Brandon Stanton's Blog, page 13

“Whenever there was an event at school, he’d come straight from...

“Whenever there was an event at school, he’d come straight from work. Wearing these heavy blue coveralls. Stomping around in these big, chunky boots. He’d have a tag with his name on it: Herbie, written big like. He was always so noticeable. That’s the main thing I remember: the other parents seemed smaller. Maybe not smaller, but sleeker: tight button-tops, khakis. I was one of two Hispanic kids in my grade. I’d only gotten in through a program that sends black and brown kids to private school. But I never felt discriminated against. We all loved the same video games and YouTube videos. Within a few weeks I was going to friends’ houses for sleepovers. These houses were humongous. Everyone had their own rooms. Then I’d go back to our house, in the Hispanic neighborhood. And it was just a square with a triangle roof. And we had like ten people living there. It was different. Behind closed doors, I knew we were different. And that juxtaposition was a little too much to overcome in my head. I felt like if I wanted to fully step into this new role, I needed to shed all that. I’m on the other side of it now. I graduated from a private university. I’m working at a tech start-up. I feel like this was it. When my parents came over, this was their intention. I’ve fully assimilated. But now that I’m here, I kinda miss what I’ve left behind. I’ve lost it. It’s not that I chose another culture. My life just got filled with other stuff, and I let it go by the wayside. I don’t even really speak Spanish anymore. Maybe in very small bursts, or whatever. But I miss the curse words, the slang. I miss it being commonplace. Mainly I just miss being around people like me: feature wise, and stuff like that. At least now that I’m in New York, I can take the train home every other weekend. It’s like a celebration, every time I come back. We don’t all live together anymore; but the whole family’s nearby. Everyone comes over. My dad grills out: steak, tortillas, vegetables. Eating home cooked food, it’s like I’m a kid again. It’s healing in a way. It feels right. Knowing I’m in a good spot. I’ve gotten to where I want to be, but I’m back with the people that I’ve always been with.”

“There was a bad break up, sort of. It was eight months ago. I’m...

“There was a bad break up, sort of. It was eight months ago. I’m past it now. But I had to experience that for the first time. I don’t think I handled it as well as I could. At the time I couldn’t grasp that maybe it wasn’t anybody’s fault. Maybe I just wanted to be with the person for longer than they wanted to be with me. But accepting things that you don’t want to happen is really, really hard. It’s like: ‘Why do they get to walk around, and keep living their life, while I’m miserable all the time?’ It didn’t seem fair. So I might have reacted in a way that was disproportionate, to make the person feel more guilty than they needed to. Sometimes that’s your only recourse when someone hurts you: feeling aggrieved, and making it known. Not that it keeps you from suffering. But there is a sense of power in it. It allows you to redistribute the pain that you’re feeling. You can make their life a hassle for a bit, hurt their feelings, tell everyone they’re a big asshole. When the truth is: maybe they were just living their life, trying their best, and you got hurt. There’s not always a villain. Sometimes you just get fucked up by somebody exercising their own autonomy.”

“I used to be the one that people came to for everything....

“I used to be the one that people came to for everything. Recently my sister Ayla turned sixteen, and I helped her get a job at the sneaker store I used to work at. So there’s still some stuff I can do. But not a lot. I was at the bodega earlier today, trying to reach for shit. A complete stranger had to help me. I know it’s a great thing to help someone who’s disabled, or elderly. I used to do it all the time. But I’d always feel bad for that person. And that’s what I don’t want. I don’t want people feeling bad for me. Maybe it’s a man thing, or a pride thing. But I just rearranged my whole apartment by myself, in a fucking wheelchair. Not to bother people. Not to have anyone feel bad for me. Sometimes I’ll break down, but I do it by myself. Mainly at night. And even then,  I’ll give myself probably five, ten minutes to feel bad, but that’s it. I’ll start to think about my family. Like, I care about myself. But I care about my family so much more. And I know they wouldn’t want me in this place, so that’s what really pulls me through. I’ll try to think of happy memories. I used to think of shit that happened before the wheelchair, but then it’d be like: ‘Damn. I might not be able to do that again.’ So you know what I do now? I think about happy stuff that’s happened since I’ve been in the wheel chair. Recently my sister had her sweet sixteen party; I was actually scheduled to start radiation, but I made the doctor reschedule. Because I didn’t want to miss the party. I didn’t want everyone being like: ‘Where’s Craig? Where’s Craig?’ I didn’t want Ayla explaining my situation, thinking about my situation. So I made sure to go to that party. All my boys came through; they all knew my sister since she was young. The whole vibe was good. Nothing felt forced. I didn’t get treated no different. On the last song of the night, they dragged me out on the dance floor. And I popped up a wheelie. The DJ was yelling: ‘Don’t drop him! Don’t drop him!’ I was a bottle of Hennessy in, so I almost busted my ass. My friends were laughing at me, talking shit. Just like they always do. And that’s exactly what I wanted. Like, I’m in this situation. But I’m still me. I’m still Craig.”

“I worked as a legal assistant for 50 years. And I’ve always...

“I worked as a legal assistant for 50 years. And I’ve always been lucky to work for honest, kind, brilliant attorneys. All that paperwork might seem boring to other people. But I never even took lunch, that’s how much I loved it. I loved the law. It’s very precise. My work needed to be exactly right. And there was a lot of pride there. But something seems to have changed in the culture. So many of my coworkers would rush out the door at 5 o’clock. With important, unfinished things on their desk. In law you have to get things out quickly, but it’s like they just didn’t care. Maybe it’s a generational thing. I’m older, I’m 77. So maybe there’s something I don’t get. ‘Quiet quitting,’ and all of that, I just don’t understand it. If it’s just a paycheck to you, if you’re getting by on the minimum, and not trying to be perfect, or God forbid, if you’re screwing it up on purpose,  why are you even going to work? Save your pennies and quit. Find something else you can take pride in. If you’re spending eight hours a day on something you don’t take pride in, it seems to me that somewhere, deep down inside, you’re a phony. Maybe not a phony. But you’re deluding yourself. It’s going to spill over into the rest of your life. And there’s not enough money for me. Well, $20,000 a week maybe. But otherwise there’s not enough money for me to not take pride in my work. I couldn’t do it. I know that sounds ridiculous, but I can’t. You know how people text, and there’s like spelling mistakes and grammar mistakes and everything? Not me. I’ll reread everything. I’ll go back and fix it, I’ll put in the comma. That’s who I am. You either have it or you don’t, and less people have it now. I think it was the digital revolution. When I first started working there were typewriters. If you made a mistake, you had to redo it. You had to be careful, you had to get it right, until the computer came along. I remember my boss was so excited about the computer age. He said: ‘It’s going to be great! We’re going to have a paperless office!’ I knew better. I told him: ‘There’s going to be a lot more paper, actually.’ Because you can reprint everything. And nobody’s going to care anymore.’”

“My parents used to tell us: with what little you have, be a...

“My parents used to tell us: with what little you have, be a blessing to others. But my father also said this: don’t let people smell your money. I didn’t know what he meant. But what he meant is: when you have things, don’t announce it. Because once you announce it, people smell it. The aroma gets in them, and they start to make it theirs. They’ll start to think: I need it more than him, he can give some to me. And they’ll come up with a thousand reasons to get it from you. Don’t get me wrong, they’re real reasons. But six months later: here comes another one. You’d think that the more you do, the less you’ll need to do. But it doesn’t seem to work that way. With a lot of people, the more you do, the more they seem to need. It’s not good psychologically. And it’s not good economically. For my whole life I’ve been the person people come to. But I’m almost sixty now. I’m not where I want to be, so I’m slowing down on the giving. I still want to be a part of the whole thing: pay it forward, be blessed to be a blessing. God is love, but God is also discernment. And I can’t let other people’s emergencies cause me to have an emergency.”

“Growing up my mother would let me put on anything I...

“Growing up my mother would let me put on anything I wanted to wear and dance around the house. And I still believe in that. I made this hat from toilet paper rolls.”

“It felt like freedom, maybe; but I was spiraling. There was a...

“It felt like freedom, maybe; but I was spiraling. There was a hurricane in my head: certain addictions, and impulsive decisions that could affect me for the rest of my life. Other people would see it, and they’d say: ‘He’s so fun.’ But nobody was looking at me, really. They’d never have noticed if I was hurting myself, or if I slipped away. I got good at floating around and giving people what they want, just enough positivity, so I could get through the moment and leave a good impression. But I can’t do that with her. When I think a certain thing, she reacts. She wants to know more. And when I feel a certain way, she feels it too. Nobody’s cared like she cared, you know? I feel seen. I feel found. Like there’s something outside of me. Like somebody touched my face. Sometimes when I’m sleeping, she’ll do this thing. She’ll reach over and touch my face. She’ll just hold onto it. And that’s the image that keeps coming into my head, when I try to describe her. She touched my face.”

Just returned from Ghana where Paul Ninson held the grand...

Just returned from Ghana where Paul Ninson held the grand opening of the Dikan Center last weekend, barely a year after our fundraiser. Our man does not mess around! The city of Accra turned out in force. It was so nice to meet the community of Ghanian leaders, businesspeople, and artists that have gathered in support of Paul. The library looks beautiful, and Paul has now begun to plan the programming for under-served African artists. There’s a special Story Lab waiting to be filled with computers and cameras. Paul is doing his best to preserve his limited capital. I’d love to see Apple and Canon step up here. A bit surprised at the walls he’s hitting there; thought for sure they’d want to play a meaningful role in this emerging hub of African visual storytelling. But as Paul has shown, he’ll carry the torch alone if needed. (He’s currently in physical therapy for the back injury he received from carrying so many books.) Paul is taking a few days off for Christmas, the first break he’s had in over a year. Enjoy your time with family, my friend. You deserve it. And congratulations on this magnificent achievement. It’s going to change a lot of lives.

“When I was a kid I’d hide between the bedpost and the wall and...

“When I was a kid I’d hide between the bedpost and the wall and read books about King Arthur. I wanted to be a knight. I wanted to be anything other than my father. We lived under his rule; it was horror. My mother was loving, and strong in many ways. But she wouldn’t leave him. I used to watch her wipe her own blood off the walls. When I was thirteen I ran away for good. I didn’t tell her a thing; I just disappeared. And I know she was hurt by that. I slept in the park with a whole crew of punks and addicts. People in the neighborhood would give me little jobs. They trusted me, and I never stole from them. Because I had honor. I’d rob a leather coat from Macy’s in a minute, but that’s Macy’s. I’d never take a woman’s pocketbook. I’d never break into a deli. No matter how far I fell, my honor never failed me. Music never failed me. And a good book never failed me. One day it was pouring down rain, and I ducked into a cubby hole. There was a copy of The Diary of Anne Frank; just laying there. I was stoned out of my face. And I knew nothing about this little girl. But it’s pouring down rain; there was nothing else to do. So I read the whole thing. She was beautiful. All this horror, but she was surviving. And that gave me strength. By the time I was twenty-five I had my own room, with a hot plate, and a pair of reeboks. I was playing music with some cool cats. I was proud. It’s like: I’m making it. When I finally got clean, the first thing I did was knock on my mother’s door. Hadn’t seen her for twenty years, but she gave me the biggest hug. She told me that every Sunday since I’d left, she’d lit a candle and prayed for my soul. That night she cooked some chicken, which I killed. Then she gave me what was left in some Tupperware. That was smart, because I had to bring back the Tupperware. And I never stopped coming back. I’m 66 now. I’m clean, I live comfortably, I’m financially OK. And I still go to see her every Sunday. She’s 94. She’s half-blind. She can’t hear. But I’ll bring her cake, and we’ll talk. She likes to take my hand, so she can feel my rings. And while we’re talking, I can tell: she’s in heaven. I was able to give her that. I gave her peace.”

“I haven’t been seventeen for very long. But I will say, aside...

“I haven’t been seventeen for very long. But I will say, aside from the schoolwork, it’s really a wonderful time. I have the freedom to go wherever I want to go, but not a ton of responsibility. I can walk out of my house with my dog, and go for this walk, and not worry about much more than getting back home. I do need to finish a 650-word personal statement for my college applications. It’s not an easy thing to describe yourself in 650 words. I don’t really know who I am yet, though I am growing more comfortable with not knowing. At least that means other people aren’t defining me either. When I look at older people I admire, to be honest, I do define them a bit, by their careers, and accomplishments. I guess it’s just the easiest way to understand them, because I haven’t experienced much of being older. When you’re seventeen you haven’t done much. But there’s also freedom to that. Because there’s not much to define you by, other than the moment.”