Brandon Stanton's Blog, page 8

(1/54) “We begin in darkness. A siren screams. The invaders come...

(1/54) “We begin in darkness. A siren screams. The invaders come from the desert in a cloud of dust. The king gathers his army at a mountain castle. A single battle decides our fate. The battle burns, the din of drums, the clash of axes, the spark of swords. The dirt turns clay with blood. The sun goes down on a fallen flag. The day is lost. The king is gone. Our people are left defenseless. The only weapon we have left is our voice. So they come for our words. Scholars are murdered, books are burned, entire libraries are turned to dust. Until nothing remains. Not even memories of who we were. Silence. The sun comes up on a knight galloping across the land. He summons the teachers, the scholars, the authors, the thinkers. He tells them to gather the words that remain: the books, the scrolls, the letters, the verses. Everything that escaped the burning pits. Then he summons the sages. The keepers of our oldest myths, from before the written word. He copies their stories onto the page. Then when all has been gathered, all of the words, only then does he summon a poet. It had to be a poet. Because poetry is music. It sinks into the memory. And in this land of endless war, the only safe library is the memory of the people. It is said that at any given time there are one hundred thousand poets in Iran, but only one is chosen. A single poet, for a sacred mission. Put it all in a poem. Everything they’re trying to destroy. The entire story of our people. Our kings. Our queens. Our castles. Our banquets. Our songs and celebrations. Our goblets filled with wine. Our roasted kebabs. Our moonlit gardens. Our caravans of riches: silken carpets, amber, musk, goblets filled with diamonds, goblets filled with rubies, goblets filled with pearls. Our mountains. Our rivers. Our soil. Our borders. Our battles. Our crumbled castles. Our fallen flags. Our blood. Who we were. Who we were! Our culture. Our wisdom. Our choices. And our words. All of our words. Three thousand years of words, a castle of words! That no wind or rain will destroy! However long it takes, put it all in a poem. All of Iran, in a single poem. A torch to rage against the night! A voice to echo in the dark.” 

در تاریکی آغاز می‌کنیم. بانگ آژیری برمی‌خیزد. غارتگران بیابانی در هاله‌ای از گرد و غبار فرا می‌رسند. شاهنشاه سپاهیانش را پیرامون کاخی کوهستانی گرد می‌آورد. تک‌نبردی سرنوشت‌ساز است. سوزندگی‌های نبرد، بانگ کوس و درا‌ها، چکاچاک تبرها، درخشش شمشیرها. خاکِ آغشته به خون گِل می‌شود. خورشید درفش افتاده‌‌ را به شب می‌سپارد. نبرد از دست رفته است. پادشاه نیز رفته است. و مردمان بی‌دفاع مانده‌اند. اینک سخن، تنها جنگ‌افزار ماست. زین روست که بر واژگان‌مان می‌تازند. دانشمندان را می‌کشند، کتاب‌ها را می‌سوزانند، کتابخانه‌ها را با خاک یکسان می‌کنند آنچنان که هیچ نمانَد. حتا یادمانی از آن که بوده‌ایم. خاموشی. خورشید بر سواری که در سرتاسر زمین می‌تازد ‌پرتوافشان است. اوست که آموزگاران را فرا می‌خواند، دانشمندان را، نویسندگان را، اندیشمندان را. و از آنان می‌خواهد تا همه‌ی واژگانِ بازمانده را فراهم آورند. کتاب‌ها، طومارها، نامه‌ها، سروده‌‌ها. و هر آنچه از شراره‌های سوزان آتش دور مانده است. آنگاه فرزانگان را فرا می‌خواند. نگهبانان اسطوره‌های کهن، از پیشین زمان. داستان‌هاشان را بر برگ‌ها می‌نویسند. با فراهم آمدن این همه، هنگام آن رسیده است تا سراینده‌ای توانا بالا برافرازد، نیزه‌ی قلم برگیرد، سروده‌های آهنگینش را چنان بر دل‌ها نشاند که در یادها بمانند. در این سرزمینِ جنگ‌های بی‌پایان، تنها کتابخانه‌ی امن، خاطره‌ی مردمان است. گویند سدهزار شاعر همزمان در ایران می‌زیند ولی تنها یکی‌ست که از پس این کار سترگ برمی‌آید. تک‌شاعری، برای کوششی سپنتا. کسی که همه‌ی واژگان را در شعرش بگنجاند! گنجینه‌ای دور از دستبُرد آنان که در پی نابودی‌اش هستند. دربرگیرنده‌ی داستان مردمان‌مان. پادشاهان‌مان. شهبانوان‌مان. کاخ‌هامان. سرودها و بزم‌هایمان. جام‌های پر از باده‌مان. کباب‌های بریان‌مان. باغ‌های مهتابی‌مان. کاروان‌های کالاهای گرانبها: فرش‌های ابریشمین‌, عنبر، مُشک، پیمانه‌های پر از الماس، پیمانه‌های پر از یاقوت، پیمانه‌های پر از مروارید. کوهستان‌مان. رود‌هامان. خاک‌مان. مرزهامان. نبردهامان. باروهای ویران‌مان. درفش‌های بر خاک‌افتاده‌مان. خون‌مان. که بوده‌ایم. که بوده‌ایم! فرهنگمان. خِرَدمان. گزینه‌‌‌‌‌‌‌‌‌‌‌‌‌‌‌هامان. و واژگان‌مان. همه‌ی واژگان‌مان. هزاران سال واژه، کاخی از واژگان که از باد و باران نیابد گزند! هر اندازه زمان ببرد.همه را در شعرش بگنجاند. همه‌ی ایران را، در سُرودی یگانه. مشعلی خروشنده در سیاهی شب! پژواک بلند و پرطنین آوایی در تاریکی

Almost one year ago today a young woman named Mahsa ‘Jina’ Amini...

Almost one year ago today a young woman named Mahsa ‘Jina’ Amini was murdered in Iran by the oppressive religious regime that still clings to power today. Her crime was ‘not covering her hair properly’ and ‘wearing tight jeans.’ Mahsa’s act of defiance embodied a fire of resistance that burns in the heart of every Iranian. This fire will soon consume the regime. On Sunday night I will begin posting the longest story I’ve ever written. The story will begin with a single post on Sunday night. The remaining 54 chapters will be shared throughout the week. A Persian translation will be provided alongside the original. I’d like to dedicate this story to every Iranian fighting for freedom. Especially the young. Especially the women. Especially Mahsa ‘Jina’ Amini. The final chapter will be shared at midnight in Tehran on September 16th, the anniversary of Mahsa’s murder.

“If there was a fire in that building over there, and me and...

“If there was a fire in that building over there, and me and twenty other people are on the top floor, I’d get out and they wouldn’t. I only got one leg, but it’s a god damn good sexy leg I’ll tell you that. It’s a sexy ass fucking leg. It’s sexy. It’s sexy as fuck. I’m telling you the truth. This shit is god damn sexy. I don’t have to explain it. It explains itself. Tell him why you’re sexy, leg.”

“Summertime and Christmas. That’s when I have her. Been that way...

“Summertime and Christmas. That’s when I have her. Been that way for seven years. When she’s not in school, she’s with me. Then at the end of the summer I bring her back to her Mom’s house in Florida. Those drop-offs are the worst; I almost miss my flight every time. I wait until the last possible second to call my uber for the airport. I hug her, say goodbye, put my stuff in the car. Then I always gotta come back again and get my last kiss. Always, always. That uber ride sucks. That plane ride sucks. Cause I know I’m not going to see her for a few months. On the wall in my closet we keep track of her height. And every time she comes back, she’s grown like two inches. That’s a lot. That’s a lot I don’t see. But she knows she can call me for whatever, which she does. And whenever she’s here she gets to be the CEO of our lives. She’s not a dictator or anything. But she’s the president. I’m the people. When she says we go, we go. She wants to go to the pool, we go to the pool. She wants to go to the beach, we go to the beach. We came here today for the Juneteenth celebration. Been planning it for two weeks. I’m supposed to be at work today, but I took off early. There’s a bouncy house and face painting and all kinds of good stuff. But she didn’t want to do any of it. We stayed for two minutes. And now we’re back to feeding the animals; same thing we do every day.”

“I think when I’m old I’m going to have gray hair. It’s already...

“I think when I’m old I’m going to have gray hair. It’s already turning gray, so I’ll definitely have gray hair. Maybe I’ll have bulked up at that point. My dad has skinny legs and arms, but he’s buff in the middle. So hopefully I’ll be that. I’ll probably just be sitting around. But not in a rocking chair or anything,  just on the ground. Maybe in a boat. I think it would be cool to have a boat. I used to always make fun of straight dudes who talked about fishing. But now I’m thinking: maybe I should fish. Really learn to survive off the land. Like gut the fish myself and gross out the kids. Not my kids necessarily, but maybe my siblings’ kids, I’ll be the best worst uncle ever. I’m also hoping that I’ll have drawn a lot of stuff by then. Maybe even published a few books. And hopefully there will be a nice handful of people who really like my stuff. They’ll think it was a nice contribution to the world. And they’ll care when I die. But mainly I’m just glad I get to be an old man. I could never imagine myself as an old woman. Like, I couldn’t. So the future was just– nothing. But now I’m here. So I feel like I can’t be too upset about anything, you know? Because when I looked at the future, there was nothing. And now there’s something. And that’s everything.”

“I’m the one who calls out. I’m the one who corrects. I’m the...

“I’m the one who calls out. I’m the one who corrects. I’m the one who rephrases. I’ve had plenty of people be like: you can’t tell me what to say. But if you’re allowed to say whatever you want, I’m allowed to react however I want. Right? Maybe my reaction is an attempt to correct you, but you’re allowed to take it or let it go. Maybe what you said seems trivial to you. But the little things are easier to fix. And they help build a foundation. So the bigger things are easier to address. And also: do the big things even matter if you don’t care about the small things? Obviously I can’t fight everything. You do have to pick your fights. And aggression never works. Because you want to win the war, and not just the battle. But one thing I’ll never let slide is pronouns. If someone is purposely using incorrect pronouns, that’s getting corrected, on the spot. It’s baseline respect. It’s like using a mean nickname or something. It’s just not nice, you know? I know you want to use whatever language you want, but maybe it’s not about you. Maybe I’m not trying to take away your freedom. Maybe I’m not trying to make you feel like a bad person. Maybe it’s more about: let’s not hurt the person it’s affecting, you know? I was very, very close to someone who had just started transitioning. And he did everything he could to pass as a man, because he is a man. But he still had some female features. And I was with him when someone misgendered him. I could tell that he was upset, so I followed him to his room. And I watched him just fall apart because of the dysphoria it caused. It’s like— you could have literally taken two seconds to choose the respectful word. But you didn’t. And look at the harm you just caused.”

“Everybody gets butt hurt over words. The ‘Me Too’ movement was...

“Everybody gets butt hurt over words. The ‘Me Too’ movement was necessary. That was good. But then it just turned into everybody getting way too sensitive. You’ve got these people trying to create a bubble-wrapped world where they’re never going to hear a word that hurts them. Just so they can always be comfortable. It’s human nature to want to be comfortable. No problem with that. But if something makes you uncomfortable, you don’t get to make a rule that the rest of the world can’t say it. I give it another two or three years. There’s no way it can last. It’s happened over and over again throughout history: people get soft, then they get hard again. Just wait until the next really deep recession. It’s going to seem pretty self-indulgent to obsess over other people’s words. People are going to get strong again. And that’s good. I like strong people. It’s not that I dislike weak people. I just like strong people more. I was with my friend Christina the other day. She had her little boy with her, and she’s letting this kid run into everything. He’s running into things with his face and his head and his body. And Christina is letting him, because Christina knows. She went to state, she went to nationals. She almost became a professional softball player. Christina knows what it takes. And she doesn’t want her kid to be soft. That’s what I like. I like people who don’t want a trophy just for showing up. I like people who can hear a joke, or even an insult. If the words aren’t true then they shouldn’t bother you. But if the words are true, they should sting. Don’t hide from the sting. Embrace the sting. Feel the sting of the words and say: ‘I don’t like this.’ So I’m going to become a better version of myself, mentally, emotionally, spiritually, physically, until the words don’t sting anymore. Don’t hate yourself. Never hate yourself. Just hate the person that allowed you to become what you were, before ten seconds ago. Before you felt the sting. That person is disgusting. That person is unacceptable. That person must be destroyed.” 

“Everybody gets butt hurt over words. The ‘Me Too’ movement was...

“Everybody gets butt hurt over words. The ‘Me Too’ movement was necessary. That was good. But then it just turned into everybody getting way too sensitive. You’ve got these people trying to create a bubble-wrapped world where they’re never going to hear a word that hurts them. Just so they can always be comfortable. It’s human nature to want to be comfortable. No problem with that. But if something makes you uncomfortable, you don’t get to make a rule that the rest of the world can’t say it. I give it another two or three years. There’s no way it can last. It’s happened over and over again throughout history: people get soft, then they get hard again. Just wait until the next really deep recession. It’s going to seem pretty self-indulgent to obsess over other people’s words. People are going to get strong again. And that’s good. I like strong people. It’s not that I dislike weak people. I just like strong people more. I was with my friend Christina the other day. She had her little boy with her, and she’s letting this kid run into everything. He’s running into things with his face and his head and his body. And Christina is letting him, because Christina knows. She went to state, she went to nationals. She almost became a professional softball player. Christina knows what it takes. And she doesn’t want her kid to be soft. That’s what I like. I like people who don’t want a trophy just for showing up. I like people who can hear a joke, or even an insult. If the words aren’t true then they shouldn’t bother you. But if the words are true, they should sting. Don’t hide from the sting. Embrace the sting. Feel the sting of the words and say: ‘I don’t like this.’ So I’m going to become a better version of myself, mentally, emotionally, spiritually, physically, until the words don’t sting anymore. Don’t hate yourself. Never hate yourself. Just hate the person that allowed you to become what you were, before ten seconds ago. Before you felt the sting. That person is disgusting. That person is unacceptable. That person must be destroyed.”

“I’m happy sometimes. When I’m feeling loved, you know?...

“I’m happy sometimes. When I’m feeling loved, you know? When I walk home and my husband is there and he’s so happy to see me. I was really hesitant about getting married. My parents had a bad marriage. So my husband had to talk me into it. And I mean, he had to really push. But it’s been 40 years, and it gets better all the time. Because you grow closer together when you go through things. You understand each other more. I’ll tell you some basic things about him. He’s very, very bright. He’s always reading. He’s always learning new things and he loves to share them with me. He gets really happy when I’m happy. That’s really a big deal, you know? I mean; it really makes him happy. When I’m happy. You can see it.  Just the way he looks at me. Other people can see it, but I can certainly see it. And I can feel it. He really cares, you know? That’s not something you can just put on. I’ll give you an example. It was very hard for me to get pregnant. And when our son Brian was born, he was less than three pounds. Went down to two and a half pounds. And Paul was at the hospital every day. By my side the whole time. Every single moment; it was just like absolutely unbelievable. I didn’t have to ask him: can you be there? He was just there. Because he cared. Not everyone has that. I’m really very fortunate. I have someone who cares. What more could you want, you know?”

“I’m starting to feel calmer about it. People separate all the...

“I’m starting to feel calmer about it. People separate all the time, right? Even with children; they make it work. I’m just frustrated that it was thirteen years of my life. He’s a great father. But it was thirteen years of not being loved the way I deserve. Or want, right? Or need, even. I was just too scared of doing it alone. Now the journey’s come to an end, and it’s like: ‘Wow, I’m really not who I used to be.’ I was so spontaneous, even with something as simple as driving. I used to drive all the time. I’d drive all night just to spend a day at the beach. But after we started a family, my husband drove. It was just our flow. Then it became a crutch. Then it got to the point where I couldn’t do it anymore, especially with my kids in the car. I was too scared. I’d lost that part of myself. Right before my 40th birthday we got in a big fight. It wasn’t the end; but it was close to the end. That night I bought myself a birthday present: one ticket to a resort in the Dominican Republic. Just one ticket. He’d up and leave no problem; especially if it’s work-related, right? So why not me? But right after I booked the ticket, I got so scared. I almost cancelled. But my sister was insistent. She’s a mother too; she said: ‘Stephanie, you’ve got to go. And don’t you dare take someone with you.’ It was only three nights. But when I say I smiled the whole trip, I mean it. I met so many other solo travelers. There was this old Russian woman; we saw each other everywhere. She’d float by me in the water. We took salsa classes together. She didn’t speak English, but every time she saw me she’d smile so big, like: ‘It’s you. You’re that girl.’ A few days after I came home, I was alone with the girls. My older daughter had a birthday party deep in Queens. Normally I’d have said no. Two hours on the subway; it was just too much. But I said: ‘You know what? We’re doing it.’ I booked a Zipcar. I hadn’t driven in years. I was panicking the whole time. My twelve-year-old was navigating, both of them were laughing at me. All of us were laughing the entire way. But we made it, didn’t we? When we got there I said: ‘Well girls, we can drive to Queens. I guess we can drive anywhere.”