Brandon Stanton's Blog, page 14

(15/15) “There’s something I do every morning. When I’m leaving...

(15/15) “There’s something I do every morning. When I’m leaving for work. I’ll go in his room and give him a kiss on the forehead. Now if I was to try this during the day, he’d never allow it. He’d push me away. But if I catch him right when he wakes up, he’s disoriented. I think he forgets who he is for a second. And he’ll hug me like he doesn’t want me to leave. Next year he’s going to college. I don’t like it. It went too fast. It flew. We celebrated my 50th birthday last year. That was a big one for me; it was a birthday my father never saw. We took a trip to Philadelphia: all three of us. Tabatha booked us a nice hotel with an infinity pool. It was just a short trip, and the next morning we drove home. I’m coming out the elevator, with all of our luggage, when I hear a ruckus in the hallway. I’m thinking it’s kids. I’m thinking the neighbor’s kids are playing in the hall again. But then I turn around, and it’s all of them: Nona, Steve, Anthony, all the nieces and nephews. They’re filming me and giggling like crazy. I go in the apartment and there’s decorations everywhere. A beautiful cake. My mother cooked my favorite braciole. In the living room there’s a bunch of gifts. I sit down on the couch to open them, and Tabatha slides a Bluetooth speaker next to me. It’s playing Billy Joel songs: Rootbeer Rag, Nocturne. Some of my favorites. But different versions, with different chords. When the final present is opened, I give a little speech. I thank everyone for coming. Then it was time for the braciole. I started heading for the kitchen, when Jack says: ‘Wait. There’s more.’ My niece disappears into the bedroom, and comes back with our electronic keyboard. She sets it down in the middle of the room. And Jack takes a seat. And he begins to play. The left hand running down the keys. The right hand running up the keys, playing the happy notes. I sit back on the couch and I start to lose it. Nobody else knows what’s happening. They’re confused. It’s just a song to them. They’re looking at me like I have seventeen heads. They couldn’t know. He actually did it. My boy. To make me happy. To make me say wow. My boy. My beautiful boy. My beautiful, beautiful, baby boy.”

(14/15) “Never once have I called him by his real name. He’s...

(14/15) “Never once have I called him by his real name. He’s even saved in my phone as Santa. He has a house up north somewhere. I’ll go months without hearing from him, but then he’ll text. And it’s never just a text. It’s a long paragraph, starting with: ‘Hello my friend, I hope your beautiful family is doing well.’ One year I had an idea. I told him: ‘We do this thing on Christmas Eve, called The Feast of The Seven Fishes. We’d love to have you.’ I thought for sure he’d say no. But he replied: ‘Let me think about it.’ A week passes. Then one night I’m in my make-up chair, and two white gloves fall upon my shoulders. It was a serious thing. He bends down, looks at me in the mirror, and says: ‘Yes!’ From that moment we started to plan. On Christmas Eve I got to Nonna’s house early. I told her: ‘Ma, a coworker is coming over dressed as Santa, to surprise the kids.’ She says: ‘Wouldn’t that be amazing!’ And goes back to cooking. At 5:30 Santa finishes his final shift at Macy’s. He hops on The Brooklyn Polar Express, only this time it’s going the opposite way. Back to my childhood home. Right as we finish dinner, I get a text that he’s in position. I pull my mother aside. I say: ‘We gotta to do it now,’ and I go into the bedroom. When I come back I’m dressed as an elf. I gather everyone in the living room. I say: ‘As all of you know, Nonna has been making Christmas special our entire lives.’ Then I hit ‘play’ on the TV. I had it all queued up. The Thanksgiving Day Parade, the exact moment, when Santa comes into Herald Square. I pause right on a close-up of his face. ‘Tonight,’ I say. ‘We do something special for her.’ And then we hear it. The sound of bells. It’s coming from the front porch. Everyone’s like: ‘What’s that?’ Then the sound of his laugh: ‘Ho, ho, ho.’ It’s echoing, it’s beautiful. It’s in a forest filled with snow. My mother says: ‘Who’s that?’ She’s smiling. She thinks she’s in on the dupe. She goes to the door, opens it up, and she starts to say: ‘He came!’ But she chokes on the words. Her eyes begin to fill with tears. She looks straight at me, and says: ‘Who is that?’ I say: ‘It’s Santa Claus, Ma.’ She says: ‘Which one?’ And I say: ‘The only one.’”

(13/15) “There’s a pep rally at the beginning of every season....

(13/15) “There’s a pep rally at the beginning of every season. Everyone’s there: the white flowers, the straw bosses, the elves. First we go through all the Human Resources stuff. Then the person on stage will pause, and say: ‘Do I hear jingle bells?’ And everyone goes crazy. Then he explodes into the room, wearing full parade suit. He makes his way to the stage. He recites The Night Before Christmas; everybody’s crying. Then we all line up, we go through the maze, and everyone has their own private visit with Santa. Look, I know who it is. I’ve had coffee with him. But this mask of sparkle and tinsel comes over my eyes; and I just see Santa. I’ve asked him for some very personal things. Not things, things. Things you can’t hold. On the night Jack learned it was all a dupe, I was a nervous wreck. A white flower came into my house, and whispered in my ear: ‘They’re here.’ I took a deep breath. And prepared to tell my son that I’ve been lying to him his entire life. Jack comes in wearing my old leather jacket. And Tabatha’s red scarf. I say: ‘Hello, Merry Christmas.’ And right away, he knows. He says: ‘What the hell, Dad?’ I pat the bench next to me, and motion for him to sit down. I say: ‘Hey buddy, what’s up?’ He’s just looking at me. I show him the Lego Santa on the shelf. I say: ‘I want you to know that I haven’t been working in men’s shoes these last ten years.’ And he goes: ‘Really?’ And I see it. I see it starting to click. ‘You’re right,’ I tell him. ‘It’s impossible for Santa to do what he does in one night. But he did exist. His name was St. Nicholas. And he was so kind, and so giving, that his legend grew over hundreds of years. And now during Christmas, we keep his spirit alive by becoming Santa Claus. Not only am I Santa Claus, but Mommy is Santa Claus. And Nonna is Santa Claus. And Uncle Steve is Santa Claus. And Uncle Anthony is Santa Claus. And now, because you’re of age, I’ve brought you here. To bestow the power of Santa Claus onto you.’ He started to cry. And I started to cry. And the elves started crying, and the white flower, and the straw boss. Then I looked up. It couldn’t be. A Christmas miracle. I said: ‘Tabatha, babe. Are you cwying?’”

(12/15) “He was just a man. St. Nicholas was just a man in a...

(12/15) “He was just a man. St. Nicholas was just a man in a village, who gave presents to children. But he was so kind that people remembered his story. They called him Santa. And in 1862 RH Macy put an ad in the paper, saying that Santa had come to his store. That’s how it all began: one man, one chair. Since that day only 275 men have worn this suit. And not to toot my own horn; but what I do, as this man, I take it very, very seriously. Every time you put on your suit, you get ‘fluffed’ by the make-up people. Some guys need 5 or 10 minutes, something is always off. But not me. When I stand in front of them, they don’t touch me. They say: ‘Thank you.’ I take a moment to myself. I picture all the people I’m going to see that night, and I make it my business. For every single one of them to believe. I muster up all the joy and hope and wonder that I have in my being. All of my Christmas, I pour into this man. And I dupe them all: the kids, the adults. Especially the adults. Kids believe automatically. It’s the adults that need it; they need to believe. Sometimes I’ll get a call from a friend. They’ll say: ‘Johnny, my daughter is eleven. She’s on the fence. Can I bring her in?’ And when she comes to see Santa, I know her name, where she lives, how she’s doing in school. And my friend has their beautiful little child believing for one more year. Just one more year. It’s such a short time. From one to five you have them. In all their innocence. Before it starts to click in: the real life, the adulthood. First it’s only a glimpse; and it clicks back. You get them back. But each year it clicks back less and less. Until it doesn’t click back. Until your baby boy, the only one you’ve got, comes home from school and says: ‘Dad, my friends and I have been talking. And it’s logistically impossible for Santa to do all of that in a single night.’ And I knew. I knew I couldn’t hold him any longer. I went into the bedroom. Tabatha took one look at my face, and said ‘What’s up?’ I said: ‘I think our son just told me he doesn’t believe in Santa.’ And she said: ‘Thank God.’ And we laughed for a second. Then I said: ‘It’s over. This year, when he comes to Santa, he comes to me.”

(11/15) “When I was a kid the saddest day of the year was during...

(11/15) “When I was a kid the saddest day of the year was during the second week of January. When one day I’d come home from school, and shout: ‘I’m home!’ And my voice would echo through the house. It meant the decorations had been taken down. And Christmas was gone for another year. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I have a problem with nostalgia. It’s hard to explain; it’s like I base my whole life on the past. I have this longing and this need for how things used to be. I want it back. All of it: every parade, every Miracle on 34th, every Feast of The Seven Fishes, every Wouldn’t it Be Amazing. I don’t want to get old. I don’t want to leave. I don’t want anyone leaving me. Tabatha tells me: think about all the good stuff that’s still going to happen. We get to watch him graduate high school. And college. He’s going to meet someone. We get to see all that. And it does help me, when I focus on the future. But it hurts a little too. Because Jack is almost the same age as I was when my father passed away. And that makes me sad. Sad and scared. But then the end of November rolls around again. Time for my first shift. I’ll jump on the N-Train. I’ll listen to my playlist of 1140 Christmas songs. And here comes the euphoria. The right hand running up the keys. Up, up, up, until the stairs turn to wood. And poof. It’s a time machine. Suddenly it’s all in front of me again. It’s a magic trick, a dupe. I know what it is, but I never want it to end. I asked the real Santa for advice one time. We met for coffee at the Times Square McDonald’s, and I asked him: ‘How do you handle it? How do you handle when it all comes to an end?’ And you know what he told me? He said that Christmas Eve is the hardest day of the year for him. His final shift at Macy’s ends at 5:30. He goes to mass, and then he goes home. And he spends the evening alone. I never imagined. I thought I loved Christmas. But it’s so much bigger for him. He has a real beard. I never imagined what it must be like for Santa himself. “It’s hard for me too,” he said. “But I’ve never had a beautiful family like you.”

(10/15) “They don’t give you a pamphlet for it. When they start...

(10/15) “They don’t give you a pamphlet for it. When they start to click over into adulthood; it’s like a little death. I’ll never forget the day I brought home a Star Wars Lego set. I poured it out on the table, and started to organize the pieces. Jack was maybe five. He pushed my hand away, and said: ‘No Daddy, I do it.’ Oh man. There should be a pamphlet for that. Don’t get me wrong, it’s amazing to watch them grow up. Every few months you get to say ‘hello’ to a new person. But you have to say goodbye too. I remember dropping Jack off for his first piano lesson. I printed out the sheet music for Summer, Highland Falls. I slipped it into his binder, and said: ‘This is Daddy’s favorite song. Wouldn’t it be amazing if you could learn it?’ He rolled his eyes. I said: ‘C’mon, just one song.’ And he’s like: ‘Dad, please stop.’  I said: ‘OK, OK. Just keep it in your binder. In case you change your mind.’ He never changed his mind. But he did start writing his own music. He’d hear a song that he liked, on YouTube, or one of his video games, and he’d lock himself in his room for hours. When he came back out he’d have a written a whole new version. With different chords. It was like: ‘Wow!’ I was proud of him, yes. Of course I was proud of him. Did I wish it had been both of us in that room, singing Summer, Highland Falls?’ Also yes. But no matter how far he clicked over into adulthood, I’d get him back for five glorious weeks a year. We didn’t have a fireplace in our apartment. We’d put the Christmas tree next to a window, and leave the window open. Jack would decorate a plate. Then on that plate we’d put out Santa’s favorite cookie, a big Linzer tart. Also happens to be my favorite cookie. I’d take a big bite of the tart and make some crumbs, and I’d drink the milk. Then the next morning he’d knock on our door at six o’clock, screaming: ‘He came! He came!’ It drove Tabatha crazy. Every Christmas, she’d say: ‘It’s out of control. You’re out of control. This is the year we have to tell him.’ Second grade, third grade, fourth grade. Every time: ‘This is the year.’ But I’d always say: ‘Not yet. When it’s time, it’s time. But one more year. Just give me one more year.”

(9/15) “Every Santa gets a handler: to walk him to his chair, to...

(9/15) “Every Santa gets a handler: to walk him to his chair, to bring him water, to give him Tic Tacs. But nothing in Santaland is called by its actual name. Santa handlers are called straw bosses. It’s an old circus term, for people who handle the elephants. I made sure that my straw boss knew: when the Tammaro family arrives, bring them straight to my house. My son came bounding in first. He was four years old. He jumped in my lap and started telling me his list. But in the middle he stops, and says: ‘Hey! You sound like my Daddy!’ I started to panic. That’s when my brother Steve stepped in. He said: ‘It doesn’t sound like your Daddy, Jack.’ And I made it through the rest of the visit. But I never risked it again. I didn’t want to ruin the magic. Jack would write these letters to Santa. He never went straight to the toys. He’d write things like: ‘How is your wife? Are the reindeer OK? Did you go on vacation?’ Only then would he get to the list. He had such empathy. I like to think we had something to do with it. The way we are at home. We don’t like to argue. We keep it calm, cool, and collected. We have this thing called ‘Family Sandwich.’ One day Tabatha and I were hugging in the kitchen, and Jack came running up behind us, and hugged us both. He screamed ‘family sandwich!’ And it stuck. We still do it today. I was never a sports dad. But that’s ok, because he wasn’t a sports kid. We loved doing legos. In the beginning he’d just watch me do them. But as he got a little older, we started doing them together. The holidays were always rough for me. It was the busiest time a year at both my jobs, so I’d barely be home. Jack and I would be watching a holiday movie on the couch, his head on my chest, and I’d have to get up to go to work. He’d pull me down by the shirt and say: ‘Don’t go.’ He knew that I worked at Macy’s during Christmastime. But I told him that I worked in Men’s shoes. I told him that I needed the extra money to buy everyone presents. Every day when I started my shift at Santaland, I’d take a little lego Santa that we’d built together, and I’d place it on the shelf. All the elves knew. The lego Santa, that was Jack. It was to remind me of my boy.”

(8/15) “In late November, all the Santas gather in a meeting...

(8/15) “In late November, all the Santas gather in a meeting room for breakfast and coffee. Twenty-five to thirty guys. All different races, religions, orientations. Most empathetic group of men I’ve ever met. It’s an emotional mess. We talk about why we’re there. We swap stories of special visits from the past. That first year I was the youngest one, by a lot. Everyone was grayer than me. Chubbier than me. ‘Bigger than life’ than me. All of us were given a big, huge Santa Guide. Inside it tells you everything. The history of the real St. Nicholas. How to say Merry Christmas in every language. All the ‘Do’s’ and ‘Don’ts.’ Santa doesn’t actually say ‘Ho, Ho, Ho.’ It’s a laugh. It’s how he laughs. He doesn’t sing songs. He never asks a child’s name. And Santa never, ever promises a gift. That’s a big one. One year Santa accidentally promised an iPad. And Macy’s had to buy the kid an iPad. During my training I got to observe visits from veteran Santas. I tried to pull something from each guy: a laugh from this one, a look from that one. Then finally the day came when it was my turn to put on the suit. There’s a whole Santa dressing room. All the coats are on racks. All the wigs above them. There’s a big, long make-up table. The make-up department is world class. When I put everything on for the first time, and looked into the mirror, I saw Santa. It was like: ‘Holy shit, I can do this.’ There was one other Santa in the room with me. I couldn’t see his face. The whole time his back was turned. Someone was helping him with his coat. He was being so meticulous, smoothing every wrinkle. His beard was real, but he was shaping it so carefully. Everything had to be perfect. Finally he finishes; he turns around to face me, and poof. I’m seven years old again: ‘Here he comes! Here he comes!’ It’s him. The real Santa. The one from the parade. He says: ‘Oh, hello! Are you one of my new colleagues?’ And I say: ‘Yes, are you Santa Claus?’ He says ‘I am.’ Then he says: ‘What a nice head of hair you have,’ and he walks away. My confidence disappeared. Talk about imposter syndrome. I look back in the mirror, and all I see is an Italian kid from Brooklyn. Wearing a beard.”

(7/15) “Summer, Highland Falls. One of, if not the best, Billy...

(7/15) “Summer, Highland Falls. One of, if not the best, Billy Joel songs. Lyrically and musically. The left hand goes down the keys, playing the sad notes. The right hand goes up, playing the happy notes. There’s a point in the song where he says: ‘It’s either sadness or euphoria.’ And that’s me. That’s always been me. Tabatha calls me the sad clown. I hit a rough patch after Jack was born. Here was the thing that I’d always wanted; and there’s a cloud over me. I was filled with anxiety; I couldn’t shake it. At work I’d crawl into the closet with my walkie talkie, just to be alone. On the subway ride home I’d pull my hat over my eyes. As soon as I walked in the apartment I’d head straight to Jack’s room. I’d lay on the floor while he was napping. It calmed me down. Just to be near him. My beautiful, baby boy. He couldn’t sleep at night unless I was in the crib with him. After thirty minutes I’d try to sneak out. But his little hand would come up, and tug on my shirt. And it was back in the crib for me. Tabatha would come in at 4 AM to wake me up for work. I never wanted to miss a single moment. I’d take him to get the oil changed. I’d bundle him up, just to take him down the block. We still gathered at my mother’s house every Thanksgiving, Anthony, Steve, all the nieces and nephews, and we’d choose a day to see Santa. Same thing every year. We’d always meet at the top of the escalators. But the year that Jack turned three, something strange happened. We were winding through the maze when an elf came bounding up to us. I recognized her; she worked with me at the toy store. She leaned in close, and said: ‘Hi Johnny! Come work with us.’ I laughed. I was thirty-eight at the time. Way too old to be an elf. But too young to be Santa. I didn’t even consider it. But six months later Tony and Tina’s Wedding gets cancelled. And the very same week I get an email from Macy’s, requesting applications for the holiday season. I’m thinking: this is crazy. I’m too young. Too skinny. And way to Italian. But when they called me in for an interview, the first question they asked was: ‘Why do you love Christmas?’ I looked down at my watch, and said: ‘How much time do you have?’”

“I knew if they ever found out about me, I’d end up like Johnny...

“I knew if they ever found out about me, I’d end up like Johnny Yablonsky. Johnny was soft, he was feminine, he was clearly gay. The neighborhood guys would make him blow them; then beat the shit out of him. He always had a lot of bruises, and absenteeism. He was so defeated. I’ve always assumed he killed himself. And I didn’t want the same thing to happen to me. It was a lot of fear, and shame. The fucking shame. I participated in my own self-negation. I laughed at all the jokes. I tried to tighten up on the masculine stuff. I’d stand in front of the mirror. I’d practice my walk, my diction, the movement of my hands. Somehow I managed to make it out of that town alive. During our first Christmas break at college, I went with my friend Howie to visit his family in Long Island. Afterward he dropped me off at the airport. He thought I was flying home. But I caught the Greyhound Bus to New York City. I put all my stuff in a luggage locker and started walking down 5th Avenue. It was night. It wasn’t lit up like today. All the storefronts were dark; it was like lyric poetry to me. Unopened boxes full of mystery. All I knew was I had to get to Greenwich Village. I kept asking people—is this the village, is this the village? They kept saying: further south, further south. Finally I get to the corner of 8th Street and 6th Avenue, and I’m waiting for the light to change. And this guy starts hitting on me. A few years older than me, good looking. His name was Charlie. And he put a spell on me immediately. From the very first moment, I had a hard-on for Charlie Bacchus. I felt safe with him. He took me to my first gay bar. Then afterward we went to his mom’s loft apartment on Washington Square. She happened to be in Rome. So it was just me and Charlie Bacchus, in this gorgeous apartment, with the door closed, cut off from the rest of the world. There was sex, beautiful sex. First time I’d ever had sex with my shoes off. The next morning I came out of the shower, and wrapped a towel around me. Charlie said: ‘What are you doing? Take that off. You’re beautiful.’ He said it so gently, like someone looking at a painting. And it was my first profound lesson in shedding shame.”