Brandon Stanton's Blog, page 20

(10/15) “My first night in the shelter I found a folding chair...

(10/15) “My first night in the shelter I found a folding chair and sat with my back against the wall. I needed to feel something solid against my back. I didn’t know if there was going to be a bottom that I could hit, and bounce back up. Or if it was just going to be darkness and I’d never come out again. I was scared. But I was also angry. I felt like my identity had been stolen. From the time I was two years old, until the night I entered the shelter, somebody else had been in control of my life. Each day for ‘check-in’ the women would line up against a brick wall. But I never wanted to be in that line, so I would walk around the neighborhood until the last minute. One day I noticed that a boxing club had opened a few blocks down. They were offering trial lessons for $40, so I decided to go see what it was all about. There weren’t many athletic clothes in the shelter’s clothing closet. So I came to my lesson wearing faded blue men’s swimming trunks, an oversized T-shirt, and my black Starbucks work shoes. The owner’s name was Martin. And one thing about Martin, is that he’s always saying ‘kid.’ He took one look at me when I walked in the door, and said: ‘What’s your greatest fear kid?’ I told him I had a fear of defending myself. Because as a child I’d been abused by men in our church, over and over. And if I raised my arms to defend myself, they abused me worse. I asked Martin if we could maybe start with a speed bag. But he told me they didn’t have a speed bag. He threw me a towel, and said: ‘Get in the ring, kid. I’m about to change your life.’ He had me doing exercises named after animals: crab stuff, and bear stuff, and duck things. I thought I was going to die. The whole time he was telling jokes. They were bad jokes, but he kept me so scrambled that I forgot about my fear. That first day he taught me how to do the ‘jab, jab, cross.’ Two jabs with the left, and a cross with the right. And I enjoyed it. I enjoyed the hitting. When we finished Martin asked me when I was coming back. I told him I couldn’t, because I didn’t have any money. He said it didn’t matter. He called out to the person running the desk, and said: ‘Hey! Put this kid on my list!’”

(9/15) “It was magic that night. I didn’t miss any lines, or any...

(9/15) “It was magic that night. I didn’t miss any lines, or any beats. I sang seventeen of my favorite love songs: ‘Somewhere Over The Rainbow,’ Unforgettable,’ ‘Love Look What You’ve Done to Me.’ Toward the end of the show I sang ‘Dance With Me,’ by Orleans. I told the audience that for eight years I’d begged my husband to waltz with me, but he never would. He kept saying that I was too short. When I started to sing, the whole audience got up and danced with me. In that moment I could feel my chains breaking. It might have been the first time in my life I felt completely free. On the night of my performance, I’d been living in New York for just over a year. And a year is a long time to have someone living in your house. Lucas never made me feel like a burden, but I felt like a burden. For months I’d been praying to God: ‘Help me find a way out of here.’ And he answered that prayer. Just not in the way I was expecting. One morning Lucas told me that we needed to talk. He said that Margaret had been offered a job out-of-state, and she was going to take it. He invited me to come with them. I couldn’t bare the thought of starting all over again, in a new place. But most of all I didn’t want to be a burden. So I told him: ‘Thank you. I’m alive because of you, but I’m going to stay.’ When Lucas moved away, I lost the last bubble of protection between me and New York City. Garrison begged me to come live with him in Arkansas. He had an extra room in his apartment. But he was living in the town where I was born, and I just couldn’t do it. I told him: ‘If it gets bad, I’ll come live with you.’ And he said: ‘Mama, a homeless shelter is bad.’ I told him: ‘Not bad enough.’ I checked into a private shelter in Chinatown. There were thirty women in one room with fifteen bunk beds. On the night I was admitted, they made me have my picture taken for a photo ID card. I had to sign a piece of paper, to prove that I was homeless. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. When I put my signature on that line, I felt like I was sealing my doom.”

(8/15) “I thought about what Lucas had said: ‘Let go of all the...

(8/15) “I thought about what Lucas had said: ‘Let go of all the rules.’ And the very next week I started writing a one-woman show. I called it ‘One Woman’s Journey To Love,’ and it was nothing but love songs, with little pieces of my story in between. I managed to put together a five-piece band. Two of The Three Gentlemen joined me, and Lucas agreed to play the bass. I could only afford to give the musicians $200 each. But at our rehearsal I served a huge crockpot of chicken enchilada soup, and one dozen of my signature peanut butter cookies. We started running through my list of songs, but I had the hardest time giving direction. Because I’d never told a man what to do before. Our drummer said: ‘Detra, this is your band. You have to give us direction.’ So I gave it a try. I started making little suggestions, like: ‘A bit slower here.’ Or: ‘Let’s try this chord instead.’ And the band would play just how I liked it. These five men did something nobody else had ever done for me before. They didn’t hold me down, they carried me. If I ever missed my entrance, they’d circle back, pick me up, and drop me back in again. My favorite part was when they talked about me like I wasn’t there. Sometimes when I did a song perfectly, one of them would say: ‘Just look at her, ya’ll. Ain’t she amazing?’ We held the performance on a Tuesday night at Hill Country. There were 35 or 40 people there. Most of them were my Starbucks customers: the regional manager came, my district manager came. Margaret got there early and did my make-up. I wore something from my old life. It was a black-and-white V-neck top, with shiny dots all over it. I’d gotten it with my employee discount at Dress Barn, and it looked beautiful under the stage lights. When it came time for the show, I told the guys: ‘Just give me one note on the keyboard and we’re going to start.’ Because that’s how I was dropped into New York. The lights came up. And for the first time in my life, I stepped out on a stage meant for me: my band, my show, my songs. I took a deep breath, the band gave me my one note, and I released my voice into New York City. The first song I sang was ‘L-O-V-E,’ by Nat King Cole. And I owned it.”

(7/15) “Every Sunday after my shift at Starbucks I’d eat at a...

(7/15) “Every Sunday after my shift at Starbucks I’d eat at a place called Hill Country BBQ. It was the closest thing to Arkansas that I’d found in New York. They had sweet tea. And moist brisket. And live music every weekend. The band that performed on Sunday was called The Three Gentlemen. It was three guys with low slung guitars, singing cover songs about getting drunk and star-crossed lovers: Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson, that sort of thing. I’d sit at the bar with my glass of sweet tea, and just listen. After a few months I’d gone so much that the bartenders had named a drink after me, and I’d memorized the lyrics to every song The Three Gentlemen sang. During one performance the lead singer noticed me mouthing along, and he decided to have a little fun. He said: ‘Detra, come up here and sing a song with us.’ I said: ‘Don’t I have to audition?’ He shook his head ‘no,’ so I stepped up on stage and took hold of the mic. It was a Sunday afternoon, so there wasn’t much of a crowd. Mostly young mothers and fathers, with babies in strollers. But all the waiters and waitresses had gotten to know me by that time. One of them shouted downstairs: ‘Detra is fixing to sing!’, and everyone came running up. The song was ‘Make You Feel My Love’ by Adele. And I must have done alright. Because when I finished the whole staff was clapping wildly. Even The Three Gentlemen seemed impressed. I think it was probably a small thing for them, letting me sing. But for them to have said: ‘We want to hear your voice. Come just as you are.’ It was a big thing for me. From that day on, it became our little tradition. Every Sunday they’d invite me on stage to sing a song with them. These were saloon songs. Songs about alcohol, like ‘Tennessee Whiskey.’ And ‘Make it Through The Night’, that song is about sex. One time Lucas came along to hear me sing, and I was nervous. Because he’d only ever heard me sing religious songs. After the show he came up to me, and he was shaking his head. He said: ‘I’m disappointed in you, Mama.’ And my heart began to sink. Then he said: ‘You’re holding back. I’ve seen you do much better than that. Let go of all the rules, and own that song.”

(6/15) “In Brooklyn there was a church with a 300-voice world...

(6/15) “In Brooklyn there was a church with a 300-voice world famous choir. It was mesmerizing to watch. In my old church you weren’t even allowed to raise your hands. But this choir moved, like a wind was blowing through it. I’d stand up front every Sunday and move right along with it. One week they announced that the choir would be holding auditions. I knew I could carry a tune, so I signed up for a slot. The auditions were in the office of the pastor’s wife. We made small talk before we began. She had family in Arkansas, so she asked me why I left. I told her my story, and then I sang ‘Amazing Grace.’ I had a heavy cold that day, but Amazing Grace has this way of coming through. And when I finished, she said: ‘Detra, you passed.’ I could feel my soul begin to stretch. Those words were like an invitation to me, to finally worship freely. But before I could officially join the choir, the pastor’s wife told me I needed to meet with a ‘church counselor.’ It ended up being her son. He asked how I could stand before the throne of God, having run away from a pastor husband. Then he asked for my husband’s phone number. I think I made it downstairs before I started sobbing. At the time I was applying for a job at Starbucks, and they needed me to work Sundays. I’d only missed church twice growing up: once when I had the measles, and once when I had the mumps. But I said: ‘God, use this job to let me know if you want me to keep going to church.’ On the night I was hired Lucas and Margaret cooked me a celebratory dinner. They brought out a bottle of red wine and poured me a glass. It wasn’t the first time they’d offered me wine, but it was the first time I had something to celebrate. I wasn’t sure if I could do it. I knew it would be crossing a line in the sand. Lucas saw me staring down at my glass, and said: ‘Don’t worry Mom, you don’t have to do it.’ But I wanted to do it. The name of the wine was Cannonball. On the label it showed a child. She was flying through the air, with her knees pulled to her chest, about to leap into something entirely new. I took my first sip, and oh my Goodness. It was the worst thing I’d ever tasted. So I took another. And another.”

(12/12) “Sometimes after work DiCo will be like: ‘You wanna get...

(12/12) “Sometimes after work DiCo will be like: ‘You wanna get a drink together?’ And that still feels weird, even though I’m 27. Because part of me will always see him as my superior. DiCo laughs at me. He says: ‘C’mon, you’re doing better than me now.’ But part of me is always gonna be a kid around DiCo. Last week we went to a vegan restaurant together. The only time I eat vegan is when I’m with DiCo. We got a couple drinks. And DiCo started telling me all these things that he’d never told me. He told me that his sister had been very sick while he was coaching our team. ‘I was visiting the hospital every day,’ he said. ‘Didn’t you wonder why I kept leaving practice early?’ I felt so bad. Because the truth is I didn’t wonder. I never sat down and wondered what it was like to be DiCo. For the first time in my life I’d found somebody that would take on my trauma, and my pain. Because DiCo was all I had. But you know what? We were all he had too. He was with us until 8:30 every night, and not once did I ask DiCo: ‘How are you doing?’, ‘How was your day?’ He was dealing with the transition, and his sister, and all this other stuff. But I only cared about me, me, me. For so many years I’d been mad at DiCo. Even when I wasn’t mad anymore, I was still sour. I kept asking myself, what if he hadn’t left?  Stonybrook is great. But maybe I could have gone to Harvard like Ksewa. Or Yale, like Jasly. I put all of that on DiCo. Because that’s what hurt people do. It was easier for me to focus on DiCo leaving, instead of what he did for me during those two years of my life. Toward the end of our dinner I was crying so hard that people were bringing me water. Then DiCo hit me with one last thing. He said that as soon as he got hired by the new school, he’d gone to the principal and asked them to hold a spot for me. He called my mom. He told her: ‘Let Jonathan come with me.’ For weeks DiCo kept calling her, saying: ‘Please, it’s a great opportunity.’ But my mom never followed through. She wouldn’t fill out the papers. Because she was on drugs. ‘I didn’t want to tell you,’ DiCo said. ‘Because I never wanted you to blame your mom. But I did try. I tried to take you with me.’”


Thank you to Jonathan Conyers for sharing his story. DiCo and Jon are building the Brooklyn Debate League to provide equal access to Speech and Debate programs for all students, regardless of income. They do programming every Monday and some of the tournaments have had over 80 students. They are running BDL on a shoestring, however. Thankfully they have a devoted network of alumni coaches, but DiCo has already spent $6,000 of his own savings on it. (Of course.) Please consider donating: https://bit.ly/bkdebateleague

(11/12) “My daughter Emily was born on February 2nd, 2013. Then...

(11/12) “My daughter Emily was born on February 2nd, 2013. Then three weeks later I started at Stonybrook. None of it was easy. Nicollete and I struggled. She had postpartum, and I had no idea how to be a father. I slipped so many times. I self-sabotaged. But DiCo has got this parenting instinct. Whenever he didn’t hear from me for awhile, that’s when he’d show up. He’d send me money, or even just a card to say he was thinking about me. I got my GPA up to a 3.5. I ended up becoming the R.A. of my dorm. And during my junior year Stonybrook decided to highlight my story in a fundraising campaign. They put my picture up on billboards, and busses. They flew in some producers from California, and filmed a video. They made me seem so great, but self-made is bullshit. Not when you grow up like me. There were so many people who helped me. It wasn’t just DiCo. But if DiCo doesn’t come, I never get to those other people. DiCo is number one. And not just for me, either. Our whole team is doing big things. Marvin’s at Columbia law school. Armani is an actor. Jasly went to Harvard. Ksewa is a screenwriter in Los Angeles. Rollins is a director for charter schools in Connecticut. Maybe some of that happens without DiCo. But not for me. If it wasn’t for DiCo I’d have been in that cell with Koreh. I’m a respiratory therapist now, and my very first year I was making more money than DiCo. It got me thinking: ‘How did DiCo do it?’ A few years ago I asked him: ‘How could you afford to help us so much, working as a public school teacher?’ ‘I couldn’t,’ he said. ‘But I saw all of you as an investment. And I thought if I poured enough into you, you would help me give back to the world.’ A few years ago DiCo started something called the Brooklyn Debate League. He’s trying to start debate programs in urban areas: find coaches, provide resources, subsidize tournaments. At first I was just the biggest donor. But now I’m a board member, and I’m right there with him: visiting schools, giving speeches. I bet DiCo never could have imagined it. Back when I was a crazy ninth grader, jumping on tables. I bet DiCo never thought in a million years that one day we’d be coaching together.”

(10/12) “The next morning I went to school. I was still drunk,...

(10/12) “The next morning I went to school. I was still drunk, but I found my way to the counselor’s office and picked up some college applications. By the end of the week I’d sent them all off, and one month later I got an acceptance letter from Stonybrook University, with a full scholarship. They offered to pay for my dorm and everything. The first thing I did was text DiCo. He was so happy. He asked me to come visit his school and speak to his new team. He’d invited me before, but I’d always been too ashamed. Because nothing good was happening in my life. But now I had some of my confidence back. DiCo met me at the front door of the school. He was wearing a full suit, and he seemed happy. He seemed himself. He gave me a tour of the school and we ended up at his classroom. At FDA there had only been eight kids in debate. But now DiCo had 75 kids. There were extra teachers helping him. There were brand new laptops, and brand-new materials. And there were so many trophies. These kids weren’t just competing at Harvard. They were winning at Harvard. DiCo took me across the room to this wall where he’d hung up all these pictures of famous people: there was the first black astronaut, and the first Latino judge. It was called ‘The World Changer Wall,’ or something like that. And my picture was up there. Obviously I didn’t belong on that wall, but I was on the wall. This whole time I thought that DiCo had been ashamed of me. But my picture was on his wall. The bell rang and all these kids came running in. Some of them recognized me. They were tugging on my sleeve, being like: ‘Tell us the Harvard story.’ I was like: ‘You told them that?’ And DiCo’s like: ‘I told them everything. None of this would have been possible without you.’ I needed to hear that. It made me feel like what I did for those two years wasn’t lost. When the practice began, DiCo tried to make me feel like I was a part of it. Every time a kid was presenting, he’d be like: ‘Jon,  how would you answer that? What would you do?’’ During one of the sessions, he pointed out a kid across the room. He said: ‘That’s you freshman year. His parents are on drugs. And I’d love if you could talk to him for me.’”

(9/12) “I felt like my life was over. I remember pacing around...

(9/12) “I felt like my life was over. I remember pacing around my apartment, screaming that I wasn’t ready to be a father. My teachers were trying. They’d be like: ‘Jonathan, you’re basically done. Just finish the year.’ But I didn’t see the point. I missed 90 days of senior year. I didn’t even bother sending off college applications. DiCo was sending me texts. He kept being like: ‘This isn’t the end of the world. Just remember what happened at Harvard. If you go to college, a lot can happen.’ But I wasn’t giving him much access. I’m lying to him. I’m telling him that things are good, but in reality I was drinking a lot. One morning I was sitting on a bench in the courtyard, and my parents’ drug dealer walked by. He was this older dude named Q, and he’s like: ‘Why aren’t you in school?’ I explained that I had a kid coming, and I didn’t know what to do. He’s like: ‘Why don’t you take a ride with me in my car?’ We went to pick up his daughter from school, and it was clear that Q was taking good care of her. She was wearing new clothes. He bought ice cream for all of her friends. He dropped a wop of cash on the dashboard, just to make a point. For two weeks we just rode around in his car, running errands. But one day he reached over and handed me a bag. He’s like: ‘It’s time to get started.’ It wasn’t dramatic like the movies. I’d just sit on the bench. And I guess Q put the word out, because people started coming up to me asking for drugs. I’d sell for a few hours. Then at the end of each day I’d go back to the shelter and watch my parents use the exact same drugs. I was becoming everything I hated about my community. Then one morning I was sitting in the apartment, and somebody starts knocking on the door. They’re screaming that Q just got robbed, and he wants me to grab the gun from his apartment. I hesitated. It took me a few minutes to get out the door. I guess Q got tired of waiting, and went to get the gun himself.  And when I finally got to his place, there were cops everywhere. Q was lying on the ground. His hands were cuffed behind his back, and the gun was lying right next to him. It was supposed to be me that was holding that gun. I’d come that close.”

(8/12) “DiCo brought in a new coach to smooth the transition. It...

(8/12) “DiCo brought in a new coach to smooth the transition. It was a black man. Maybe DiCo thought that would make things better, but it didn’t. DiCo kept trying to explain himself. He’d be like: ‘Let’s talk about it, Jonathan.’ But I gave him the cold shoulder. Or I’d say something stupid, like: ‘If there’s no debate, I’m going to drop out of school.’ DiCo leaving was just enough of an excuse for me to start doing the dumb stuff I wanted to do anyway. Koreh had gone back to prison, but a lot of my other friends were still around. We were drinking a lot, acting crazy. I didn’t even say goodbye to DiCo at the end of the year. I was hurt. I told myself a story, about how DiCo couldn’t handle black kids. And that he’d never have another team like us again. But after a few months I started getting updates from former teammates. They were like ‘Haven’t you heard? DiCo’s coaching at another black school. And he’s got another winning team.’ I didn’t even join FDA’s debate team my junior year. I didn’t have the energy. That was the year my father found out my mom had an affair, and went after her with a knife. We got evicted for the eighth time. I’d started dating a girl named Nicolette, and she lived in Brooklyn. So I was spending a lot of time in Brooklyn with her. The funny thing is Nicolette’s house was ten minutes from DiCo’s new school. So I’d walk by it every time I went to visit her. It was this beautiful new charter school. There were brownstones all around it. All these kids had uniforms. It made me mad. It’s like: Why don’t I deserve this too, DiCo? Why did you get to leave? I know you were just my teacher. But you can’t just be a teacher in black neighborhoods. Most of the time you weren’t even teaching, you was trying to save us. And I did everything you asked me to do. I became a geek. I did all these bullshit paragraphs. And then you ran away. Why don’t I get to run away too? I’m living in a box. My parents are on crack. Every day of my life I want to run away. It wasn’t fair of me to think like that, but I was hurt. I felt trapped. Then right before my senior year, I got a call from Nicolette. ‘I’m pregnant,’ she said. ‘You’re going to be a father.’”