happen. It’s not like movies or t.v shows that you just know or that people can tell. Or that miraculously one day you meet the right person who will “show you the way” whatever that means. This “it’, that weighed like a gun was something i saw kill the tie between me and my dad with just one twitch on the trigger. Yes I had friends who where out but not to their parents,and I would ask how they can do it and it was “I’m not close to my parents so it’s pretty easy.” And thats why its hard, to think that this man who carries you on his  shoulders, or hugs you just at the right time without you even saying anything. The person who introduced your favorite foods and taught you how to make them.

But it did happen, well not entirely. I didn’t come out to my dad or go out and started dating girls and boys left and right. But my finger cocked the trigger, it was in my mother’s car : a small blue honda with heated seats that helped against the cold winds that where moving the car. Me and my dad came a little earlier because the hospital she works at is towards the heights so the traffic is always a mess, or as my dad would say “  QUE NO SABEN MANEJAR ESTOS CARA CULO”. We were actually talking about my sister the one who wanted to leave to go pee in the other car, she was twelve at the time with a new phone and a new obsession. She was very secretive, which my parents hate so they did what all parents do take away the phone and try to read the messages. What they found they didn’t like. “ i knew that anabelle girl was bad new, ella tiene la cara de un diabla. You know what i found on her phone… she-she wrote a love letter and sent it to gabriela asking for advice if it was good enough to give to ana. Daniela she’s only twelve.” throughout the whole conversation he’s clenching his fist as if anabelle was some lord that came to a peasant house and took my sister by force to marry despite my dad saying no. like yeah she was a bitch, but she didn’t force my sister to like her in a romantic way. And you can see the scornful disappointment in his eyes, lip turned downward, eyebrows scrunched. And  he just kept going on and on on how he shouldn’t have sent her to an all girl school and that we should’ve took her to church more; on how they messed up. He just went on and on that i couldn’t hear anymore, i couldn’t stay quite this time. So i interrupted him ,“papi do you hear yourself right now, not only do you not know what she’s feeling but your criticizing her as if she’s doing drugs and stealing money. Your speaking of this girl, your daughter ! as if she had no relation to the same girl you loved before you saw the text. Do you know how that would make her feel! Do you know how that would make me feel, how its making me feel. To hear this coming out of your mouth with the voice you say you love us with since we were kids. Do you know the scenarios that makes me think of , us leaving the house not because it’s time for us to leave but because you kicked us out. You not wanting to see us nor speak. And you know what goes for you goes for mommy and vise versa. I want to know why. Why is this what causes to end he forever that you promised us.”  I would have said more but tears were building up and my father’s silence was uncharted waters. I looked at him and he no longer looked disappointed but sad , and we just sat there in silence as i tried to silently recollect myself as he sat there with his eyes towards the center of the wheel

“ that’s not what i mean chula, you know i wouldn’t do any of that or feel that type of way.’

“But you talk like you do papi or will , and it’s scary… to think about”

We didn’t continue the conversation because my mom came in the car. But those ten minutes in that car took a lot. That secrete gun became  a flare gun once i shot it. Upwards my father’s pedestal and illuminating his face , showing my concern and it reached him. At the time what i focused on the most was how he reacted, dissecting and preserving  his words again like i did as a child . But what i didn’t realize was that my words were the ones that changed him that day.

And i think it allowed me not only to better my relationship with my dad in being able to have conversation back and forth, but allow me to push forward in the ability to speak for myself. So as i go with my dad to manhattan on the weekends to visit my mama i smile with my hand intertwining with the running wind i think of the future conversations well have in the car and hopefully ill be the one driving.

Danielle Reyes

Professor Sidibe

Enw 210

5/6/2019

                        Ivory bones

[enters marisol, a 35 year old woman who has just came back from her seven am to eleven pm work shift at the theodore Roosevelt nursing home on Gun Hill with piles of fresh mail in her hands and a empty stomach. her apartment is a small one meant for two but is housing six. Her three daughters, Their father, his son and herself. The two men of the house are gone for their late shift jobs as drivers. The house is quite yet the lights are on in the kitchen, she sees a pot of white rice and eggs with an envelope with the words ‘mommy’ written on top and sighs with a smile and heads straight to the living room to pull the curtain to the girls room to give the each a goodnight kiss. As she heads back to the kitchen she places her stuff down and spots the first letter sender, con Edison, her  appetite magically disappears and she puts the pot in the fridge to take to work tomorrow]

Marisol: Alright let’s see what we got….”Marisol Cordero  we are informing you that due to review of your financial aid that your total balance now is…” ‘hey it’s con Edison your monthly bill is “ smile your on cricket and because you on cricket we are here to inform you-you owe” “ Hey Marisol, Happ-” no, no , no , no no no no, fuck * goes to the bathroom mirror cabinet  to pat down the blood and place a bandaid * ain’t that a bitch, you biting the hand that feeds you. I work for more than forty hours standing up all day by Thursday, yet all I have to show for it are these thin fingers. Chipped, scrawny….ashy. And they expect me to carry 200-pound people… I expect myself to carry that… Nah it’s alright, I work I pay the bills, the light, the rent, the school, the water, the food, the medicine, i work for that so  I don’t need anyone to come and think they need to save me from that. Or that they need bto take care of me even though all i got to show for it are these sunken eyes and bony fingers. I can pay for everything myself, aint no one gonna call me a housewife.

[ as she smiles to herself at the mirror her phone vibrates. She reaches over it reads ‘David Miller’, her employer. He is emailing her on a work report in which he has stated that her work this week is unsatisfactory to the companies liking. According to 2 of the 10 patients she watched this week since last Thursday. She breathes in and out recalling how there were  two patients who decided that they had the right to touch her because she looked like their favorite movie star and refused their advances but only able to repeat “not today sir” In bold were the letters“step it up” saying she needs to fulfill the needs of the patients if she wants to stay at what she’s doing. She wrote back “I’m very sorry sir”]

    Marisol. You are fine. Marisol, you are fine…for  these bony hands are powerful. They are not the same bony hands of your mother for unlike hers, yours are  the skeleton of this house, your house. The limbs and nerves that allow those inside of you grow and move. To move up from this, because this shit ain’t it. To work and work till your bones feel like their about to deteriorate inside your skin. Just to kiss up to some man…some men who feel that no sirs yes sirs are all that I should say. In that case im no better then my own  mother, walking up and down to please the men in the house dropping everything to smile and go “ what can i get for you sir”. To listen and obey to those who think of me as nothing but prey. But i do not work to please a man i work so my daughters do not feel they have to. I work so our son can see the strength of a woman. I will work and work and work until these fingers sharpen themselves  into weapons, to cut a deep enough a hole in which my girls, my family could crawl, no heavenly ascend through and make it to the other side of the fogged glass that separates our dream from reality. That white haze in which weekends are spent on a porch and a bill from con edison will be the least of our worries. these bony figures will not, and should not be passed onto my future generation. To these abusive hunters, I am the last elephant,  whose tusk where not taken away by man,I will not allow it, but transformed for the thriving for her family My bones will become the ivory to the piano keys that creates the sound of my legacy in which every generation after celebrates me.and whether that piano is 200 pounds or more i will push and push till it makes some noise.That is the pain that these hands and this heart goes through for a future of three . So Fuck David! Fuck those two old men! Fuck anyone who questions the  ability in these hands in making a living that not only supports me but my entire family. For these ivory bones know their way to gold. And I will use them to stomp a permanent path in which my daughters and theirs will know that the strength of a man’s voice is nothing compared the the force in her bones.

https://youtu.be/rnie2NXiIuI

Danielle Reyes

Professor Sidibe

enw 210

4/1/19

“The Flowers of the Unknown “

I was told by  my mother as a seed that

the gardeners were our salvation

Our planters for a better life

But oh, how that garden rose was wrong

These gardeners pick and choose

Who to save

Who to throw away

And those in the way of their own “righteous” space

Oh! My lovely Mimosa

Lovely and light

At a touch, she flinches away

How they’ve tainted your air with their hate in which you swallowed up and ate

How they’ve pushed and pulled at your roots continuously putting you on the move

Oh! My delicate Diphylleia

Tall and pristine

How the toxic acid rain spit out by others

Caused your beauty to deteriorate and your body to bend and break

For our beauty

Remarkable

Yet unknown to the gardeners of a garden rose

For they can not see that your  thorns and vines are the spikes of your crown

And your mixed matched petals are the opals of your collection

Rare

bright

And worn by few

For my flowers of the unknown

You do not need to be placed in a vase to know

That the light shined on a garden rose is also shined on you

“ Stay”

I, like many, have been told my road is nothing but

mold, dirt, and sand

That the green stacked soldiers are likely not to march through

So I’ve tried to go on the  road Of crystal gravel

I felt cold

Yet i stayed

I began to feel the gravel trying to leave imprints on my sole

In front,a continuous line of forced partakers in aching pain .Some still dusted in dirt with only tears washing it away

our heavy breathes begin to condensate and my left breast began to ache

Yet i still stayed

I tried and tried to build a  crystal home, but the warm rays of the sky were too weak

In fact

No light could reach

This  prism of possibilities were nothing more but  tints and shades of white and black

the most color in the room came from the black  blue half moons placed on my face

How could I stay?

In a place so cold

So i left

Where my dreams shine in hot pinks and taste of citrus fruit

Where my sole and the ground intertwine like the hands of perfect strangers do

Warm, enticing, inviting, and new

I’ll stay rooted in my warm dirt cocoon

manifesting it with colors and views unknown to you.

With purples

Blues

Every color in every hue

This is where i stay

THE DRAFT

Danielle Reyes

Professor Sidibe

NEW 210

3/4/19

  “  Parental view”

“So why don’t you read off the story I told you to write off Christina to start off the session.”        

Might as well.

The night is cold, wind sizzling my skin as its the only thing I can feel and the only sound I can hear as I run towards my house. The sidewalks are highlighted in blue in red and every window on the block is a tint of yellow with a pair of eyes looking through. But I don’t have time to look at the concerned and shocked faces of my neighbors. I don’t have time to ask what happened I just need to go. That was the only thought I had when I got off the bus and the only thought I had till I stop…. in front of my house where all the police and were stationed. The impact of the sound the sirens made toned out my frantic voice from reaching my own ears. “ Excuse me !” krystalKrystalKrystalKrystalKrystalKrystalKrystalKrystalKrystalKrystalKrystal

“let me through! Let me through! let me through!”  Krystal Krystal Krystal Krystal Krystal Krystal

‘‘LET ME THROUGH!’ KrystalKrystalKrystalkrystalKrystalKrystalKrystalKrystalKrystalKry-

“Janelly! Over here,” I turned to see my neighbour Cherli with a  man with a notepad as I made it through the sea of bystander ” Officer this is the mother of the child, Krystal is inside the house with the rest of the officers.” she puts a hand on my shoulder and looks me in the eye. I didn’t notice earlier hoe dishevel her hair was or how wet her eyes look “she’s okay now just go through the back and towards the kitchen” what had happened before? “Thanks, Cher”   

I don’t think my legs could take me the speed I wanted to go as I ran towards the back door leading to the kitchen with my box of bracelets and coins.

When I opened the door a dozen unfamiliar faces were going up and down my house and all turned to me. It had to be the highest body count my house had ever hosted yet it felt so cold. “Where is my daughter?’ I said as I strode in. one officer said “ in her room” and they all just carried on with their gloves and tubes. Usually, when I get home a walk up the stairs it meant seeing the kind face of my daughter fast asleep, it meant curling into a warm bed with my boyfriend. It was a consistent reward from working on the street for what most people would call pocket change . but now these stairs seem too long and the ventilation coming down is crisp. By the time I reached Krystals room my sweat had already become to feel like glacial droplets.

The door was wide open and as I looked inside there she was curled up into the arms of a stranger. She was okay…she was okay. I run towards the bed and reach for her  ‘Krystal mihja! you’re okay? I’m so sorry I’m so sorry I knew me and Brutus shouldn’t have left you alone with a babysitter…..where’s your babysitter?” I look up to the stranger comforting my daughter “ where is the babysitter?” from what I’ve seen in the past her eyes showed that she had some bad news, very bad news. She let go of Krystal and placed her into my arms, t felt as though she did that to comfort me more than her. “Ma’am my name is officer Ikram, we had received a call today from a neighbor who heard loud screams coming from your house. When we got to the house the suspect, Mason Garcia, was holding your daughter down with his pants unbuckled.”she sighed “we’ve tried talking to your daughter but she had only just stopped screaming moments ago, please come along with us to the station to see if we can get anything out of your daughter and mister Garcia” I couldn’t tell if the tear that dropped to my collarbone was mine or Krystals at this point as I shook my head.

At the station, I sat outside the room they took Krystal in. they said they needed to talk to her in private. The only thing keeping me calm is… well nothing, nothing keeping me calm: not Krystal’s blanket,  not the backpack we always have ready for her, not her stupid smiling curious George doll with a banana Krystal drew on his stomach. Everything in my hands is met to comfort my little girl. Not me.

“ WHERE IS HE?!” I turned and I see Brutus storming though “ Where is that fucking bastard?!”  his greased fist are squeezed so tight that you see the white seeping through. His nose widening as he took fuming breathes until he turned his face towards me, and exhaled. His hard eyes become soft as mine become wet.  Brutus and I met when Krystal was about two years old at the supermarket close to home. I honestly don’t know how but he caught me by surprise and slipped into the cracks very few people are in. I think its the way he treats Krystal, like his own, and the example he gives her as of how a man should treat everybody. We’ve been together for five years now, two living in the same rental home and I’ve never been more thankful for meeting him than right now.

“Its okay baby, it’s over,” he takes my face and wipes away my tears “ ya want me to get you to some hot chocolate and a pack of popcorn. Or see if they have that oolong tea thing you like?” I just shake my head and pull him down to the seat next to mine “tired, just tired” I rummage through the Dora  backpack for a packet of lays and hand it to him as I lay my head “just eat and wait with me.”

It is now 12:13 am, five different people have gone into the room.where Krystal is  One female, three males . two had tried to approach me but the not much conversation was passed, I was never good with people I didn’t know. So they just assured me that she was a top priority and is being treated with the utmost care in that room. All I could do was a nod and offer a small smile, but I didn’t  mean it. A room with a closed door is anything but safe to me right now, it’s just a sign that I have to wait longer to comfort her. ‘Mrs. flores I’m going to have to ask you to follow me.’ my head shot up to the woman at my side who I saw go in before, shes no longer wearing her coat. As Brutus and I stood up she placer her hand on my arm ‘Just Mrs.flores.” “but im-’ “sorry sir but the only way we can get answers more quickly is if everyone follows orders.”  her eyes lingered on him in a way I couldn’t put it. Her voice was calm but her eyes seemed to want to say more.“It’s okay, just home and rest you have work in three hours ” he hesitated and hummed and stood there as we walked away. “ where is he going?” “ just home.”.

The room was warm and earth-toned, like the color of natural clay found in the ground. Around us were photos and drawings of kids and by kids, each with a lady holding their hands. Detective Delilah Ikmar on the table plack. I’ve waited for 30 more minutes in a whole entirely different room with my own door and lock to keep me here. The officer came in through the entrance and made her way to the desk.

“ Ma’am how did you meet the gentleman who was outside with you.?”

“um… We met  when I was in high school and we’ve been together since.”

“Is he the father?”

“No… the father isnt with us anymore.”

“ does he know she isnt the father?’

“Yes.”

“ does he live with you”

“Yes”

“ how does he treat Krystal?”

“ like his own, they play all the time has really protective of her that’s why…that’s why he was so serious in suggesting  that I shouldn’t go sell today and stayed home instead of hiring ese Maldito-”

“ has he ever acted strange, in a way where you wouldn’t categorize as fatherly ?”

“No he’s always the first anything relating to her.”                                                                                                  

“Mrs. Flores through questioning and DNA results,  anything found in Krystal’s bedroom shows that the most Mr. Garcia did was try to wake your daughter up from a nightmare, but” she pulls out the folder as I hold my breath. “ there are multiple pieces of clothing in Krystal’s room with sperm residue. We’ve checked if she herself had any of the same DNA in her but there seemed no sign of anything. I’m going to have to ask you do you know who’s in your house?”

“Ma’am, can you answer the question?”

“Ma’am “ she touched my shoulder and I shook “I know this is all coming at you in one go and that you need to take it in but we speculate that its either one of your neighbors or the boyfriend who has been living with you  i know this could come as a surprise but this is actually a very common case.’ I know it is. ‘What was that Ma’am?”

“Nothing just.. In shock‘

’ Both Garcia and  Krystal kept mentioning something called el cuco, apparently, she was yelling it in her sleep, what is that?”

“ its a folktale people from my culture would tell kids to make sure they don’t stay out too late and go to sleep faster. But it’s not like a real thing. She didn’t describe him or anything?”

“Ma’am… I don’t know how to tell you but from we got there’s one main culprit and its the young man who was with you outside. With the multiple incidents and no sign of intrusion through any windows or door, the culprit had to have access to the house, so unless your landlord comes in for nightly visits…. Im sorry.”

At that moment all of the memories of Krystal and Brutus came flooding in and I didn’t believe it.

“Your wrong!”

“ we won’t know until we get a sample of his sperm but as of right now you have to understand why were suspecting him…. I-” a knock at the door stopped her in midsentence “ detective I need to talk to you about some new evidence on the Rodriguez case.”

“Not at the moment off-”I stand up

“it’s okay I need to go to the bathroom I’m feeling a little… sick as you could guess. I need time to organize everything up here.” I open the door and allow the officer to come through and close the door as calm as I could be. But as I make my way down the hall everything was enhanced, the clicking of my shoes, the ticks of the clocks, all up until I sprint towards the street to hail a cab.

‘Dont touch me!’ he knew

“Tio please!”  he knew

“Mommy! Ayuda!’ she knew

Flashbacks of growing up in my homeland. Flashbacks of me at night. Of always crying once I heard the click of the door shut. Always making sure that no one would come near us. Flashbacks of  him and her playing with her and calling him el cuco. El fucking cuco

“Why does el cuco come to play only when you’re asleep?”  i cant believe i let him in.

By the time I had reached the house the police had already arrived. Brutus had killed himself with a letter saying he’s sorry in our bedroom, he said he had closed the door in case Krystal had came with me. Yet when they took his body back to the forensic department they said the DNA wasnt a match.”

The end

“Wow christina interesting, and good use of your fear of closed doors. But did you finish everything you wanted to write?”

“ yeah i mean i was a little iffy with brutus but i think it turned out pretty well.”

“I feel that you rushed it a bit to much don’t you think? What do you think about that ”

“ i mean it’s basically a autobiography but through other people’s eyes…. Was it bad?”

“ well how about-” the alarm had started to ring as a signal of the end of the session” sorry christina how about we continue next week and edit your story if you need to. Explain every character as the way you want to .”

“ got it doc, see you next week”

“And krystal….. Don’t beat yourself up, its not your fault.”

“yeah , sure doc”

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