Brandon Stanton's Blog, page 81

“Where I grew up it was ‘law of the father.’ We lived in a...

“Where I grew up it was ‘law of the father.’  We lived in a small town outside of Naples. Nothing was open or democratic.   Everyone was uptight in their thinking.  And nobody ever left the town.  They didn’t care about anything outside of their own neighborhood.  All they cared about was about having kids.  I had ten brothers and sisters.  None of us went to school.  I wanted so badly to get out.  I didn’t want to be a worker like my father.  If I had the education, I’d have been a scientific explorer.  I saw pictures in magazines of lakes and prairies and mountains in Canada.  That’s where I wanted to be.  In the wide world where all the things are.  So I left when I was thirteen.  I had nothing.  I didn’t even have a ticket for the train.  My mother cried and pleaded with me to stay, but I had to build a life on the planet, not just in one place.  It hasn’t been easy.  I’ve worked in hotels and restaurants my entire life.  I’ve washed hair at salons.  I’ve cleaned up operating rooms.  Many times my shifts wouldn’t end until 4 AM.  So I didn’t see a third of the things I wanted to see.  But I did make it to Scotland, and Switzerland, and England, and France.  And I made it to Canada.  I did what I could.  I left my town.  But most importantly, I didn’t live the life of my father.”
(Paris, France)

“I knew from the beginning. My mother is also dyslexic. And so...

“I knew from the beginning.  My mother is also dyslexic.  And so are my two brothers.  So I began going to therapy very early.  It was more than just writing backwards.  I’d switch up letters and syllables.  Sometimes I’d invent words.  Reading was so difficult that I’d avoid it unless absolutely necessary.  Books were nothing but pages and words to me.  I was never able to ‘escape’ into the world of a book.  I could never get into that bubble.  I tried my best on literature assignments, but my grades never improved.  So I focused on math and science instead.  But when I was sixteen I had a French teacher named Monsieur Meyronnet.  He was young.  It was his first year of teaching.  And one day he asked me to stay after class.  I was sure he wanted to talk about my poor grades, but instead he told me that he recognized my enthusiasm.  He said that he understood my difficulties.  And he promised I could overcome them with reading.  He gave me a list of books, and he suggested we read them together.  Every day we’d meet during lunch and discuss what we’d read the night before.  I wanted to impress him so I always read more than he expected.  When we got to the end of the list, he started letting me choose the books.  I finally learned what it meant to ‘escape’ into a book.  My writing got better.  My speaking got better.  Now nobody knows I’m dyslexic unless I tell them.  Monsieur Meyronnet ended up moving to the South of France.  But I’m still reading.  I’ve read over fifty books in the past two years.  And whenever I finish one, I send him an email with my thoughts.”
(Paris, France)

“I didn’t have sex until I was thirty-two. And my parents were...

“I didn’t have sex until I was thirty-two.  And my parents were very proud of that.  We’re from an extremely conservative region of Algeria, and sex before marriage is completely forbidden.  They even checked my hymen before the wedding.  I came to France with my new husband, but then he abandoned me.  I’ve been alone for three years now.  Recently I met a new man, and I’ve been hiding him from everyone.  We’ve been having sex.   Last month I nearly died from a miscarriage.  I was bleeding internally.  They did an emergency surgery, and the doctor told me that I’d come so close to death.  I couldn’t tell anyone.  I told everyone in my family that it was just a cyst.  If they ever found out the truth, I’d be completely rejected.  I’d never be forgiven.  I’d never be allowed home.  And they could even kill me.  And I’m not joking about that, there are stories.”
(Paris, France)

“It happened so fast. He arrived a month early. He came out...

“It happened so fast.  He arrived a month early.  He came out while they were pushing me in a wheelchair to the delivery room.  There was no time for drugs.  My husband didn’t even have time to make it to the hospital.  The jaundice was so bad that we had to stay in the hospital for an extra week.  Then I wasn’t producing enough milk, so he kept losing weight.  I didn’t know when it was going to stop.  I was so stressed for him.  I was so tired all the time.  And I felt like such a bad mother.  The whole thing has been exhausting.  But things are getting better.  He finally started to gain weight.  He’s sleeping now.  Last week he smiled for the first time.  Finally things are peaceful.  And I have two months until I have to go back to work.  So right now is a privileged moment for me, I’m beginning to enjoy this.”
(Paris, France)

“She was proud. She seemed detached. She wasn’t really looking...

“She was proud.  She seemed detached.  She wasn’t really looking for boys.  It took me a few weeks to get my first date.  I learned later that she acted this way because of everything she’d been through.  Her parents abandoned her when she was born.  She’d lived in several group homes.  And that’s why she always seemed so cold.  But once I got to know her, she changed completely.  She was funny.  She was sensitive.   Small things touched her.  One day we saw two seagulls fighting on the beach, and one of them was getting the better of the other.  I thought it was funny.  It just seemed like nature to me, but when I looked at her she had tears in her eyes.  We stayed together for a year.  Things got really heavy.  She was my first love.  But I graduated first and went off to university.  I had a new life at school.  I didn’t want to be in a relationship anymore.  So we lost contact.  She told me there was no need to keep in touch because we’d never been friends, only lovers.  Three years later I took a trip with my friends to a city in Belgium.  We went there often because it was just across the border.  That night we decided to walk through the red light district.  At first I didn’t recognize her.  She was older.  She had on a lot of makeup.  She was wearing lingerie.  But then we made eye contact.  She didn’t seem ashamed.  She seemed sad, but not ashamed.  I quickly looked away because I was scared my friends would notice.  That night I went back to my hotel and sobbed.  I’m not sure if it’s because of what happened to her.  Or because my initial reaction had been shame.  But I tried to make it right.  I went back and found her.  She told me her life was none of my business anymore.”
(Paris, France)

“Both of us are really shy. We were working at the same office...

“Both of us are really shy.  We were working at the same office when we met.  I’d do anything to walk by her desk.  And she’d do the same.  I’d ask her for advice on certain projects.  We were flirting the entire time but neither of us wanted to admit it.  Then one night we decided to take a walk together after work.  We ended up sitting on a bench just like this, and we had a very intimate conversation about our lives.  We were so honest with each other.  I talked about my weaknesses.  And mistakes that I’d made.  And plans for the future.  We were sitting in front of town hall, and both of us agreed that it would be a great place to get married one day, whenever we met someone.  The whole time I had my arm along the back of the bench, not quite touching her.  It was so cold outside, but neither of us mentioned it, because we didn’t want the night to end.  When the conversation finally finished, I walked her to her car.  It was a ten minute walk.  I tried to act relaxed but inside I was really nervous.  The whole time I was thinking about kissing her.  Should I do it?  Should I not?   Then finally I decided on a hug.  But it was a deep hug.  Extra deep hug.  That night I went back home, and said to my roommate: ‘That’s her.’”
(Paris, France)

“He fell down on his birthday. We’d just celebrated with a...

“He fell down on his birthday. We’d just celebrated with a party.  He was standing on a ladder, trying to fix a shelf, and he fell.  It was all very sudden.  He was in a coma for a week and then he was gone.  After his death, I began to write in a journal.  On the first pages I wrote about his final days.  I was so sad.  I just needed to process what happened.  But then I kept going back, back, writing everything I could remember: the walks we had together, the places we visited, museums, castles, holidays with the children.  I carried a pen with me at all times.  Every time I had a memory, I’d write it down.  We’d known each other since we were fourteen years old.  We’d take walks in this park back then, with our parents permission, of course.  It’s been almost nine months since his death.  I’m feeling a little better.  I’m still writing, but it’s not so much about memories anymore.  It’s more spiritual now.  I think he’s still evolving somewhere.  One night I saw him in a dream.  It was the young Claude.  Twenty-five or thirty years old.  It was so real.  I don’t even think it was a dream.  I could feel him there.  He was standing in a doorway, dressed completely in red.  And Claude never wore red.  But when I reached out to hug him, the door closed, and he disappeared.  I believe he’s still out there somewhere.  And that I’ll see him again on the other side of that door.”
(Paris, France)

“My dad plays with Barbies and does anything I want.”(Paris,...

“My dad plays with Barbies and does anything I want.”
(Paris, France

“I came here to buy some Christmas goods and bring them back to...

“I came here to buy some Christmas goods and bring them back to Finland to sell in the markets.  But I was stupid.  I left my hotel with the cash in my pocket, had a few drinks, met a woman, and woke up in an alley.  Don’t remember much.  Even my ID was gone.  I’ve been here ever since.  There’s nothing left for me back home.  The divorce was finalized in May.  The money’s gone.  I’ve got nothing waiting for me but debts.  This isn’t my first time in Paris.  I’ve been here one hundred times before,  but always on the other side of the wall.  The good side: nice hotels, nice restaurants, plenty of money in the pocket.  Now I’m seeing all the shit.  All the crap.  The alleyways are filled with young men who should be defending their own homes and families and countries, but now they’re here and they don’t give a shit about anybody.  Three times my clothes have been stolen right next to me.  Sometimes when I’m awake.  They don’t say ‘please.’  I’m stressed as hell.  I’m not sleeping.  Last month I had a heart attack right in front of the hospital.  Everyone turned away when I asked for help.  They could tell that I’m a street person.  I try to keep clean, but I had my clothes in a plastic bag.  So they knew.  I was on the ground for several minutes before a Nigerian man finally stopped to help.”
(Paris, France)

“I’m from a small city in the south of Spain. It’s known for...

“I’m from a small city in the south of Spain.  It’s known for skydiving.  In 1991 there was a huge event with delegations from all over Europe.  I was a twenty-four year old interpreter at the time, and they assigned me to the president of the skydiving union.  His name was Michel.  He was a retired soldier from France.  He’d been part of The Resistance, and still had a number tattooed on his arm from his time in a concentration camp.  We spent four days together.  Nothing romantic happened, but there was something forbidden about it.  He was forty years older than me.  We’d walk arm-in-arm.  He was dignified.  He was fascinating.  He was charming.  And after he went home, we began exchanging letters.  It became a beautiful friendship.  It lasted for years.  But my husband didn’t like it, so eventually I stopped responding.  Michel wrote a few more times but eventually gave up.  I never gave him an explanation.  Recently I discovered the letters while cleaning my room.  I decided to look him up on the Internet, but all I found was his obituary. He died four years ago.  He was eighty-eight.  Right now I’m on a journey through France, collecting information on his life.  I found some military records already.  Today I’m going to call his wife and ask for an interview.  I want to put everything into a book, a tribute of sorts.  I don’t know what I’m looking for.  It’s just something I feel like I have to do.  I want to end the story.”
(Paris, France)