Brandon Stanton's Blog, page 19

(6/13) “The other night I was having dinner on the patio with...

(6/13) “The other night I was having dinner on the patio with someone who was in prison with me. We were sitting under these $20,000 custom Swiss-made umbrellas. We ordered something simple. But when you’re the boss, they bring you everything. All of it served in copper plates from France: Shishito Peppers, Potato Gnocchi, Summer Squash. Everything hyper-seasonal. Everything fresh from the green market. At one point my friend says: ‘Isn’t this surreal?’ And it really was. Considering five years earlier we were standing in the cafeteria line with 950 inmates, wearing boxers and jumpsuits that 9,000 other people had worn. Inmate 56134066. There’s a saying in prison: one man, one armband. Because the number on your armband is the only thing that belongs to you. There’s 2.2 million people in the American prison system, and half a million of those are locked up for drug offenses. A lot of them were in the same boat as me: victims of the mandatory minimum. Passed by Congress in 1986, it’s the reason hundreds of thousands of nonviolent people, mostly black and brown people, are rotting in prison. Rotting like the baloney and cheese sandwiches they serve for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I did believe wholeheartedly in my petition for appeal; all of us did. But a prisoner filing an appeal is like a person buying a mega millions lottery ticket. Only 1 out of 100,000 get a post-conviction break. But it’s enough for the rest of us to torture ourselves with hope. You have no choice. You can’t survive without hope. I spent all my time in the legal library, crafting those appeals. None of it mattered. Denied by the District Court. Denied by the Third Circuit. The wheels of justice turn slow, that’s what my public defender used to say. I’d been in prison for ten years by the time my petition reached the Supreme Court. They were never going to accept my case; I knew that. They take like six cases a year, but it was the only hope I had left. I spent a thousand hours on that petition. It was 50 pages long. The rejection letter arrived three months later, in a tiny envelope. It said: ‘Shut the fuck up and do your time. And that was the end of hope. After that, there was nothing.”

(5/13) “I’ve tried therapy five times. And I’ve quit five times....

(5/13) “I’ve tried therapy five times. And I’ve quit five times. They torture me with questions, just like you’re doing. How do you feel? How do you feel? There is no feel. My nerve tips have been incinerated. By HIV, by meth, by prison. The only thing I feel is the throttle in my hand when I’m cranking it. Maybe you have time to sit around, saying: ‘What if? What if?’ But I have a to-do list longer than Eighth Avenue. I can’t keep digging up the most shameful, the most aggravating part of my life. When I go back there, I start hating myself. And that leads to one place. That leads to meth. So after this, I’m done. No more interviews. No more therapy. In prison we had our own version of therapy. It was a track in the yard, if you could even call it that, 100 yards of pebbles and potholes. But whenever things got to be too much, instead of slapping your cellmate for farting all night, you put on your headphones and walk the track. Think about anything you want. Just don’t think about the future; it’s the only way to protect yourself. Because nothing is in your control. Three years into my sentence my father was diagnosed with cancer. My mom had to deal with the whole thing herself. With everything else she was going through, she took him to all his appointments. One time I called her and they’d just gotten back from chemotherapy. They were still in the car, because my father had shit himself, and she couldn’t get him out. They were waiting on my Uncle Tommy to come help. How humiliating is that? The man who provided you everything, sitting in his own shit, for forty-five minutes, and you can’t do a thing. How’s that for being a complete fucking failure? We had one final call, right before he passed. He said: ‘I’m not giving up on you,’ same as the other times. But this time was different. This time was goodbye. He said: ‘Johnny, my time is about up. Take care of your mother and sister.’ I told him I would. But I wasn’t coming home for 15 years. We both knew I wasn’t going to take care of anyone. It was nothing but a show. When I hung up the phone, I wanted to scream at someone. But there was nobody but me. So I put on my headphones, and went out to the track.”

(4/13) “The first place they took me was MCC in New York. Same...

(4/13) “The first place they took me was MCC in New York. Same floor Epstein killed himself. When they closed the door of that cell, I remember looking at the graffiti all over the walls. Grime everywhere. Hair on the floor a quarter inch deep. And sitting in the middle of the floor was two sheets and a blanket. I didn’t have the meth anymore. It was just me, those sheets, and that mess. I spent all my time imagining what it would be like to die in prison. Every little cold, every little stomachache, I thought: This is it. And what kind of death would that be? Everyone wants to die with dignity. But there was no dignity here. I didn’t tell a soul about my diagnosis. Show vulnerability, in this place? I’m no dummy. But the guards knew, because they had a list with a code next to my name. They kept making little innuendos. Fucking infuriating. I didn’t even talk about my diagnosis with the phlebotomist who checked my blood. But one day we’re in there alone, and I finally got the courage to ask him: ‘What do you think? Will I make it out of here alive?’ I’ll never forget him; his name was Alex. He said: ‘With the new drugs now, you’ll live longer than the rest of these clowns.’ It was my first glimpse of hope in six years, but it came too late. When you’re in prison: you might as well be dead. You’re in a coma. You’re not making new memories. You wouldn’t even know time was passing if it wasn’t for the 13th of every month, when your phone minutes reset. My first call was always to my mother. It was an ebb and flow. Most days she was upbeat. Other days it was: ‘Why? Why? Why?’ But she never left my side. Sent me a letter every week. Visited whenever she could. My father never came to see me, but I didn’t take it personal. He didn’t come to my baseball games either. Sometimes my Mom would hand him the phone, and he’d say: ‘I’m not giving up on you.’ That was it; it’s just who he was. He was an old school onion farmer. If you wanted to get a beer after work, and stare at the Eagles game on TV, he’d be there. But ‘I love you?’ Nah, none of that. That was Mom. Supposedly he changed after I went to prison, and I’m happy for that. I really am. But I never got to see it.”

(3/13) “Three months later I’m out at a club with a friend. It’s...

(3/13) “Three months later I’m out at a club with a friend. It’s 2 AM. I’m getting tired, so I say I’m going home. He pulls out a key and says: ‘sniff this.’ I’d never done a drug in my life, not even weed. Not even once. But I figured I’d be dead in two years anyway, so I said fuck it. One sniff. And that’s all it took. Meth makes you feel invincible. It erases all your insecurities. The perfect drug for a guy like me, hiding a secret like I was hiding. But it wasn’t cheap like today. And when you really want something, but you can’t afford it, there’s only one option. At first I was just selling to stay high, but I have to be the best at whatever I do. Not a bad quality when you’re managing a 5-star restaurant. Horrible quality when you’re selling meth. I went from a quarter-gram, to a gram, to an ounce, to a kilogram. Never violent, never hurt nobody. But the drug turned me into a sociopathic scumbag. I’d rip people off, and not give them their drugs. I’d get 57 parking tickets on a car I was borrowing. I withdrew from all my friends, all my family. My mother never gave up on me, I will say that. She’s relentless. It was four years of unanswered voicemails: ‘Why are you doing this? What are you running from? Why, why, why?’ There were no voicemails from my father. But I did see him once, at the garden shop. I’d lost 20 lbs. I hadn’t shaved. I hadn’t showered. He said: ‘Whatcha doin’ Johnny? You’re breaking your mother’s heart.’ And that was it. He could never tell me that I was breaking his heart too, because that would require an expression of emotion. But I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything. I wasn’t even Johnny Gargano anymore; I was a taker. And every taker runs out of things to take, and people to take from. Takers end up in Room 911, with their face pressed against the carpet, and their hands cuffed behind their back. I’ll never forget when the Feds marched me out of the lobby, this 6’5” black guy walks up. He’s wearing a suit. He’s got a walkie talkie in his hand. He says: ‘Excuse me, are you John Gargano? You’re never allowed in a Lowes Hotel again.’ Even the cops laughed at that one. I said: ‘Bro, I’m going to jail for the rest of my life.’”

(2/13) “My life of crime came to an end in Room 911 of the...

(2/13) “My life of crime came to an end in Room 911 of the Philadelphia Lowes Hotel. Room 911. That was the Feds fucking with me. I hadn’t been in the room for 5 minutes when there was a knock on the door. A voice said: ‘Housekeeping.’ But I knew: ‘That’s not fucking housekeeping.’ Nine guys bust in carrying every type of gun known to man. And that was the end. Part of me was glad it was over. I’d become a scumbag. A complete, sociopathic scumbag. But before any of this happened, Johnny Gargano was a pretty good person. I really believe that. Not the most emotional guy. Not the most expressive guy, but certainly not a scumbag. I believed in right and wrong. I’d bring baskets of vegetables to my friends’ mothers. I was a freaking altar boy for ten years. Not saying that means anything, those child molesting fucks. But with all things considered: a pretty good person. Then one afternoon I’m taking a nap on the couch, and there’s a knock on the door. It’s the Fed-Ex guy, with a package from the health insurance company. It says my application for coverage has been denied. Now there were only six reasons you could be denied. The first five were crazy bugs in Africa. I was a farm boy from New Jersey; I’d never been to Africa in my life. So that left the sixth thing: HIV Positive. How did I get it? Some things in life are nobody’s business. Not then, not now. It’s taken me 25 years to even talk about my diagnosis. I come from an old school Italian family where nobody talks about nothing, especially the men. Everything gets swept under the rug. Could all of this been avoided with a conversation? Who knows. But I didn’t know how to have it. I couldn’t handle the stigma. I couldn’t handle the shame.  At the time I had a garden shop, with thirty greenhouses; I left them all behind. I packed up my shit and moved to Philadelphia. This was 1997; there were no miracle drugs back then. I thought 100 percent for sure I was going to die. I didn’t know exactly what was going to happen to me, but I knew it wasn’t going to be pretty. I felt like I’d just been ejected from a roller coaster, and I said: ‘Fuck it. I’m going to do whatever the fuck I want before I hit the ground.”

(15/15) “I used to smoke sweet tips, because I thought they were...

(15/15) “I used to smoke sweet tips, because I thought they were feminine. But I’ve learned I like heavier cigars. I’ve learned a lot about myself these past few years. I was put in charge of hiring for our entire company. I’ve produced my own play. My bracelet is so full of charms that Garrison had to buy me another. And that one’s half-way full too. I downloaded a dating app for seniors, called Our Time. I said: ‘Lord, you designed the body. I’m losing my ever-loving mind, so I hope you understand.’ I just wanted to see what was out there. And let me tell you, there’s a lot out there. I’ve tried all the flavors: Bangladesh, Egyptian, Hispanic, African. The whole smorgasbord. I’ve dated about seventy men. And I’ve had four marriage proposals, because what I bring to the table is rich. But right now I’m on a little bit of a break from romance. I’m taking time with myself. But that’s a romance too. It’s a love that’s lacy. It’s light filtering through the leaves. It’s not harsh sun, but it’s oh-so-warm. For 55 years I never liked myself much. But now when I hear people describe me, I like that woman. I’ve worked hard on her. I might be a little quirky. Truth be told I’ve sat down and pondered if I’m batshit crazy. But I decided no, I just hover over crazy, then I flit away. Like a hummingbird. Back in Arkansas I’d hang out feeders for the hummingbirds. I’d watch em’ all day. So I don’t mind being hummingbird crazy. I can be colorful, and dance, and sing, and make mistakes. I’m not hurting anybody. I’m not taking anybody else’s oxygen. I’ve got my own space. In the evening I like to set my chair out on the sidewalk, turn on my Bluetooth speaker, light my cigar. I never just stick the fire to it. I go around all the edges, and let it breathe a little. Until there’s no dead spots. Until I’ve pulled all the life into the it. Then I sit back, take a deep breath, and watch Harlem walk by. I smoke slow. It’ll take me two hours to finish. And I’ve made myself a playlist that lasts just that long: Michael Jackson, Whitney Houston, Bruno Mars. Everything has an order. And when that last song starts playing, it’s time to go home. Al Greene. Put a Little Love In Your Heart.”


Detra has been working hard her whole life, but she hasn’t always been paid for it. And living in New York isn’t easy when you’re on your own. Detra can manage the day-to-day, but she hasn’t been able to tuck anything away for the golden years. If you enjoyed her story and would like to help her breathe a little bit, please consider helping us build her a little bit of a cushion: https://bit.ly/helpdetrabreath

(14/15) “Lucas volunteered to bring up all my stuff from the...

(14/15) “Lucas volunteered to bring up all my stuff from the storage unit in Arkansas. He was supposed to arrive on a Monday, so the following Sunday I scheduled a final performance of ‘One Woman’s Journey To Love.’ I wanted it to be a night to remember: my show, my songs, in my place, with my stuff. Unfortunately Lucas was delayed, and by the time he arrived we barely had time to get everything unloaded. On the night of the performance, the bathtub had stuff stacked up to the shower. Twenty-five people attended. The band set up in the kitchen, and I performed while standing in the hallway. There were some new songs in the mix: ‘My Way,’ and ‘Wild Horses,’ and ‘Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head.’ I sang a hymn for the first time. I’d never sang a hymn in my show before, because I hadn’t wanted to put people off. But it’s what I believe. So I sang ‘Lord I Need Thee Every Hour.’ At the end I gave a little monologue; I told the audience: ‘We are dealt so much in life that’s wrong. And we do so much that we wish we hadn’t. But you’re so much more than those things. You are beautiful, and you are needed in the world.’ Then I closed with ‘You Are So Beautiful,’ by Joe Cocker. Margaret stayed behind to drink a glass of wine after everyone left. We settled into the 14-foot sectional. And I started to look around, at all my stuff. Beneath my feet was the giant Oriental Rug my kids had given me one Christmas, they’d split the cost seven ways. There was my collection of antique Nancy Drew mysteries. There were my three pictures of curved bridges. The hurricane lamp, with a cardinal, that my daughter had given me. Because she knows how much I love little lights. My rooster plates, my rooster platter, the rooster lamp from Cracker Barrel. My upholstered coffee table. The drapes I’d sewn from my favorite fabric at Hobby Lobby. I’d waited weeks for it to go on sale. I never thought I could do a good job because we were so poor. But looking around at all this stuff, I realized something: it was beautiful. When it all came together, it was beautiful. Maybe I hadn’t been given many choices in life. But I always knew what beauty was. And even in the ugly, I created beauty.”

(13/15) “The first thing I did when I got a real paycheck was...

(13/15) “The first thing I did when I got a real paycheck was hire a real estate broker. I told him that I only had one requirement. He said: ‘Not in New York. Not at your price point.’ But I told him: ‘I’m a praying woman.’ Sure enough he called the very next day. He said: ‘You’re not going to believe this. But I found a place in Harlem.’ We went to see it that very night. It was a one-bedroom, right around the corner from a cigar shop. I walked straight into the living room, took out my tape measure, and measured the walls. 14 feet exactly, just big enough for my sectional. And I knew I was home. Lucas was so proud of me. And Garrison bought me a second charm for my bracelet. It was a little house, with ‘Home Sweet Home’ written on it. But my other children still weren’t speaking to me. After I moved in, I went on Facebook and printed out their photos. I put them all over the apartment. Because I wanted to feel like they were still part of my life. Their birthdays were always tough for me. So were the holidays. I’d never lived alone before, so I was dreading my first Christmas in the new apartment. I made sure to plan out my entire day: I was going to read all morning, cook some salmon for lunch, then crawl into bed at 4 PM to watch the Christmas Prince on Netflix. The plan was going great. When I finished my reading, I was so proud of myself. I thought: ‘I’m almost through Christmas Day.’ Then I looked at the clock and it was only 10:15 in the morning. And I lost it. I just lost it. I went through my whole apartment, and took down all the pictures of my children. I stuffed them in a drawer. I couldn’t face them. I felt like a horrible mother, and a hypocrite. For all those years I’d gone from church to church, teaching about marriage and motherhood. I told everyone: ‘Put Jesus first, others second, and yourself last.’ But that isn’t what I’d done. I moved to New York and put myself first. And now I had five kids that wouldn’t talk to me. The old feelings of guilt and shame started washing over me. I let myself go for a few minutes, but then I pulled myself back up. Jab with the left. Jab with the left. Cross with the right, and fuck that shit.”

(12/15) “I was still in the shelter at Christmastime, so...

(12/15) “I was still in the shelter at Christmastime, so Garrison flew in from Arkansas to be with me. We ate a Christmas meal together. We went and looked at the windows on 5th Avenue. And right before he left to go home, Garrison gave me a small box, with a bracelet inside. On it there was a single charm, with the skyline of New York City. He told me: ‘This is your New Life Bracelet. And I’m going to get you a charm for every new accomplishment.’ From that day on—whenever things got hard, I’d twirl that charm between my fingers, and trust that things would get better. Every morning the shelter guard would wake me up at 3 AM, so I could catch the train to Brooklyn. I worked the opening shift at Starbucks. But I never minded. Loving on people has always been my favorite thing to do. I knew all my customers’ names. I’d memorized their orders. My favorite thing was when I got to write their name on the cup. I’d always draw a special little curve underneath, just to let them know they were special. One of my favorite customers was a man named Eric. He sometimes came in with his husband. And he was quick to grin, so whenever I had a break we would get to chatting. I had no idea what he did for work. But I told him the same thing that I told all my favorite customers: ‘If you know anybody who’s looking for a receptionist, keep me in mind.’ It turns out that Eric was the CEO of a consulting company, and he asked me to put together a resume. All I’d ever done was church work. So there wasn’t much to put on there, but in the end it didn’t matter. The interviewer told me that the office printer wasn’t working. He said: ‘Let’s not worry about your resume. Tell me your story instead.’ When I finished he asked if he could give me a hug. And they ended up creating a position just for me: HR Assistant. My starting pay was $50,000 a year, with benefits. A few days after I got hired, Eric took me out to coffee. He told me: ‘I know you think I got you this job, but I didn’t pull any strings. I handed them your resume, and all I said was: I have an unorthodox candidate.’”

(11/15) “I’d always head straight to the gym after my shift at...

(11/15) “I’d always head straight to the gym after my shift at Starbucks. Martin trained me for free the entire time I was in the shelter. He told me that he was going to turn me into a fighter. He was hard on me. He said I had more problems than a math book. And if I ever complained, he’d call me a drama queen. One afternoon I came in upset, because I’d just gotten an email from my husband, saying I was outside the will of God. It had really shaken me. But when I told Martin what happened, all he said was: ‘Fuck that shit.’ He told me to get in the ring. And as he wrapped my hands, he said: ‘We’re going to do things a little different today. Every time you throw a cross, you’re going to say: ‘Fuck that shit.’ I laughed. I said: ‘Oh, no. I don’t talk like that.’ But Martin wasn’t laughing. He said: ‘You’ll talk like that today.’ I looked around the gym, and it was just me and him. So I gave it a try. Jab with the left. Jab with the left. Cross with the right, and: ‘Fuck that shit.’ Martin was wearing the pads on his hands; and he’s saying: ‘Louder. kid. Louder.’ He said: ‘Nobody fucks with you, nobody.’ Which wasn’t true of course, because I’d been fucked with my entire life. But I tried it again, this time even louder: ‘Fuck that shit.’ Louder. ‘Fuck! That! Shit!’ We did it for thirty minutes. With each punch, I got louder and louder until I was screaming. At first those words were just about my husband, and the email he had sent. But as I kept hitting the pads, those words became something else. It became my way of giving voice to everything that was done to me in the name of God. The psychological abuse in the marriage. The sexual abuse as a child. All the guilt I’d been made to feel, all the shame. Fuck. That. Shit. It was wrong. I’ve known it was wrong my whole life. But I never defended myself. Or if I tried, it was: ‘Get back in your place.’ But now I was doing something. I was fighting back. At the end of the day when I walked out the door, I felt relieved of so much pain.  Martin called me over to the desk. He said: ‘Listen, kid. From now on, every time someone tries to mess with you, or makes you feel less than, you gotta say it: ‘Fuck that shit.’”