How Do I Write This Story?



I want to tell a story.


I want to give the protagonist a beginning, middle, and an end.


I want them to enjoy childhood, go to school, fall in love, work, and find a passion.


I want them to encounter a problem.


Endure it.


Overcome it.


Learn from it.


I want there to be supporting characters that challenge, love, and nurture my protagonist.


I want my readers to see the human in the protagonist’s flaws.


I want the story to have the resolution that stories have.


But what if my protagonist is black?


How do I tell that story?


We are being killed before I can finish my sentences.



Insert Here: Its hard to let go


I know you think you are special.

I know you were the first, the longest, the prettiest, or the last (for now). That’s why you are still here.

You are the one that told him about those shoes he wears all the time, he must still love you.

You were the one he did that thing to, and you are certain no other girl has experienced it.

He loves you he just hasn’t realized it.

You were the one that helped with his project one, two, three times. No other girl could have patience like that.

I get it girl, I do.

The other ones were for boredom, to occupy his time when you were busy. If he could he would spend all his time with you, right?

But he never did answer those….We need to talk


And while you were pondering what to say, he was telling the other you that he had to deal with some bullshit (aka you).

I get it girl, I do.

Why leave when you have invested so much time? I mean you have been for (insert number here) years.

You have spent (insert number here) on him.

Why would you leave? So the next girl could get all the work you put in? Hell no.


I get it girl, I do.

I get it girl, I do.

Yea girl, you too, I get it, I do.


I thought that just because we talked long hours, and our bodies could be synced for days. I thought I was the outlier too. But we all have been touched the same way, manipulated by the same words, bitten by the same snake.

When are we going to realize, that we are all the same.

We really should leave.

No I get it, girl, I do.

You saw him yesterday?

I will probably see him….


(Insert day here)





2016-03-16 17.00.39

Stare into a hole in the ground. It has changed into the shape of a rectangle. Look deep into the hole and step close to the edge to feel the sublime of falling in. A beautiful ivory colored casket with caramel accents is slowly but quickly lowered into the hole. The people surrounding you sob a silent screaming pain. Your vision blurs away as water fills your eyes. The strain of holding back tears is difficult as everyone else cries.

Friday November 12, 2010: two days after my birthday. I was still in the birthday spirit as I take a whole week to celebrate the occasion. It is a national holiday to my mother and me. I finished French class, a rather relaxed class from my previous ones. Earlier that day, my advisor summoned me to her classroom after my last class. Believing the meeting had no real urgency, I paced slowly upstairs. Pausing, to get water, I observed the sun land on my face and the bubbles in the water dance around the cup, skirting at the edges. I drank only half of the water in the cup, before throwing it away. I walked up the stairs and opened the door to see my advisor. After a few words she tells me to call my mother. My stomach turned into knots while my pulse began to quicken. The phone rang three times and my mother answered greeting me and asking how my day was. After small talk she says she has bad news. Pause. “Your Aunt Jennifer passed away.”

Utter silence and shock are my responses, then a pound of bricks hit me forcing out the breathless, choking sobs that engulfed me. I could think too clearly. I could hear my mother’s questions, my mumbled answers, the click of the receiver, and then the steps across the recently buffered floor my advisor took to give me a hug. Everything was crystal clear. I walked out in a daze, not registering what I just learned. I walked down the stairs I just walked up, sliding my fingers on the wooden rail as support. The ton of bricks hit me again, and I sobbed and trembled all the way back to my dorm.

That was less than a year ago and now my world seems to be falling back into the right puzzle pieces. Except the puzzle piece that had my aunt in it, that will be forever lost. What will not be lost is what she did for me in her life and even in her death.

My aunt embodied the qualities of a fierce, loving, encouraging, and intelligent woman. She had beautiful eyes and perfectly applied red lipstick that would always land on my face after a welcome or goodbye kiss. Though, her beauty was not two-dimensional. She always had a positive word to say to my mother and me. She expressed to my mother how proud she was of the way my mother raised me. She always encouraged me to keep succeeding in life and keep up the hard work I was doing. I know she supported and loved me. Her loving personality was infectious and is one of the reasons she is missed.

I have learned that I need to live, truly live. No more allowing fear and anxiety to engulf me the way those tears did. Currently, I am applying to college and embarking on my senior year and it is scary and intimidating, but I will not let that stop me. I may have big dreams for a 17 year old that seem unrealistic to others, but I believe and know I will be successful. Going to college will turn my dreams into tangible goals. I am going to be an author and you will see my book in many Barnes and Nobles across the country and even world. I will become an actress and perform to allow people to experience jubilee the way I experience it when I perform. I will help others who have ambitions in life during my quest of achieving my goals. No matter what I will never give up; no one can deter me from becoming the person I aspire to be. I have one last request for you. Believe that my applying to college is not just to access a college’s name or to continue a process of life; it is to become the best Marquita Amoah I can be.

Boy Chronicles #4 (Last Installment)


Thank you for reading all of these! This is the last installment in the Boy Chronicles. Enjoy!



There are probably more of you. But I cannot think off the top of my mind how many times I have allowed you to pass me.

You look like you are afraid of the dark. Baby, I am the definition of dark. To live me, you need a nightlight to see where my mind is. To touch me you need to travel a dark and lonely road.

You look like you need me.


You weren’t supposed to touch me. We weren’t supposed to do it. Yet we did.

I let you do it because it felt good. You did it because it filled a temporary void.

You are scared of solitude, I crave it. We are on opposite ends. We pretend with each other. We proclaim honesty, but we lie more.

I respond to your touch. You respond to mine.

But you don’t care. And you taught me that intimacy isn’t worth as much as I thought.

In a small way you hurt me and you weren’t supposed to do that.

Yet you did.


Surprise. You are a surprise. Relaxed and calm. Always watching and feeling out other people.

I thought we would get along well.

But the value of touch is so lost to you.


I never thought I would be an option.

You were the first to say you were interested in me with no inhibitions. But you aren’t letting go of the past. And that might not be as big of a problem as other people make it.

And for a second my selfishness allowed me to think that I could have my cake and eat it too.

But I care about you and I think you do too. That’s all that matters.


The Boy Chronicles #3


As I have been posting these, people close to me have tried to guess who the men are and I just want to remind readers that not every man is directly related to me. SO….to the people who think they can guess who these men are, you may or may not be able to (I enjoy the tries lol). Thanks for reading!!!!


The Boy Chronicles Installment #3



Fucking asshole. You are the scum of the earth. Come into my dwelling again and I will kill you.

It’s never a question if I have ever liked you.

You have always been the weird one to me. Resorting to violence to solve your problems. Putting your hands on she, her, and them.

Being worst than the brother that died.

Threaten her again and I will kill you.

Touch my creator and being and watch your demise.

It’s not a question of morality.

Dead is what you are better as.


#10 (part 1)


These are the series of questions I wanted to ask you:


  • Why do you always smile really big when you see me? You are just nice right?
  • Do you enjoy saying my name? If so why?
  • Who am I to you?
  • Do you want to be someone to me?
  • Do you want to know my inner thoughts?
  • Could we possibly have the same thoughts?
  • How do you feel about me?


Answer honestly please.

You and I believe in silence too often.


#11 (part 2)

I think I revel in unanswered questions because I am scared of the answers. But this is not about me, it’s about you. Your being is one of questions. Questions that other people want the answers to. Answers that people go to you and get. What you do not know is that I want the answers too.

But I will never ask you. I am letting you lose what you do not know you want. Or maybe I am wanted.

Just please stop looking at me. Stop asking about me. Do not touch me. Stop being interested by my words.

Your silence is terrifying and comforting. What am I saying? You must be so confused. You must question who I am. You must wonder what my eyes say. You must want to scream what I mean to you. You want to scream that I am NOTHING. You want to scream that I am SOMETHING. I said that you and I believe in silence too often.

I was wrong.

I believe in silence.

You are driven to silence by me.



Pure beyond measure. Yet you want to be dirty. Stains on your manhood are marks of beauty to you. You want to be rid of the purity of your seeds.

She does not love you.

How do you react to that? How do you love and one does love back?

You took it as a challenge. A game you could win. You forgot that she had a choice in your game. She was the prize and you did not want your money to go to waste if you lost.

She allowed you to reach levels, but every time you got close…you failed.

You want her shit to dirty you so bad. Not living her does not mean that you will not live.

Let her dirty someone else. Let her fuck up herself.

Purity is manhood, contrary to popular belief.


The Boy Chronicles: 2nd Installment


The Boy Chronicles: Installment 2


You are lovable. You are the boy I am so proud of. I want you to be there for my son and show him that men who are made of cocoa can be powerful. I love you.

I love you because you check in. You understand what friendship is and means. This does not mean that you are perfect but you are growing with me.

People ask if we knew each other for a long time, we didn’t. We clicked.

A laugh made us the best of friends. You make me feel comfortable. Stay in my life. I feel you might slip away.

I hate fleeting connections…

update: people change



You are the person who gave me a title. Running with culture dripping from your veins, you tell me what I see. And give me a little of your world. I see love.

Simply, you love women.

That’s never a bad thing.

You love her and me. You gave me faith. With you, culture drips from me too, and I love you for that.

You showed me love. Long lasting love. Love that travels for over twenty years. That is beautiful to me.

You are who I want my son to be like.





That is your favorite word to her. She savors your presence like the sun shining on a cold day, but your absence is one thing she knows well. Upon your return, words shut her mouth because you always seem to say the right things.

Who wants to be the selfish one when you are in dire need?

The end is always close to the beginning.

Which one are you near?



Gold. White. You are my fantasy…in more ways than one. You are the forbidden man that is tangible.

In every step I see why I could be with you or one like you, but then I stop.

Stopped by the news that yields more inequality.

I want you but don’t want you.

Why do I want you?

Because you are what I want or what I have been told is perfection?


Also y’all get ready for next week’s! The next set have my two favorite vignettes out of the whole series. 


The Boy Chronicles


During my sophomore year I started to write about some of the males in my life, just as a past time. I decided to write vignettes about them, as I could divulge information but never allow readers to guess who the men were. These males are family members, friends, strangers, and even men who do not affect my life. These vignettes have been written sporadically over the past two years.

Each week I will publish four vignettes, enjoy!


The Boy Chronicles: Installation #1


You are a spice. Cinnamon, like your smooth skin. Easy on the eyes. You make girls swoon with your words and Latin tongue. Fire you speak, or fuego that is.

But, I have always had a preference for ice.

You are the epitome of boy giving too much. Tell this girl that, tell another one this. Stop spreading yourself too thin, baby. Be real. Never fake. Say how you feel. Do not hurt my friend.

Wait, you already did that.

When I see you disappointment is plagued on my face because I know that you can be more than what you portray. I know you can be it all. Baby, maybe I am closed off because you seem unworthy of me opening my doors.



Down. That is where you come from. But just because you are from down does not mean you are not special. You are everything we ask for. Caring, funny, attentive, and best of all you are a great listener. You love us. And we love you.

Your persona is more than what you wear and look like. You are more than what other people see. You are the surprise we got while waiting for the main attraction. When you speak we listen. Helpful.

Is it because of this that we are not with you. None of us want to make that step. Is it possible to love someone to a point that friendship is all one can imagine? If so, we have hit that point. We love you and you love us. That is all that matters to me.



Mister, excuse me for writing my thoughts. You told me that you wanted to hear about me so here we are. I am the wind blowing trying to make you feel the cold I felt. I am the hail trying to make you hurt the way I did. I do not know if I love you. Is that bad?

To not know if love is in my heart for you?

Do you love me? I know it’s the question that sends most of you boys running. But I want to know if you love me. Not that it would change the past, but it would show me that in words you understand what affection is. Obviously you lack that in actions.

I know that she is not better than me. That is one thing you never have to tell me. I know my ability is way more than hers, but reminding you of your lost opportunities is never bad. Mister, excuse me for not saying what you wanted to hear.

I’ll walk away now.




You are too special to see what you mean to us.

You are too young to see what we see when we hug you.

You are too naïve to what we are trying to prevent you from.

We love you. But we do not want that for you.

They say you look like me. That makes me happy. Yet, you are becoming him.

I love him, but you more. I know it is wrong to say that one loves another more than the other, but I do, and she does too. Don’t hide your love from her like him. Do not depend on her like he does. Do not depreciate her life, like he does.

Be better. For her. For me. For you.

Do Black Girls and White Girls Mix?


I was watching a reality show recently and this white woman on the show expressed her opinion on interracial friendships. She said, “White girls and black girls just don’t mix.” Now I found this crazy coming from this particular woman as she had multiple black girlfriends and dated black men, but to her black girls and white girls do not mix.

Now I come from New York City, so just like my diverse city, my friends have always been different shades and ethnicities. In elementary school my best friend was Dominican and in middle school I had a range of black and brown friends. In high school, I left my city and went elsewhere, but my friends were still just as diverse; Black, Brown, White, and Asian. That’s the thing about me; I have never had a problem making friends. When you have a personality that people gravitate to, being a few shades darker or lighter than them does not change anything.

Of course I would be lying to myself if I acted like there are not people in this world who pick their friends according to their skin tone. I would also be lying if I acted like sometimes I never want to talk to a black person about an issue, because I believe they might empathize with me. But my White friends are just as important to me as my Black and Asian friends, because I value personality. I value someone who is going to be there when I need help, or someone who when I need to talk will listen to me. Even when they do not understand what I am talking about, they will still listen. That is friendship.

Friendship is not about having someone share the same traits as you. Having the same skin color, hair type, socioeconomic class, and personality does not make you a great friend. Yes, in this world humans separate themselves into groups and we prefer to be with our “own.” That is just human nature, but we can be flexible with our minds and meet new people. One of my closest friends is white and she has been my friend since high school. We used to live in the same building and now we live miles away from each other. But for the two years we have been separated, we are still good friends. I am not her friend because she is white and I am sure she is not my friend because I am black. I am her friend because she is an awesome, smart, and humble girl. And being her friend does not mean I lose who I am as a black woman. She is different from me and I love that. And that is the thing about friendship; you do not have to see that person everyday to be their friend. (I learned that from my mother!) You do not have to change yourself to be their friend. It’s about the times when you do talk and see each other and see that the friend dynamic has not changed one bit. 

My closest friend from college is a black girl; we even share the same zodiac sign! Our birthdays are five days apart, but she is bubbly and sweet and I am the firecracker in our relationship. She is different from me and I love that. Are you sensing a trend? We see each other every week and despite distance we still talk. I value what people are on the inside, so the people who limit what their friends look like are just limiting themselves in life. But that does not mean that everyone should start molding his or her friend group like the rainbow spectrum, because that would just be weird and offensive. Be open and genuine with people and you will get the same in return.

So it is not a question of whether black girls and white girls mix, it is a question of whether you and I mix.

Sexual Colors

I had sex last night with a boy the color of snow.

He said it was never that good for him before and he told me that the rise of my ass made him thank the lord for my existence. I smiled, pleased to please him.

But I walked away feeling as dirty as the color of shit. Feeling like I let him drag me into the depths of hell like Persephone and he only let me out when the sun rose. Feeling like my skin was only appreciated when it matched the night sky. He told me that I was worth fighting for, but he only seemed to fight with the old woman on his floor who told him he needed to find a woman the color of snow.

Everything we did was confined to darkness. It was as if he was following the rules of my skin. We only ate in the dark, laughed in the dark, slept in the dark, fucked in the dark. It was a pattern that sickened me like the black plague. My skin was a trap. I could only see the sun when alone.

So I had sex with a boy the color of cinnamon.

He said he only dated, I mean fucked lighter than him. I was the exception. I smiled, pleased to please him.

With him I needed justification. He needed to explain to boys darker than indigo that I was good to have on his arm. But the words from others kept slapping him and punching me. He let me fall like a rotten plum to the ground. I think he went lighter again.

So I had sex with a boy the color of obsidian.

He said he used to be fucked up and only dated snow, but that he came back to his roots. He said that our babies would be revolutionaries fighting for the cause. I smiled pleased to please him. That their dark induced skin would make them hyperaware to the tragedies of the world. He said I would be their keeper and I would foster them into changing the structure of the world.

He said I would be their mammy, I mean mommy.

So I stopped having sex.

I did not want to be an experiment hidden behind laboratory doors, or an exception for what I was made for, or a womb for the next revolution. I wanted to be the love of someone’s life, allowed to exist in my skin without the consequences of color. I did not want to smile pleased to please him. I wanted to smile. Pleased to please me.