Brandon Stanton's Blog, page 64

“It was a woman. I don’t even remember her name. But sometimes...

“It was a woman.  I don’t even remember her name.  But sometimes she’d take me out of my third grade class, and we’d go to her office, and just play with play-doh, or dried beans.  I don’t even remember what we talked about.  But she helped me find ways to control my anger: stop cussing in class, stop doing off the wall things, stuff like that.  I think it was the first time someone ever really tried to help me.  When I was a baby, my father got murdered.  And sometimes you can’t really talk to your family about nothing.  Because there are these sensitive spots and dark places, and maybe they’re hurting too.  So people just hold onto stuff.  Especially in this neighborhood.  Especially males.  They walk around with pain on them because it charges them up.  They need it so they can have an excuse to lash out and do whatever they want.  And I guess some people win on it.  But at the end of the day, I’d rather win on being positive.  I don’t mind saying how I feel.  And I’m not a therapist, but I try to let people around me know that I don’t mind if they share.  That if they’re hurting about something, you know, they can call me.“

“If I’m away too long, he’ll come find me. Even if I’m just...

“If I’m away too long, he’ll come find me.  Even if I’m just upstairs watching my program on television, he’ll wander up to see what I’m doing.  And we’re always holding hands.  Even if we’re just sitting on the train or the bus, he’ll always find some way to touch me.  Just to let me know he’s right there.  That he got me.  He might not even notice that he’s doing it.  But I always do.”

“It couldn’t have turned out better. I’m just extremely happy....

“It couldn’t have turned out better.  I’m just extremely happy.  I worked as a nurse my whole life.  It was my job and my ministry.  I’m about to spend my 40th Christmas with the love of my life.  John’s everything I ever wanted.  We have two wonderful children, and a nine-year-old granddaughter who lives a block away, and absolutely adores her grandmother.  We’re going to make cookies later and she gets to do the icing, so the faces are going to be all cockeyed.  But I’m not going to care one bit.  Our little old dog will be sleeping by our feet in the kitchen.  His name is Pork because he looks like a sausage.  He lived in a cage for eight years before we rescued him.  He’s deformed, paralyzed, and, I hate to say this– incontinent.  He can’t hear.  He can’t see.  But Pork just keeps going.  He goes crazy whenever he smells meat.  Just loves his life.  We all learn a lot from Pork.”

“It was supposed to be my grand entrance. I was fifteen years...

“It was supposed to be my grand entrance.  I was fifteen years old.  I’d seen so many other kids make music on ‘YouTube’ and thought: ‘Wow!  Anyone can do this!’  So I decided to release my own album.  Only problem was that I had no previous musical experience.  But Tumblr was popping off back then, so I went there to search for inspiration, cool quotes and stuff.  And I used my iPhone to record five songs in my bedroom.  I can’t even listen to them anymore.  I think two of them were about hating math class.  Another one was called: ‘Nothing is Easy,’ and the first line is: ‘My clock is ticking away.’  For the music I just hit the same two keys on my keyboard, over and over again.  I called the album: ‘Hello, World,’ and released it onto the Internet.  I was really expecting the world to say: ‘Hello, Clara!’  But I quickly learned it doesn’t work like that.”

“My football career ended in 2013 when my shoulder popped out of...

“My football career ended in 2013 when my shoulder popped out of its socket.  I was never going pro.  So that final whistle was always going to blow after my senior year, but the injury sped up the inevitable.  And I was left without a sense of purpose.  That’s one great thing about football.  There’s a clarity there.  I knew the season began on August 23rd and ended November 15th.  I knew we had to score more points.  I knew my job on every play.  I knew where the endzone was.  The purpose was tangible, the lines were literally on the field.  In the real world things aren’t so clear.  I feel like 300 years ago it was easier to know why you’re working.  Obviously things were more difficult, but at least on the Oregon Trail you knew what to focus on.  There were so many basic needs that required your attention: warmth, shelter, food, water.  But I’ve been lucky, and right now those basic needs require very little of my attention.  Necessity has been replaced by ‘nice to have.’  But do I really need more space?  Or better clothes?  Or a nicer car?  I’m not sure, but I still go to work every day.  I seem to be driven by some vague feeling that things could maybe be better.”

“I just feel like I should be doing better. I’m nowhere near...

“I just feel like I should be doing better.  I’m nowhere near retirement.  I’m working two jobs: I’m a licensed tour guide, and I make videos for businesses.  But even that’s not enough, so recently I’ve started working for the census.  I don’t want to run down the census: it’s fine, it’s great, it’s important work.  But I’m ashamed of it.  Because I’m sixty-five years old, I’m a college graduate, and I’m supposed to be done by now.  I’m supposed to be coasting.  But I’m not even close.  I feel like I still don’t even have a grip on the basics: how to make a living, how to keep my house in order, how to take care of myself.  And it feels shameful.  I feel not grown up.  Like I should have learned all of this so long ago.  And I’m afraid people will think it’s pathetic.  Worse than that.  They’ll think I’m incapable.  So I’ve been keeping a lot hidden.  I haven’t even told my colleagues about the census.  And that’s one thing I’m trying to work on— not keeping things hidden.  Because I know this shame isn’t healthy.  It isn’t right.  I’m luckier than 99 percent of people.  I’ve been sober for 39 years.  I have the greatest wife of 32 years.  I don’t have any crippling debt.  I’m doing OK.  I shouldn’t have to hide my situation.  And being more open has helped.  Because once I start telling people, and I see they’re not judging me, and that they’re still loving me, the shame tends to disappear.”

“I vividly remember watching cartoons as a kid and seeing Bugs...

“I vividly remember watching cartoons as a kid and seeing Bugs Bunny standing on a lily pad, playing ‘Hello My Darling,’ with a banjo in his hand and a drum on his back.  I’ve always wanted to play music myself.  But it’s so hard to make a living at it.  For awhile I was playing the banjo in restaurants.  But I couldn’t make it work.  So I thought I’d try the Bugs Bunny thing.”

“I moved from Texas three years ago. I was way too nice at...

“I moved from Texas three years ago.  I was way too nice at first.  I was out here in New York trying to exemplify Christ, and people were taking advantage of me.  I was getting run over.  So I had to get more stern.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m the same nice person, just more firm in my actions. Especially in the work environment.  My first job was working as a recruiter for a retail company.  And one day I’m on the computer, you know, recruiting people, which is my job, when my boss comes in and says: ‘You need to get to the floor, now!’  I was in shock, so I just did what I was told.  But I knew the next time I’d have to say something.  My job was important to me, but respect was even more important. Because if I allowed him to treat me that way, it was just going to happen over and over.  And sure enough it happened again the next week.  I was in the middle of an important task, and he gave me a command.  There was no question mark on the end of the sentence.  There was no use of my name.  So I told him: ‘If you want me to do something, you’ll have to ask me the proper way.’  He was shocked.  He looked at me like: ‘I know you’re not talking to me!’  But then he asked me the proper way.”

“We started early in school. Seven guys from my church got...

“We started early in school.  Seven guys from my church got together and started practicing in a basement.  Michael Armstrong on drums.  Robert Burton on lead guitar.  James Cloud on bass.  Charles Easton on the piano.  Then we had our three singers: Wilbur Simmons, Dennis Austin Ray, and me.  At first we just sang on the sidewalk.  Or even just walking down the street.   But eventually we were getting real invitations to perform: parties, barbeques, little shows here and there.  Then we got bigger and bigger.  Until one night in 1969 we’re backing up Bobby Darin in front of 5,000 people at a college in New Jersey.  I was only fourteen at the time.  It was ecstasy.  The next ten years we toured up and down the east coast.  From Montreal to Pompano Beach, Florida.  We peaked in 1976.  That was the year we were booked forty weeks in advance.  There were signed contracts everywhere.  Even Frankie Valli wanted one of our songs.  But things fell apart.  Our rhythm guitarist died.  Some of the instrumentalists got married.  And Dennis went off on his own.  I was heartbroken.  Truly heartbroken. For ten years I’d done nothing but sing and party.  I hadn’t gone to school.  I hadn’t worked a job.  So I came to New York and did what I could to survive.  I’ve worked as a super.  A maintenance man.  A baker at Kripsy Kreme.  But for the last eight years I’ve been homeless.  Right now I’m sleeping in the hallway of a building where I collect the trash.  But I was in a great band once.  We were called ‘The Uniques.’  And I’ve told you everyone’s name but mine: Vaughnterrol Lockette, lead tenor.”

“All of the young people are leaving. You have to say...

“All of the young people are leaving.  You have to say ‘goodbye,’ over and over again.  One of my best friends went to Chile.  Another went to Spain.  Another went to Argentina to earn money for her mother’s cancer treatment.  My brother left five years ago.  And now I’m gone too.  Before I came to New York, I went to pick up some paperwork at my university.  We used to have ten classrooms full of people.  Now half of them are empty.  There are some people who choose to stay.  I have a cousin that swears he’ll never leave.  He says that there’s a chance things will work out.  But that’s very rare for someone our age.  The grown-ups stay because they have their whole lives in Venezuela: maybe not their jobs anymore, but their houses and their cars.  But the young people want opportunities.  I want to be a designer.  But since there aren’t any design jobs, I’d have to be a freelancer.  But that’s also silly.  Because nobody has money for art or design.  Everyone needs their money for necessities.  So I’d be forced to take a job outside my career.  Anything I could get.  And that’s why I left.  Either you stay in Venezuela and make the decisions you have to.  Or you leave and make the decisions you want to.”