Brandon Stanton's Blog, page 28

(5/5) “I brought an old tennis racket to boarding school. I had...

(5/5) “I brought an old tennis racket to boarding school. I had never played before, but I decided to make it my thing. I practiced so hard. I didn’t chit chat. And my freshman year I made the team. I’m what they call an aggressive baseliner. You think the ball is going out, but it’s not. It’s going in. Because I always hit the lines. Our first match was at an actual country club. I was so out of place. Everyone was wearing tennis skirts, and all I had were athletic shorts. But I just kicked this chick’s butt. I think it was 6-0, 6-1, 6-0. It felt so good. Thank God for tennis. Because it’s hard to feel ‘less than’ when you’re winning. After that match I used all my money to buy a tennis skirt. I bought it too large, and I pinned it. So I could wear it for all four years. I was that way with all my clothes. Finally I could control what I wore, and I was smart about it. I bought things I could wear again and again. Things I could mix and match. Fashion became my armor. It was my way of controlling how other people see me. My freshman year people were making fun of my clothes. But by the time I left, I was voted ‘best dressed.’ I’ve had a lot of different jobs since college. But I’ve always been involved in fashion. It’s mostly on social: talking about trends, and how to make them your own. But I take every opportunity to be on camera. Two years back I was invited on a TV show to talk about Halloween costumes for dogs. I wanted so bad to say ‘no.’ But I knew: if this is what I wanted to do, I needed to push past the fear. I was petrified the entire time we were filming. You can hear my voice crack. But I did it. And after the show I pet my first dog. I can hold them now. I can play with them. I don’t have that fear anymore. Looking back, it was never the dog I was truly afraid of. I thought it was. But now I just feel so sorry for him. Those people treated him so badly. Nobody was taking him on walks. They were poking him with sticks. He was in that cage all the time. He was barking because he was cold, and angry, and scared. I just feel so sad for him. I always thought it was him. For the longest time I thought it was him. But it was never him. It was the home.”


Charell asks for anyone with love in their home to consider fostering a child. She’s also set up a fundraiser for anyone who’s been moved by her story to support foster youth: https://bit.ly/supportcharell

(4/5) “I spent eighteen months in that home. Then one morning a...

(4/5) “I spent eighteen months in that home. Then one morning a social worker showed up, put my stuff in a trash bag, and took me to the next place. Before the age of eleven I would live in six different foster homes. They kinda blend together. The sexual abuse only happened in one of them. But I was physically abused in three or four. There wasn’t anyone to talk to. Nobody ever asked: ‘Are you doing well? Do you feel safe?’ Not the caseworkers, or social workers, or anyone. But even if someone had asked, even if someone had cared, I’m not sure I’d have spoken up. Because I didn’t know what would come next. There were always worse places; so I didn’t want to risk it. Books were an escape for me. If I could get my hands on a book, I could sit in the corner, and shrink myself, and not be in the way. It was a way to keep people from bothering me or hitting me or making me feel bad. It gave me a little bit of control. Another thing I could control was my clothes. I loved to wear dresses. Especially colorful ones. When I was in care I wore a lot of hand-me-downs, and donated clothes, but I’d always ask to wear dresses. Even in the winter. Because I felt pretty in a dress. I know it’s cliché. But for me it’s always been so true. My time in each foster home would end the same way. One morning I’d wake up and all my stuff would be in a trash bag. I never knew when that was going to happen. They don’t tell you. Maybe they think that if they’d told you, you’d freak out, and run away. But it’s so much worse. Not knowing is so much worse. Just waking up and seeing your stuff in a trash bag. And feeling like trash. Feeling unwanted. It’s an awful, awful feeling. I think that’s why I loved school so much. It was the one place I felt praised. I had teachers saying: ‘Good job, you’re doing great.’ I’d read all the textbooks. I’d do all my homework. I signed up for all the after-school stuff. My teachers loved me. They took an interest. And at the end of middle school, one of them encouraged me to apply for a scholarship at a boarding school in Arizona. I was so excited when my application got accepted, but I had no idea what to expect. I’d never even been on a plane before.”

(3/5) “I think it might have been a Caribbean family. They had a...

(3/5) “I think it might have been a Caribbean family. They had a teenage daughter. She liked to push me. And hit me. I remember her saying: ‘Nobody wants you, and that’s the reason you’re here.’ On the first day I couldn’t stop crying. The foster mother wanted me to stop, so she just kept yelling at me. But I couldn’t stop. So she yelled louder. I was so confused. My great-grandmother had never even raised her voice. But this woman yelled all the time. There was so much yelling. And hitting. And barking. There was a big German Shepherd in the backyard, and he was always barking. Loud, mean barks. The family encouraged it. They poked him with sticks. They’d open the gate of the fence and he’d run right up to me. I was so tiny. I thought he was going to eat me. I’d try to back away, and I’d fall down, and they’d just laugh. I think they liked being mean. There was never a conversation about house rules. So no matter how hard I tried, I was always getting punished. If I changed the channel on the TV. If I accidentally dropped something. If I wasn’t sitting in the same spot when they walked back in the room. And the worst part was, it wasn’t the same thing every time. I didn’t know what to do. So I tried not to move. I just sat in the living room and watched TV. It’s like time completely stopped. I’d always been such a curious kid. That’s how a kid is supposed to be. My great-grandmother had encouraged it. I tried on her dresses. I played with her Tiffany lamp. But all that stopped. My curiosity died. Because it got me into trouble. I remember the first time they used the dog. I’m not sure what I did. Maybe I didn’t eat my breakfast that morning. But I remember the woman grabbing my arm, and dragging me outside. It was cold. I remember it was cold. She pressed my face against the gate of the fence. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. And the dog was towering over me. He was standing on his legs, and he was barking. Loud, mean barks. ‘He’s going to bite you,’ she said. ‘He’s going to bite you.’ And I wanted to pull back. I wanted to get so far away, but I couldn’t. Because her hands were on my shoulders. And she was so much stronger than me. And she wouldn’t let me go.”

(2/5) “If I had to guess, she was probably the one who said yes....

(2/5) “If I had to guess, she was probably the one who said yes. It’s that way with a lot of foster children. You’re raised by the one person who said ‘yes.’ And my great-grandmother is the one who said ‘yes.’ She smelled like Violets. There’s a chewy candy called Violets, and she would eat them all the time. They had a big smell. Sometimes I’ll still buy a pack, just to remember her for a second. I loved her so much. I can remember being in her closet, rubbing the bottoms of her dresses. My great-grandmother had the most colorful dresses, and I loved dresses. I loved being surrounded by them. I’d put them on and they’d be so long on me. But she let me wear them. In the living room there was a Tiffany lamp. It was glass, and floral, and multicolored. If you touched it, it would go on. If you touched it again, it would go off. It seemed like magic to me. And my great-grandmother let me touch it. She let me be a kid. She gave me this little plastic keyboard, and she’d smile while I banged the keys. She let me sit on the countertop when she was cooking. I’d help stir things. I went with her to all her doctor appointments. We’d hop on the M10 bus, and she’d let me put the money in the machine. She’d bring the doctor a giant bag of M&M’s. I remember that. Because I always wanted those M&M’s. But I don’t remember her telling me she was sick. Nobody sat me down and explained things to me. On the morning I was taken she got me dressed in the bedroom, like she always did. That’s the thing with her: I had my own clothes, I had my own room, I had a home. That was my home. I remember there was a knock on the door, and a woman walked in. She came straight to the bedroom and started throwing my things in a trash bag. I was so young. Even then it seemed like a normal day to me. I didn’t realize something was wrong until the woman picked me up and carried me outside. I don’t even remember my grandmother saying goodbye. I just remember being in the backseat of a car, and the woman telling me that my grandmother was sick. She drove me to a new house. It was a two-story house. It was wooden. And when we pulled into the driveway, the first thing I heard was barking.”

(1/5) “It was my first time on a plane. A van met me at the...

(1/5) “It was my first time on a plane. A van met me at the airport and we drove 90 minutes until the paved roads end. Then we turned down a gravel road, onto a working cattle ranch, and that’s where the school was located. It was beautiful. It should have been, it cost $20,000 a year. These kids had laptops, and name brand clothes. They’d gotten cars for their sixteenth birthdays. Some of them were boarding their horses there. But more than anything, I noticed all the Moms and Dads. On that first day I saw so many Moms and Dads, helping their kids carry suitcases, hugging them goodbye. My stuff was crammed into a duffel bag. And I was all alone. I was smart enough to not tell anyone that I’d been in foster care. But it was obvious I didn’t belong. My first week I had to get a job at the convenient store with the other scholarship kids. I babysat my teacher’s kids. On weekends there’d be these off-campus trips to the shopping mall or movie theater. But the van cost $15, so I could rarely afford to go. That still bothers me today. In many ways the school saved me. It helped fill my educational gaps. I learned to ride a horse. But it was hard too. I had to change dorm rooms three times my freshman year. And I’ll never forget my bully: blonde girl, really skinny, popular. She’d say the meanest things about me within earshot. How I was too poor to pay for school. How my clothes were cheap. I never knew that they were cheap, until I got to that school. But my clothes were cheap. I still have one of the ‘quarterly reviews’ from my freshman English teacher. She wrote: ‘Charell is having a hard time, but she’s starting to adjust. And the dog has taken fondly to her.’ There was a dog named Bill that roamed freely around the campus. Bill was a girl, so Bill was a she. And she was sorta like an unofficial mascot. Bill gave me space. I think she could sense my terror. Whenever she came near, my body would tense up. My heart would start to race. I’ve always been terrified of dogs, ever since I was a little girl. And I’ve always known why. It was never a mystery to me. It wasn’t a hidden memory, or anything like that. I still remember it like it was yesterday.”

“None of us were wanted. But Diamond was born first. So she had...

“None of us were wanted. But Diamond was born first. So she had it the worst. She was the one who took away our mother’s childhood. And Mom never forgave her for that, so she didn’t let Diamond have a childhood either. She had to take care of all of us. I remember the day my little brother came home from the hospital. Diamond had to start watching him right away. She was only ten years old at the time. But she was doing bottles, diapers, everything. She never got to play. She never got any friend time. Or if she ever did, she had to bring my little brother along in a stroller. When our little sister was born, it became a double stroller. Diamond made sure we ate. My mom was weird about food. She’d always make us dinner on Sunday. But during the rest of the week we were hungry all the time. Diamond just kept feeding us snacks: Welches fruit snacks, Cheeze-It’s, Honey Buns. I can’t stand the taste of those things anymore. None of us can. There was only one bedroom in the apartment. It was ‘The Bedroom,’ for my mom. And that’s where the hitting happened. There was a lot of it. Diamond got it the worst. She tried to shield us from it. Diamond’s dark. She never bruised, she welted. She’d come out of the bedroom, crying. But she’d say: ‘I’m fine, I’m fine.’ She’d tell us to go watch Sponge Bob. Or read our books. It’s because of Diamond that I read so much. One night Diamond came home from work ten minutes late. And my mom beat her to a pulp. That was the night I told her to escape. I told her ‘Never come back, Diamond. Never come back.’ And she never did. She went to foster care. She was in a shelter for a while. But she ended up getting her degree. And she’s still taking care of me in a way. When I had nowhere to go after college, Diamond let me move in with her. She doesn’t have a great job right now. She’s raising a toddler by herself. But she’s still helping me pay for classes, so I can go to nursing school. I know she’s so tired. She’s been a mom since she was a little kid. Diamond’s exhausted. But she’s never closed the door on me. And I just wanted to say thank you. Cause I don’t know if I ever really said it. Thank you for saving my life.”

“It was our backyard. I’d let my daughters walk there by...

“It was our backyard. I’d let my daughters walk there by themselves. When I gave directions to our apartment, I’d say: ‘Imagine if the WTC fell over, it would land on our house.’ So it was like someone blew up our backyard. After the initial shock wore off, my first thought was: ‘I won’t let my children be terrified by this.’ I was determined to stay calm. I wasn’t going to let this change their dreams. We moved back into our apartment as soon as the air was clean enough. We kept living our lives. But I never really resolved my own trauma. I was working as a programmer for a community arts center. And when I learned that the 9/11 Tribute Center was looking for a curator, I jumped at the opportunity. I thought: ‘Finally, a way for me to face this.’ But it was such an enormous story to tell. I wasn’t even sure where to begin. I started by interviewing survivors and responders. And these oral histories would become the centerpiece of the museum. Over the years I collected hundreds of them. In the beginning they were so raw. People took the opportunity to release their anger, and grief, and sorrow. I’m glad we have those early interviews. Because I never want to lose what happened. But over the years the anger faded. And the grief softened as well. There was still emotion in the stories, but it began to be coupled with reflection. And commentary. People gained perspective on their trauma. They spoke of ways they had grown from it: things they had learned, people who’d helped them. More than anything,  I think all of us were collectively realizing that we didn’t fall apart. Time passed by. New opportunities emerged. New relationships were formed. Everyone has a limited amount of mind space, and new things kept demanding our attention. In the later years, so many people used the interviews to speak about their children or grandchildren: reading to them, loving them, watching them grow. I kept hearing it again and again. So many people were focusing on the children in their lives. And it was hard not to heal. It was hard not to move on. Because no matter what’s happened in your past, there will always be children. And that’s always a reason to invest in the present.”

“I’m trying to be on Broadway, but for some reason I can’t get...

“I’m trying to be on Broadway, but for some reason I can’t get away from toys. My very first job was at a little toy store in Brooklyn called Zak’s Fun House. For five Christmases in a row I was ‘Kingsley The Talking Bear’ at King’s Plaza Mall. Then In 2001 Toys ‘R’ Us opened up their flagship store in Times Square. This place was legendary: four stories tall, full-sized Ferris wheel. And they were advertising a position called ‘toy demonstrator.’ My God, it was a dream job; $15.80 an hour to walk around and make people happy. Thousands of people applied, but somehow I get chosen. And on my very first day I’m playing with Bart Simpson on a skateboard. But believe it or not, there was an even better job available. I think they were trying to copy the famous toy soldier at FAO Schwarz. Because they had these characters walking around: a toy scientist, a toy princess, a toy king. And that was the job I really wanted! So I didn’t even ask permission. I invented my own character. The next day I come in with a black suit, a black shirt, pinky ring. I’m thinking: We’re in Times Square. People are coming in from out of town. ‘How ya doin’?’ ‘Fuhgeddaboudit!’ But I hadn’t been on the floor for ten minutes when I get pulled into the office. The manager says: ‘What’s this?’ I tell him: ‘Vinny! The New Yorker, of Toys!’ He tells me: ‘Too much, too much. You’re scaring the kids. You look like a Soprano.’ So that night I drive over to my mother’s house. I bring her this old tuxedo from my closet, and she sews giraffe print all over it. I come in the next day and everyone loves it. And after that it was nothing but magic tricks, singing songs, and joking with people. Best job I’ve ever had in my life. But after four years they decide I’m getting paid too much, and they made me a manager. By then I had a family. I couldn’t say no. So I did that for ten years before they closed down the store. It was tough to see the place close. But I couldn’t cry about it for long, cause I needed a job. One morning I get a call from an old coworker. He tells me: ‘FAO Schwarz is opening up a new location. You could be a manager.’ ‘That’s fantastic,’ I said. ‘But I’m not managing a thing.’”

Yesterday I shared the story of Ghanaian photographer Paul...

Yesterday I shared the story of Ghanaian photographer Paul Ninson. For anyone who didn’t have time for all twelve chapters: Paul had a child at a young age, and taught himself photography to support his daughter. There were few resources available to him. As Paul explained, ‘It was hard for me to find a single photography book in Ghana.’ Paul was also frustrated that most photojournalism in Africa was being done by foreign journalists. When Paul was given the opportunity to study in America for a year, he began collecting photography books to bring home with him, so others would have something to study. This quickly evolved into a spiritual mission of sorts. He networked with booksellers. He received donations from private galleries and collectors. And he’s now managed to collect over 30,000 photography books, enough to build the largest photo library in Africa. Which is exactly what he intends to do. And we are currently fundraising to help him. Paul has assisted me several times over the past two years, and we’ve become very close. One of the first things I noticed is that he takes his religion very seriously. One of his core beliefs, which I’ve heard him say over and over, is: ‘Givers never lack.’ Paul was struggling hard in America. But no matter what I gave him, he’d give much of it away. He’d use the money to buy books for the library. He’d send it to people back in Ghana. He set up a community fridge in Brooklyn and kept it stocked. Paul always felt commanded to pass along whatever he was given. To quote another of his favorite sayings: ‘We must be channels of blessing.’ This is the kind of person that we’re investing in with our fundraiser. Paul is going to help untold numbers of people with his library, because that’s what he cares about more than anything else in life. I’m very grateful for his friendship, and the example he’s provided me over the past two years. I’d love nothing more than if we could be a ‘channel of blessing’ for him, so that he can continue to help others. We’ve raised $750,000 so far for Dikan Center. Thanks to everyone who’s contributed. If there’s anyone left who would like to support, you can do so here: https://bit.ly/letshelppaul

(12/12) “One morning I went to photograph a protest in Queens....

(12/12) “One morning I went to photograph a protest in Queens. It was a political protest of some sort, and it was an angry crowd. I think many of the attendees were anti-immigrant. One man got right in my face, waved his poster, and started chanting: ‘Go Home, Go Home.’ In that moment it became clear to me: I do have a home. This is not my home, but I do have a home. After that day I still worked hard on my schoolwork. But most of my energy went toward building a library in Ghana. I began to speak with booksellers about my vision, and many of them became eager to help. They’d give me discounts. They’d tell their friends about me. I started getting calls from galleries and private collectors, asking if they could make a donation. Sometimes it was hundreds of books at a time. Sometimes thousands. I filled up my entire apartment with books, then I rented a storage unit. Then another. Then another. I’ve collected 30,000 books so far. Enough to build the largest photo library in Africa. The books are currently in a shipping container en route to Ghana. But as my collection has grown, so has my dream. I want to build more than just a library. I want to build an entire learning center. A home for photography in Ghana. I’ve researched the properties. I’ve spoken to architects. I’ve reached out to the appropriate ministries. And I’ve even chosen the name: ‘Dikan.’ Which in our Asante language means: ‘To take the lead.’ The centerpiece will be the library. But there will also be a lecture hall where photographers from all over the world can come and teach. African photographers, especially. Who can teach African kids to tell African stories. There will never be another Paul Ninson. Who has to leave home, and feel this way, just to learn how to tell stories. Everyone will be welcome at Dikan. There will never be someone standing at the gate. No person will be too poor, or too inexperienced, to learn how to photograph. Even young kids will be welcome. There will be a room just for them. Where they can learn to photograph. And look at National Geographic magazines. And watch videos, about animals. I’ve even chosen the name for that too. We will call it ‘Ella’s Room.’”

Let’s Help Paul Build Dikan: https://bit.ly/letshelppaul