Brandon Stanton's Blog, page 26

“I’m a physical therapist for severely disabled children in the...

“I’m a physical therapist for severely disabled children in the South Bronx. Their observation skills are so keen. They understand more than you know. But they rarely get spoken to, or hugged. Often they aren’t even treated like humans. When the world can’t understand what you want, it kind of ignores you. I had one student named Tamisha who was stuck in a wheelchair. She could only move her eyes. She couldn’t speak, but I could basically read her mind. Tamisha was very intelligent, and very sarcastic. If someone in tight clothing got on the elevator, she’d roll her eyes. And giggle. I’d have to pretend I didn’t know why she was laughing. We grew so close over the years. On Halloween I dressed her up as a butterfly, because that’s how I saw her. She was trapped in this body, but she was a soul with so much depth and so much future. Many of these kids have nowhere to go when they graduate from school. They lose their social lives, and sense of purpose. They’re imprisoned in their bedrooms for the rest of their lives. When Tamisha graduated I wanted to do something for her. Her economic situation was not good. She was being raised by a single father. But Tamisha was completely immobile, so it’s not like I could just get her something cool on Amazon. But my husband and I came up with another idea. We went to Home Depot and got paint, and butterflies, and rainbow decals. And we completely transformed her bedroom. We wouldn’t let her look. We made her sleep in the living room. But at the end of the weekend, when Tamisha’s father carried her in, she started going wild. Her eyes lit up. She’s making all kinds of vocalizations. Her father is holding her, and he’s crying. It was a miracle. Every makeover is a miracle. We’ve done about 20 of them now. We always manage to find the money. We always manage to find the volunteers. Somehow they always come together in a magnificent way. Our process always begins with an interview process. We ask the person: what makes you happy? What colors do you love? What are your favorite things? We figure out exactly what they want. We let them design their dream room. Then we become the instruments who bring that dream to life.”

The two things I’m always looking for are story and voice. Story...

The two things I’m always looking for are story and voice. Story is often lying on the surface. It’s the way the events of a person’s life will string together. Voice is a much harder thing to quantify. Voice is the way someone speaks. But it’s not the ‘actual’ sound of their voice, because that can’t be transmitted through writing. It’s how a person uses language. The things they say that nobody else says. Those combinations of words that belong only to them. A strong voice is one of the writer’s greatest tools. A strong voice will pull you into a story. It will turn the written word into a living person.  
This week I shared the story of Kasson, a young man who was blinded after being stabbed in the eye with a screwdriver. At first the story wasn’t obvious. But as I took out my computer and began to transcribe Kasson’s words, right away I saw it. Clear as day. Not the story, but the voice. What a voice. ‘Too bright, too late. / You make me want to carry your books / May first was like love.’ Kasson was clearly a poet. He didn’t write poetry, but he was a poet. The story still wasn’t clear to me. Kasson hadn’t resolved his trauma yet, so I wasn’t sure how to end it. The published version ends rather abruptly: Kasson sitting on the steps, building up his courage, preparing for a new life. It’s not a perfect story. Questions remain. But at that point story didn’t matter, because we were too busy listening to Kasson’s voice.
The final step in my process is sending the finished story to the subject. It’s their chance to tell me if I got anything wrong, if I messed up any part of the story. But it’s also their chance to tell me if anything ‘feels off.’ If anything doesn’t sound like them. If I messed up their voice. This is always a nerve-wracking moment for me. By that time I’ve usually spent many days on the story, and I’m dreading the prospect of having to rip it apart. I knew that Kasson wasn’t going to be able to read the story himself. Somebody would need to read it out loud. I’d never done that before. And I was nervous. I could have easily sent the story to his girlfriend Benji, but that seemed like a cop out. So I picked up the phone. And what followed was one of the most spiritual moments of my life.
Kasson was alone when he answered my call. It was just me and him. I knew he was in the dark, hearing nothing but my voice. He was silent while I read the story. But it wasn’t a distracted silence. It was a focused silence. A heavy silence. An intimate silence. A silence of communion. Kasson was hearing my voice. He was hearing his story in my voice. But not just that. He was hearing his voice, in my voice. And the gravity of that responsibility had never been clearer to me. The stakes felt so high. I was giving him back the words he’d given me, several weeks before. But with structure. It was a story now. We felt joy in the same moments. We were crushed by the same moments. We felt the suspense, even though we both knew what was going to happen. And when the story was finished, both of us were a little stunned. Before any words were spoken, I knew that I had gotten it right. ‘Wow,’ said Kasson. He was crying now. ‘I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it happened to me.’



This was excerpted from an essay called ‘Voice,’ which I shared yesterday with members of the Humans of New York Patreon. It’s the support of this community that allows Humans of New York to remain free of advertisements or sponsorships. Each month I try to share with them some of my thinking and process. Hopefully they don’t mind me sharing this particular piece with a broader audience. If you’d like to contribute to HONY’s creation by joining the Patreon, you may do so here: https://bit.ly/HONYPatreon

(7/7) “Sometimes I want to throw my shades away. I want to throw...

(7/7) “Sometimes I want to throw my shades away. I want to throw this stick away, and stand up, and walk straight. Listen to the traffic and just walk straight forever. It’s like I’m in a dream. A dream where I’m not blind no more. I’m still the old K. Sometimes I’ll sit still for three hours, breaking down what happened that day. All the shit I did wrong. Everything I could have done different, to make it not happen. But it did happen. No matter how much I push it back, by drinking, or binge watching a show, it happened. That day happened. And I’m not dealing with it. I’m not handling it. I’m in purgatory, limbo, the in-between. I’m not in a braille class. I’m not signing up for programs. There’s a program where they teach you how to walk and stuff. I’m not even going to that. It’s been almost two years, and I’m still on step one. Cause step one means saying I’m not gonna see no more. Step one is I’m blind. That’s step one. And I haven’t felt ready. Cause step two is a whole new life. But it’s time to start walking. Benji and I have been praying so much. We watch her church on YouTube, and there’s a part at the end where you can get saved. I say that prayer every week. Benji laughs at me. She says: ‘You get saved every week.’ But I’ve gotta say the prayer. I’ve been praying so much, but it’s time for me to move. Maybe one day some doctor will figure out some surgery, OK. But I can’t wait for that. I’ve got to get off these steps. Cause if I’m not moving, that means I died on that day. I died on January 14th. I died at 33. And there has to be more. I want to see more than this. I don’t even know what I want to see, but something more than this. The world, life. I want to see life. I know I seen some, but I didn’t see a lot. I can see it better. So I gotta walk. When I leave off these steps, ain’t no telling what’s gonna happen. That means I’m off of ‘Go.’ I can fall. I can drop. But I’m gonna walk. Not using my eyes. I’m gonna walk in faith. There’s somebody leading me. I feel that now, I really do. I’m here for a reason. I’m scared. It’s scary as shit. But I’m gonna do it. Even if I’m scared, I’m gonna do it. I’m getting off these steps. I’m gonna walk.”


Kasson has a lot to overcome, internally and externally. It would be great if he had some solid ground beneath his feet from which to fight that battle. If you’ve been moved by his story, please consider contributing to his GoFundMe here: https://bit.ly/kasson     

If you know of any resources that might benefit Kasson, medical or otherwise, please reach out to Benji at melissatjbenjamin@gmail.com

(6/7) “We all go through honeymoon phases. May, May was...

(6/7) “We all go through honeymoon phases. May, May was terrific. But we’ve had our ups and downs since then. The first time we went out together, I got too intoxicated. It was a backyard BBQ. Benji was meeting my family for the first time. My whole family was there. And I tried to party like I used to, get up and dance. At first Benji was laughing. She’s like ‘look at my baby.’ But then I got too loud. Everyone was being loud, but I got super loud. And Benji asked me not to get another drink. I didn’t like that. I’m a grown man. I do what I wanna do. It got a little tense, cause I get sensitive about that. I want Benji to love me as a man. Not just as a human, but as a man. I want to provide. I want to take her out for once. Not her taking me out all the time, leading me by the hand. I know what people are saying: What can he do for you? What can he help you with? Will he be able to watch your children? There are times when Benji wants to talk about the future. Credit scores and stuff like that. She’ll say: ‘I’m in school for nursing, what are you going to do?’ And I’ll feel intimidated, real quick. I’ll feel like she’s gonna meet a doctor and leave me. But she knows that already. We talked all that out. Benji’s a great talker. In the beginning it was annoying. It was like, let me have some time. Let me have some space. But you can’t run from Benji. She doesn’t let up. One night she said: ‘Do you want me to pray for you?’ I thought she meant later that night, when she was going to sleep. But she was like: ‘No, right now. Do you want me to pray for you?’ Nobody had ever asked me that before. Maybe cause it’s the pandemic. But ever since I lost my eyes, nobody ever sat down and prayed with me. ‘I don’t know,’ I told her. ‘But I think I need it.’ We used to pray in church when I was little. But not like this. Benji came at it a little different. Or maybe I was just listening for the first time. It wasn’t magic or anything, but it felt real. This was from the heart. Benji was just talking. Talking to God. Talking to God about me. Talking to God for me. And I needed it. It wasn’t the first time I heard it, but this time I really heard it. Because I needed it.”

(5/7) “We used to work at the same steakhouse together. We were...

(5/7) “We used to work at the same steakhouse together. We were friends, just friends. Her name was Melissa, but everyone called her ‘Benji.’ And she was sweet. Our whole crew was from Brooklyn, so we were spicy. But Benji was sweet. She’s the one saying: ‘That’s not nice. Don’t do that.’ Even when she left the steakhouse, we kept in touch. Never no phone calls. But texts, I sent her texts. We hadn’t spoken since I’d lost my sight, so that morning I told my sister: ‘Send a message to Melissa. Tell her to call me.’ When the phone started ringing, I picked it up, and right off I said: ‘Did you hear? I can’t see anymore.’ Then Benji said: ‘I remember you were always squinting.’ I laughed hard at that. That broke the ice. After that it was three-hour phone calls, every night. The first time she came over was May 1st. May 1st was like a movie, a comedy about a blind guy. I asked my friend to bring me a bottle of wine, anything. I didn’t even check what it was. I was set up in my sister’s room. And there were cheetah print covers on the bed. But nobody ever told me they was cheetah print. And the bed had LED lights. Nobody told me about those either. In my head I was just sitting on a regular bed. But when Benji walked in, I was sitting on a cheetah bed. With LED lights flashing. Holding a bottle of Chandon champagne. Benji started laughing at me. She’s like: ‘What’s going on here?’ Then she pulled out her phone and put on a seventies beat. It was a great vibe. We started talking. Benji has the greatest voice. I love that voice. So sweet, and pure. Like a song from Pocahontas. Sight didn’t mean anything that night. You know how you imagine things when you’re reading a book? Well I could see her. She started telling me about all this college stuff she was doing. And I could see her. In my mind we were in school together, standing by her locker. That’s what I was seeing. I felt like asking her to go steady, but that felt too strong. So I said something else. I’m sitting on my cheetah bed, with the lights flashing. And I said: ‘Benji. You make me want to carry your books.’ That’s the day we became official. That was May 1st. It’s the day like love. May 1st is like love.”

(4/7) “I think a detective called my mom, right after it...

(4/7) “I think a detective called my mom, right after it happened. He said something about a ‘grand jury.’ And me needing to testify. But then he never called back. There was no paperwork, nothing. My mom and aunt made a lot of calls. They were asking questions. They were pushing. But nothing was moving. This was the pandemic, so they were just letting people out of jail. And I think they let the guy out. But I wasn’t even thinking about that. For all of 2020 I just wanted to get a bottle of something and stay by myself. I hated people seeing me as weak. My entire life I’d been a father figure, to everyone. I’m the oldest of seven kids. I’m the emergency contact for everyone’s school. But now I’m back home, sleeping in my sister’s twin bed. I didn’t like it. Every time I came out of my room, the entire house would be on pins and needles. One night I started arguing about something. Something that happened a long time ago.  I’d been drinking. I was an asshole that night. But the next morning when I came downstairs, nobody mentioned it. I thought I was in the clear. I went outside to have a smoke. But when I came back in, something felt strange. The air felt different. I heard my mom’s voice: ‘K, come in my room.’ She closed the bedroom door, and said: ‘I’m happy you got a chance to be regular last night, I really am. But you’re being too regular. You need to humble yourself, or nobody’s gonna care anymore.’ All I could do is cry. Not a loud cry, but a hurt cry. Cause when you’re grown, and your mother has to sit you down, and really tell you something, it hurts. I told her I’m sorry. She said don’t apologize, just change. A few nights later I was up late listening to TV. It was 4 AM or 5 AM. And one of those preacher things came on. I’m not church heavy, but I started listening. It was a whole book they were trying to sell. It had seven key points. I only remember one of them: ‘Life comes in seasons.’ That’s the one that hit me. I remember thinking: this season is done. No more staying by myself. No more drinking all the time. This season is over. When I woke up the next morning, I asked my sister to get on my phone. ‘I told her: ‘Send a message to Melissa.'”

(3/7) “In the beginning I thought I was gonna see again. I...

(3/7) “In the beginning I thought I was gonna see again. I thought the doctors were going to do this flashy thing, and I was gonna see again. Those first weeks I had hope. I kept a smile on my face. I was laughing. I learned how to use Alexa on my phone. Alexa was my girl. She’d tell me the weather. She’d tell me what day it was. National cupcake day. National cookie day. There’s a holiday for everything, and Alexa always told me. I didn’t lose hope until February 19th. That’s the day Pop Smoke got killed. I remember riding in the back of the car to my doctor’s appointment, and the radio said that Pop Smoke got shot. It was the morning the doctor looked at my eyes, and said: ‘The optic nerve is severed. There’s nothing we can do.’ He said: ‘Just make sure he’s comfortable.’ Right there I went cold. Comfortable? Comfortable? What does that even mean? I’d only heard that in movies, when someone’s dying of cancer. ‘Comfortable’ means put him a room, and cook him food, and let him sit there.’ That’s the moment I cried. When the doctor said: ‘Keep him comfortable,’ I lost hope. After the 19th I just wanted to get a bottle of something and stay by myself. Me, Alexa, Hennessey, and Jameson. I didn’t go anywhere. Maybe I’d come outside and sit on the top of the stairs. But never at the bottom. Cause the bottom’s too close to the street. People get robbed on this street, people get jumped. I didn’t even want to go to the corner store. What if someone walked in with a mask on? I wouldn’t even know. And suddenly I’m a victim all over again. I’m not trying to deal with that. So I just stayed put. I was lying in bed all day. I was only sliding up to eat. I felt dead, worse than dead. For awhile I thought: Maybe I’m in hell. Is this how hell is? Cause I’m up. I’m walking around. But it’s pitch black. And there’s fire all around me. It was the pandemic, so it felt like the world was on fire. I don’t want to move cause I don’t want to get burned. I want to take a peek first. But I can’t peek, so I’m too scared to move. There’s nobody here to lead me. If somebody offers to lead me, it’s like: are you gonna be the one to burn me? Are you the devil? Is that you again?”

(2/7) “When I woke up I couldn’t see. It’s like: why can’t I...

(2/7) “When I woke up I couldn’t see. It’s like: why can’t I see?  Eyes open, eyes closed. It’s the same thing. And I can’t move. My hands are cuffed behind my back. I can’t even touch my face to find out why I can’t see. Where am I? Why am I shackled up? My feet are shackled to the bed. What did I do? Did I kill someone? Am I going to jail? What if I’m going to jail and I can’t see? I started to panic. But then I heard my mom’s voice. She said: ‘Calm down K, you’re in the hospital. Calm down.’ So I calmed down. I got real quiet and listened. There was beeping all around me. All of these voices started asking me questions: ‘Do you know what happened? Do you know your birthday?’ I was answering them. I kept telling them my birthday, but they were asking me again and again. For a second I thought that maybe I was slow. Am I slow? Is something wrong with my brain? Is that why I can’t see? I can’t see. I kept telling them, I can’t see. And they were like: ‘You’ve been stabbed in your left eye with a screwdriver. That eye doesn’t work.’ And I’m like: ‘No, I can’t see. At all. At all!’ The doctors were confused by that. They were like: ‘We don’t know, we don’t know.’ That’s when I got scared. I knew right then something happened to me crazy. I was the victim of something, but why was I in handcuffs? They took off the cuffs later that night. The officers were acting like they felt bad. They kept saying: ‘It wasn’t us. It wasn’t our shift. You gotta talk to the people who’s shift that is.’ I never got an explanation. It bothered me. Even today it bothers me. Why did they put me in handcuffs? I’m the one who got robbed. I’m the one who got stabbed in the eye. Why was I shackled up like a prisoner of war? I never got an answer for that. I’ve asked myself a million times, what if hadn’t been in cuffs? Would the doctors have treated me different? Did they really do their best, for this John Doe, with no family around? When I was on the operating table, what if my hands hadn’t been cuffed behind my back? What if I hadn’t been shackled up? Like a criminal? Would they have tried harder? Would they have tried harder to save my eyes?”

(1/7) “I have a thing for Tuesdays. I was born on a Tuesday. And...

(1/7) “I have a thing for Tuesdays. I was born on a Tuesday. And January 14th was a Tuesday. It happened to be my day off, so I decided: Today’s for me. Today is gonna be the official start of my new year. I spent a little of the money I’d been saving. I went to Nordstrom’s and got a new jacket. I got some new Jordan Thirteens. That was Tuesday. Tuesday was a good day. It was Wednesday when everything went wrong. That was the worst day of my life. I slept late. My cab was late. I almost called out. I should have called out. If I’d have called out, it would have been an entirely different day. The bar was busy, so I was in the weeds my entire shift. Everything was off by a second, that entire day. After work I drank a little bottle of 1800, then I headed to my girlfriend’s place. She was going through her own stuff. She sorta gave me the cold shoulder. So I was like ‘That’s it. I’m leaving.’ I gathered all the clothes I’d bought on Tuesday: my Jordans, my jacket. I didn’t want to carry the bags, so I just put it all on. That was my first mistake. It was too late to be that bright. After I left the apartment, I realized that I didn’t have my cell phone. I couldn’t call a cab. I should have gone back. I should have knocked on the door, but I was too proud. That was my second mistake. If I had knocked on the door, it would have been an entirely different day. I started walking to the train station. And that’s when it starts to get fuzzy. I heard the train coming so I started to run, and I stumbled. I remember thinking: ‘Straighten up, look right.’ In this neighborhood you’ve got to look right when it’s late at night. The train pulled into the station, and right away it’s a bad vibe. The first car I chose had a bunch of guys, grown men. I should have waited for the next train. But I just chose another car. That was my third mistake. This car was empty. This car was calm. But as soon as the train pulled away, the emergency door opened. And a guy walked in. I never should have been there. Sitting on that train. I was too bright, too late. I looked like a come up. A lick. I remember thinking: I’m about to get robbed. And I did get robbed. For my eyes.”

(11/11) “She’s in my dreams six nights a week. Usually we’re...

(11/11) “She’s in my dreams six nights a week. Usually we’re just chilling: in the car, or watching tv on the couch. I’ll be like: ‘What’s up G?’ And she’ll be like: ‘What’s up Ant?’ Afterwards I’ll wake up, and lie in bed for a bit. Not believing that I just woke up. Then I’ll play ‘Time after Time,’ and that’s when the tears come out hard. The place is a little cleaner now, I will say that. That’s the only thing we ever bickered about. I’m not saying G was dirty, if she’s listening. But messy. She was messy. So the place is cleaner now. But I’m struggling man. I’m struggling. I still have The Knicks. And I’ve got great friends, but they’ve all got wives and kids. I will say that things have been much better with my mom lately. But most of the time it’s just me in the crib. I don’t know what to do with myself. Sometimes I’ll drive to the hospital and just sit in the parking lot. That was my identity: G and Ant. Ant and G. That’s all gone now. It was real man, this was real. I’ve never had kids, so I don’t know what that feels like. But I think I kinda do, you know? I’ll never have another love like G, ever. And that’s OK. I’m OK with that. On my last birthday G was super sick, but she organized a party at the hospital. It was supposed to be a surprise, but she accidentally added me to the Facebook invite. All day Iong I was getting notifications: the cake just arrived, the balloons just arrived. It was hilarious. But I never told her I knew. When I walked in the room, I acted completely surprised. All my friends were there. There was a Knicks cake. Knicks decorations. And there was G, with the biggest smile on her face. She was holding a ‘Happy Birthday Anthony’ sign that she’d made in the hospital art program. She was so freaking proud of herself. For so much of our lives I’d been doing everything, but this was something she put together. This was all her. And she was so freaking happy. That day she gave me my final birthday card. I’ve got it hanging on the fridge right now. It’s half-orange, half-blue. On the top she wrote: ‘You saved my life so many times. I can’t thank you enough.’ Then at the bottom, she signed it: ‘Love always. Your biggest fan, Gianna.”