Brandon Stanton's Blog, page 57

“I wanted to fly planes on an aircraft carrier, but my father...

“I wanted to fly planes on an aircraft carrier, but my father had fought in World War I, and he told me that we’re a family who goes into the army.  So I enlisted in the infantry.  I wasn’t worried about a thing.  I was only eighteen years old.  I was too young and too stupid to be afraid.  The government sent me to Europe on the Queen Mary. I had two sets of dog tags.  One of them designated my religion as ‘Hebrew,’ which I planned on throwing away if I got caught.  I was sent to the Battle of the Bulge.  When I arrived at my post outside of Luxembourg, I learned that all the officers in my company had been killed, except for one.  He assigned me to be an advance scout.  It sounds like a glamorous job, but my orders were to walk in front and draw fire so everyone behind me knew there was danger.  At one point a shell exploded over my head and my ear started bleeding.  When the medics finished bandaging me up, they told me: ‘That will be enough to get you a Purple Heart!’  But I told them to keep it because I knew they’d notify my parents, and I didn’t want them to worry.  After I recovered I was transferred to the Mauthausen concentration camp.  I arrived on my 19th birthday.  My new job was to guard the liberated prisoners so the Nazis didn’t come back and kill them.  These people were so emaciated from being starved to death.  I was helping to bury hundreds of bodies per day.  But I couldn’t cry.  Because I had be strong for the prisoners.  They needed my strength.  I would walk around the courtyard at night, and sing a popular Jewish song called ‘My Yiddishe Momme.’  It’s a whole long story about missing your mother, but the lyrics didn’t matter.  I’d sing it as loud as I could.  Because I wanted everyone to know that a Jewish boy was there to protect them.”  
#quarantinestories

“Our family lived out in the woods without electricity or...

“Our family lived out in the woods without electricity or running water.  Both of my parents were mentally ill and believed that God spoke to them directly.  They didn’t believe in education or medical care.  I was the oldest of seven, and all of us were physically abused.  The only thing that saved me is that I knew it was wrong.  I always plotted my escape.  I wrote diary entries when I was eight years old, vowing to live a different life.  And when I was sixteen I got pregnant with my first boyfriend.  The pregnancy was actually planned, because I thought it would get me out of the house.  And I was right.  My mother was so angry that she kicked me out, and I moved in with my boyfriend’s parents.  Their names were Esther and Salvi.  They had a lovely house with a fireplace.  They ate dinner every night at the table, and used napkins.  They were probably lower middle class, but to me it seemed like opulence.  Esther and Salvi showed me a different way.  They treated me like their own daughter.  When I was seven months pregnant, my raging mother came banging on the front door.  Esther let her in, and my mother started shouting.  She said I was a whore.  And an evil person.  I was terrified.  I crouched in the stairwell and listened to everything. When my mother finished, Esther replied: ‘That is not what we see at all.  Linda is a good person.  She’s very smart.  And very helpful.  And she’s going to be a wonderful mother.’  Esther helped me raise my daughter and finish high school.  I went on to become a lawyer and adopt two additional children.  But even now, 45 years later, I can still hear those words she said while I crouched in the stairwell: ‘Linda is a good person.’  It was the first time that anyone had ever stood up for me.”
#quarantinestories

“My dad is a character. Literally. His actual name is James....

“My dad is a character.  Literally.  His actual name is James.  But everyone calls him Buz, with only one ‘z.’  He loves being the center of attention.  When I was a kid, whenever we took family photos, he’d lift up his shirt to show off his hairy stomach.  And he still calls my grandmother every April Fool’s day to tell her my mom is pregnant.  Not everyone thinks he’s funny.  I used to be terrified that he’d start talking to other parents at school dances.  Because he doesn’t really converse.  He just launches into stories.  And they’re not always appropriate.  The letter writing started in fourth grade.  I went to a sleep away camp thirty minutes from my house, and he wrote me letters every day.  Then he did it again in fifth grade.  And sixth.  And seventh.  My trips to camp grew longer until I was working as a counselor and staying all summer.  And he still wrote me a letter,  every single day  The letters continued into college.  And I still get them today.  I’ve gotten almost 500 of them since I moved into this apartment, even though my dad lives 20 minutes down the street.  Most of the letters just talk about his day.  But they can also be very creative and hilarious.  He once wrote 250 words about his Subway sandwich.  I don’t think he can stop at this point.  It’s part of his character.  I wrote an article about him in my college paper, and he just loved being ‘the guy who writes his daughter letters.’  But I also view the letters as insane devotions of his love.  He cries every time he takes me to the airport.  He brings me flowers whenever I’m sad.  With all his quirks, I really lucked out with this guy. I was once talking with my friend, and I asked her if she thought my dad was… you know… a little… ‘different.’  And I’ve always remembered her response.  She said: ‘If he is, would you even care?’”          
#quarantinestories

“Grandma Else was tiny but tough. She had cancer as a young...

“Grandma Else was tiny but tough.  She had cancer as a young woman and barely survived.  The radiation therapy fried her intestines, so she never weighed more than 80 lbs after that.  Even though I call her ‘Grandma,’ she was actually my husband’s grandmother.  But she was a big part of both our lives.  She invited us over.  And wrote us letters.  Whenever she came to visit, she’d sort of sit down in the living room and not move again.  That’s how fragile she was.  But she spread so much love from that armchair in the corner.  She always showed an interest in me.  I know it doesn’t sound like a big deal, but she’d ask me questions.  And remember my answers.  And the next time I saw her, she’d follow up on the things I told her.  That kind of attention is rare.  Especially when you’re not charming or interesting, which I’m not.  In the past I’ve struggled with feeling worthless.  I’ve sometimes thought: ‘What do I have to offer?’  I’ve had my own health problems in life,  especially as a teenager.  So Grandma Else really inspired me.  That’s why we decided to name our daughter after her.  When we told her our plan, she was thrilled.  But a few months later she was in the hospital again.  And it was clear this time, she wasn’t coming home.  While she was in hospice, she kept saying: ‘I hope I get to meet baby Else.’  But the doctors told us that she only had days to live, so we didn’t think it was going to happen.  But Grandma Else held on for a month.  A full month.  And I went into labor nine days early.  The moment I could walk, I rushed to her bedside.  I put our daughter into her bed.  Grandma Else was very quiet, but very alert.  She was just staring at baby Else.  And stroking her face.  I don’t remember her saying anything.  I just remember her looking very happy.  And very at peace.”    
#quarantinestories

“My sister was the only girl in our family. There were four of...

“My sister was the only girl in our family.  There were four of us, but between me and her it was different.  We were the closest in age, so we shared a lot.  We shared the same bedroom. We shared the same food.  And we shared lot of secrets.  That’s why I was so disappointed that she didn’t tell me about the pregnancy.  She was already seven months along when I heard the news from a friend.  When I confronted her, she tried to deny it.  She only told the truth when I promised that I’d support her no matter what.  My niece was born on December 19th.   She was named Aseda, which means ‘thanksgiving.’  After the birth, everything seemed fine.  My sister and I were talking on the phone.  She was sending me pictures.  But on Christmas Eve the complications began.  Her condition worsened quickly.  The doctors said she needed to go to another hospital.  But she never made it.  She died next to me in the back of an ambulance.  Before she passed, she told me, in our native language, she said: ‘Bro Ato, anything that you’d do for me, please do for my baby.’  These words were written on my heart.  Everything that followed was like a bad dream.  I’d just lost my sister, and suddenly I was taking care of a preterm baby.  I had to feed the child.  There was no formula in the hospital.  I had to search everywhere.  I didn’t have time to sleep.  I didn’t have time to mourn.  But somehow I found the strength.  There are some things that you don’t know are within you.  Aseda is almost four months old now.  My girlfriend has been helping me every step of the way.  She has been amazing and I’m so thankful.  Our plan is to legally adopt Aseda.  It’s a very personal thing for me.  I want the child to stay with me.  I’ve been with her from the very first hour.  This is what I need to do for the baby.  For my sister.  And for humanity.”
(Tema, Ghana)

#quarantinestories

“I grew up near Harvard. I used to skateboard in Harvard Square...

“I grew up near Harvard.  I used to skateboard in Harvard Square as a teenager, but I never felt like I belonged there.  Education was never really valued in my house.  Neither of my parents went to college.  Our family life was in shambles because they were getting a divorce.  And I guess my coping mechanism was having fun.  I got in a lot of trouble.   I almost flunked out of high school.  Afterwards I bounced around in community college, until I happened to strike up a conversation with a guy in the union.  And that’s how I ended up as a carpenter.  Over the past several years I’ve worked a lot of jobs on the Harvard campus.  It’s an old campus so there’s always work being done.  And it’s hard sometimes,  seeing all those students going to school.  When you’re wearing your uniform, and covered in dirt, and on your knees, it’s hard not to feel a bit of inferiority.  There always seems to be this barrier between labor and academia.  Like if you turn a wrench, you don’t deserve an advanced degree.  So three years ago I made up my mind.  I’d just finished reading ‘Zen and The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance,’ and I decided: ‘That’s it.  I’m not going to drink.  Or smoke.  Or do anything else, until I get into Harvard.’  I didn’t tell any of the guys.  None of them knew that I was taking classes on weekends to get my bachelors.  Or that I was studying for the GRE all summer.  Or that I’d applied to The Kennedy School of Government.  It’s been three long years, and the decision finally arrived a couple weeks ago.  I thought: ‘I’ve been tortured by this for long enough.  At least now I’ll have closure.’  So I popped open the computer, signed into the system, and burst out laughing. It didn’t seem real.  I’d been chasing this car for so long now, and I finally caught it.  Now I’m determined to do something with this opportunity.  I want to give back.  I want to help working people have a seat at the table.”  
#quarantinestories

“Owen’s had heart surgery three times, so he’s been in and out...

“Owen’s had heart surgery three times, so he’s been in and out of hospitals his entire life.  So many of his milestones have happened in a medical setting: his first bite of solid food, his first time standing up, his first time meeting Santa.  But even with everything he’s been through, what’s amazing about Owen is that he’s always thinking of other people.  Before his last surgery, his main concern was bringing coloring books for the other kids.  Most people would be feeling scared and hiding away, but not Owen.  He was thinking about helping others.  He loves his friends.  He loves his teachers.  He loves everyone.  He’s always been like that.  He first learned to read by reading for residents at a local nursing home.  And when he was six years old, he saved up all his money to buy a donut, but then gave it to a street musician on the way to the store.  Recently he held a toy drive for the Ronald McDonald House, which is his favorite place.  The last time we stayed there, he noticed they didn’t have any Legos in the magic room.  And he wanted to fix that.  I was hesitant at first, because Legos are expensive, but Owen was determined.  He organized everything himself.  He asked everyone he knew: his friends, his family, his teachers.  Even the lunch lady left a package of Legos on our porch.  When everything was finished, Owen had collected over fifty different sets.  And we know that made a lot of kids very happy.”  
#quarantinestories

“Whenever I asked her about it, there’d be a lot of pain on her...

“Whenever I asked her about it, there’d be a lot of pain on her face.  She’d look stricken almost.  As if I’d brought up some tragedy.  I assumed the worst.  I thought rape, or some awful thing.  So I just stopped asking, and I grew up without knowing anything about my father.  But toward the end of her life, I sat with her in the nursing home.  I told her: ‘You’ve been the perfect mother.  You did everything right.  I have no complaints.  But this might be the last time I can ask you, so I’d like to know: ‘What happened with my father?’  And she told me this story.  About a whirlwind romance with a Venezuelan computer scientist, who spoke several languages, and swept her off her feet, and then revealed he had a wife.  To be honest, I didn’t believe it.  It just didn’t seem scandalous enough to keep hidden for all those years.  And my mom had developed dementia, so I just assumed it was a story she was telling herself.  After her death, I uploaded my DNA to Ancestry, but found nothing interesting.  I resigned myself to never knowing.  Until last summer, when I finally got a match for a ‘first cousin.’  I sent the woman a message and told her everything I knew.  The details matched up.  And she confirmed my father was her uncle: Pedro Lance Machado.  Then she gave me the most wonderful news: I had six living brothers and sisters.  They called me one-by one.  None of the conversations were awkward.  And they all asked the same thing: ‘When’s the soonest we can meet?’  They flew from all over to celebrate my 51st birthday.  They brought all their old photos of my father.  We rented a house.  One of my sisters cooked ceviche and paella.  We played Latin music.  We told stories.  I was never made to feel like an interloper.  They never made me feel like anything but a gift.  Overnight, I went from an only child, to a member of the most beautiful family.”    
#quarantinestories

“After my father graduated from medical school, he decided to...

“After my father graduated from medical school, he decided to open an office in a small agricultural community called Coalinga.  Both his parents were Mexican immigrants, and he wanted to give back by working in an underserved community.  There’s 16,000 people in that town, these are the people who pick the lettuce, and the cotton, and the fruit.  I used to love visiting him at work when I was a kid.  I can picture him wearing a lab coat, holding a chart, and people thanking him.  They’d bring him bags of almonds and onions.  He’d keep saying: ‘De nada, de nada, de nada.’  Dad always looks at the ground when he’s being thanked. That’s how humble he is.  He went to Stanford, but he doesn’t even hang his graduation certificate in his office.  When he comes home from work, he’ll do the jobs around the house that nobody else wants to do.  He cleans out the garage.  He washes the dishes.  He doesn’t drive an expensive car.  He doesn’t wear fancy clothes.  His favorite things to wear are T-shirts and sweatshirts from our school athletic teams.  Both my sister and I played collegiate sports.  And he was our biggest fan. Every weekend for eight years, he’d drive to Los Angeles to watch us compete.  And my sister was a rower, so those races were only eight minutes long.  Dad would wake up at 3 AM, drive almost five hours, watch an eight minute race, then drive all the way home.  And then wash the dishes.”
#quarantinestories

“I’ve been in this place before. I’ve gone through times in my...

“I’ve been in this place before.  I’ve gone through times in my life when I’ve had this much fear, and I ended up coming out the other side.  When I lost my job.  When my husband left me.  I survived those things, so I try to remind myself of that.  But it’s been a lot of stress: cheese puffs for breakfast, beer for lunch, the same pajamas for three days.  Yesterday my four year old told me that I looked like a pickle.  So it’s been a lot.  But my main fear is this: what would happen to my kids?  I’m a single mother of three.  And I’m high risk because I have a rare lung disease.  I haven’t been vocal about it, so not many people know.  But those who do have taken such good care of me.  Nobody’s made me feel needy.  Some days I’ll open my door and there’s notes, or cards, or activities for my kids.  One anonymous person left a bottle of hand sanitizer, with a note that said: ‘The world needs you.’  Last week we decided to return the favor.  We put my daughter Zoey’s finger paintings in all our neighbors’ mailboxes.  We called it Quarantine Art Club.  Then yesterday we got a package on our doorstep.  Our neighbor down the block had added all these beautiful drawings to Zoey’s painting.  He signed it: ‘A Zoey and Karl production,’ so his name must be Karl.  And his girlfriend’s name is Lauren.  She added a bag of cookies.  But that’s all I know about them!  We’ve never even met them.  They rode by the house yesterday and they waved out their car window.  They said: ‘Is that Zoey?’  It was so much fun.  I couldn’t get close, so I just kept blowing them kisses from the porch.”
#quarantinestories