Post

Brandon Stanton

Sep 21, 2020 • 33 tweets • 25 min read • Read on X

(1/32) “Tanqueray, Tanqueray, Tanqueray. When this photo was taken, ten thousand men in New York City knew that name. My signature meant something to them. They’d line up around the block whenever I was dancing in Times square..." #TattletalesFromTanqueray

(2/32) “I grew up an hour outside of Albany. The neighborhood wasn’t too nice, but it was better than the black neighborhood on Hill Street. Right now the house looks like shit, but back then it was completely clean..."
#TattletalesfromTanqueray

(3/32) “I was the fly in a bucket of buttermilk. All my neighbors were Italians and Jews. My first crush was a boy named Neil Murray. He’s fat and bald now, but back then he looked like a Kennedy..."
#TattletalesfromTanqueray

(4/32) “All I ever thought about was getting out of that house. I’d spend hours watching those old black-and white Hollywood musicals-- with Esther Williams doing ballet in the water..."
#TattletalesfromTanqueray

(5/32) “I knew my mother wasn’t going to let me come back home. So I decided to leave Albany for good. I was gonna go to New York and live a fantasy life like Esther Williams, with music and dancing and smiling people all around me..."
#TattletalesfromTanqueray

(6/32) “The warden knew that the fix was in. She told me that my parole would be denied. But she was cool. She knew I didn’t belong in prison. So she told me that if I could wait one more month..."
#TattletalesfromTanqueray

(7/32) “I arrived in New York City on Valentine’s Day. It was like being reborn. All my mistakes in life: the pregnancy, the prison time, everything—had been because I was trying to get away from something..."
#TattletalesfromTanqueray

(8/32) “At night I’d lay in bed and listen to the sounds of the street. I never wanted to fall asleep, because I didn’t want to dream about my mother screaming at me. So I’d listen to all the noise outside..."
#TattletalesfromTanqueray

(9/32) “When you go to the clubs every night, you start to see the same people. They’d buy me drinks. They’d ask me to dance. It was like a make-believe family for me. I never knew much about these people..."
#TattletalesfromTanqueray

(10/32) “One of my best customers was a GoGo dancer named Vicki. Vicki was a blonde-haired, blue-eyed bombshell. She worked the Peppermint Lounge when it was really going, but she made a lot of money..."
#TattletalesfromTanqueray

(11/32) “One weekend the Temptations came into town to play a show at the Copacabana. Nobody black had ever performed there, so everyone was buzzing about it. At the time Vicki was fooling around with one of the singers..."
#TattletalesfromTanqueray

(12/32) “The Temps were staying at some fancy hotel off Central Park South. Right when we walked in the door, Vicki started sitting in her man’s lap, and he’s kissing on her neck..."
#TattletalesfromTanqueray

(13/32) “After a few months in New York I was finally starting to get a little something together. I managed to save enough money to get my own room at the Times Square Hotel..."
#TattletalesfromTanqueray

(14/32) “My first steady gig was at a bar called Billy’s. I danced there every Wednesday night with a brunette named Lisa. Back in the day there was a famous advertisement for Chesterfield Cigarettes..."
#TattletalesfromTanqueray

(15/32) “Carmine walked into my life on New Years Eve. I was dancing somewhere. Some place in Midtown—who knows. And he walked in with a group of friends. Everyone dresses on New Years Eve, but he stood out..."
#TattletalesfromTanqueray

(16/32) “Carmine used to keep a blanket in the back of his convertible. Some nights, instead of going home, we’d pick up two sandwiches from Smiley’s and take them out to Central Park..."
#TattletalesfromTanqueray

(17/32)“Carmine and I moved into an apartment on 34th Street. We knew they’d never rent to a black girl, so I sat in the car while he talked to the landlord. We celebrated that first night together by cooking hamburgers on the patio..."
#TattletalesfromTanqueray

(18/32) “Carmine was a hustler, but he was steady. Our bills were always paid, so I never had to dance much when I was with him..."
#TattletalesFromTanqueray

(19/32) “We’d been living on 34th Street for a few years when a prostitute moved into our building. Her name was Candy or something. And at first I thought Carmine was fucking her, because she kept knocking on our door..."
#TattletalesfromTanqueray

(20/32) “I still have the last Christmas Card that Carmine gave me. It was the Christmas he bought me fake tits. On the card he wrote: ‘I hope our next five years together are better than the last five...'"
#TattletalesfromTanqueray

(21/32) “Every once in a while when I was dancing, guys would ask me if I did bachelor parties. And I always said ‘no,’ because I knew they wanted me to strip. But I wasn’t stupid. I knew that dancing wasn’t going to last forever..."
#TattletalesfromTanqueray

(22/32) “Burlesque is a fancy sounding word, but it basically means stripping. You can wear a $3000 costume and strut across the stage like the Queen of England. But during the last number, you better be taking off your clothes..."
#TattletalesfromTanqueray

(23/32) “A lot of girls broke into the business by working with an agent. But that was an even dirtier path. The biggest agent in town was named Dick Richards. And if you worked with him, you had to have a ménage-a-trois with his girlfriend..."
#TattletalesfromTanqueray

(24/32) “I always saved my special magic trick for the grand finale. I’d bring it out during my final number, which was usually Donna Summer’s Love To Love You Baby. The guys would start roaring as soon as the song came on..."
#TattletalesfromTanqueray

(25/32) “The other dancers weren’t too happy about my success. A lot of times they’d go out together after a show, but I was never invited. I didn’t really fit in with them anyway. No offense—all of them were gorgeous. But they all had problems..."
#TattletalesfromTanqueray

(26/32) “I could bring home $3000 a week if I was working the road. That was real money. Only the porn stars were making more than that, because nothing draws a crowd like having your face in a movie or magazine..."
#TattletalesfromTanqueray

(27/32) “Everybody wanted a piece of Tanqueray. I was getting so many calls that I had to hire an answering service. Before long I had every account in the city. I mean everybody: the investment banks, the sports clubs, the unions, the masons..."
#TattletalesfromTanqueray

(28/32) “Everything was fine when the music was playing. When people were laughing, and clapping, and shouting for more. But I knew I was tanking. Even when I was on the stage..."
#TattletalesfromTanqueray

(29/32) “I can’t tell you the last time I danced burlesque. It wasn’t some big thing. They don’t throw you a retirement party at the Sheraton. The phone just stops ringing. It gets quieter and quieter..."
#TattletalesfromTanqueray

(30/32) “The city has changed so much. New York used to be a lot better. Maybe it was better cause I was younger. Or maybe it was better cause it was better. But it used to be better. I never really cried about it or anything..."
#TattletalesfromTanqueray

(31/32) “Carmine ended up moving down to Florida to start a new life. Both of us dated a lot of other people, so there’d be long periods where we didn’t talk. But we never lost touch. We even talked on the phone a few times last year..."
#TattletalesfromTanqueray

(32/32) “I was walking down the street last winter. I don’t remember what I was thinking about, but I was crying so I couldn’t see much. And I slipped on a patch of ice. I wasn’t on the ground for very long..."
#TattletalesfromTanqueray

(33/32) If there’s anything that’s clear from Stephanie’s story—it’s her candor. But one condition of her storytelling has always been that we respect the privacy of her two children, and not include details about their lives..."
#TattletalesfromTanqueray

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More from @humansofny

Brandon Stanton

@humansofny

Sep 10, 2023

(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.”

(۱) "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."

(2/54) “I couldn’t find it anywhere. Even on the streets of Tehran—it was nowhere to be seen. The Iran I knew was gone. Everywhere I turned it was nothing but black: black cloaks, black shrouds. The universities were closed, the libraries were closed. Our poets, our singers, our authors, our teachers: one-by-one they were silenced. Until Iran only survived inside our homes. I never planned to leave. I didn’t even have a passport. Twenty years earlier I’d sworn an oath to The Siren: every choice I made, I’d make for Iran. But The Siren was dead. They shredded his heart with bullets. And there was only one choice left: leave and live, or stay and die. It was an eight-hour drive to the Turkish border. Mitra came with me. We rode in silence the entire way. I’ve always wondered how things would have turned out differently if we’d been more aligned. She wanted our lives to be a love story. A surreal romantic journey. She wanted a life of togetherness, surrounded by beauty. For me life was meant to be lived in the pursuit of ideals: truth, justice, freedom. Even if that meant the ultimate sacrifice. We kissed goodbye in the border town of Salmas. In the main square stood a statue of Iran’s greatest poet: Abolqasem Ferdowsi. On that day it was still standing. Soon the regime would tear it down. I spent the night in the house of a powerful family who was known to oppose the regime. Their servants stood around the house with machine guns on their shoulders. Six months later they’d all be dead. On my final morning in Iran I woke with the sun. I knelt on the floor and prayed. The final journey was made on foot. It was six miles to the border, the road climbed through the mountains. It was a closed border; so the road was empty. Every step felt like death. I’ve never cried so many tears. Ferdowsi once wrote: ‘A man cannot escape what is written.’ I’ve always hated that quote. I hate the idea of destiny. There is always a role for us to play. There is always a choice to be made. But on that day it felt like destiny, a river flowing in one direction. And I was a leaf, floating on top. Away from where I wanted to go.”

آن را نمی‌یافتم. حتا در خیابان‌های تهران - در هیچ‌ جای دیگر هم نبود. ایرانی که من می‌شناختم، رفته بود. به هر سو نگاه می‌کردم تنها سیاهی بود: عباهای سیاه، چادرهای سیاه. دانشگاه‌ها را بسته بودند، کتابخانه‌ها بسته بودند. شاعران‌مان، هنرمندان‌مان، نویسندگانمان، آموزگاران‌مان - همه را یک به یک خاموش کرده بودند. ایران تنها درون خانه‌هامان زندگی می‌کرد. من هرگز قصد رفتن نداشتم. من حتا گذرنامه هم نداشتم. بیش از بیست سال پیش در نیروی آژیر سوگند یاد کرده بودم: همه‌ی اندیشه و توانم، برای ایران خواهد بود. ولی آژیر را کشته بودند. قلبی را که هر تپشش برای ایران بود با گلوله‌ سوراخ کرده بودند. و تنها یک گزینه مانده بود: رفتن و زنده ماندن، یا ماندن و مردن. تا مرز ترکیه نزدیک به هشت ساعت رانندگی بود. میترا با من همراه شد. سراسر راه را در خاموشی گذراندیم. همواره کنجکاو بوده‌ام که سرنوشت ما چگونه می‌شد اگر ما هم‌آهنگ‌تر می‌بودیم. او همواره می‌خواست که زندگی‌مان سفری رؤیایی و عاشقانه باشد. همراهی در زیبایی. ولی زندگی برای من مسئولیتی جدی بود. می‌بایستی آرمانخواهانه برای رسیدن به راستی، داد و آزادی زندگی کرد. در شهر سلماس با بوسه‌ای همدیگر را بدرود گفتیم. در میدان اصلی شهر تندیسی از بزرگترین شاعر ایران بر پا بود: ابوالقاسم فردوسی، پیر پردیسی من. آن روز تندیس هنوز برپا بود. دیری نپایید که رژیم آن را ویران کرد. شب را در خانه‌ی خانواده‌ای پرنفوذ که به مخالفت با رژیم شناخته می‌شد، سپری کردم. خدمتکاران آنها مسلسل بر دوش خانه را پاسبانی می‌کردند. شش ماه پس از آن دیدار بسیاری از آنها را نیز کشتند. در واپسین بامدادم در ایران با سپیده‌دم بیدار شدم و نماز خواندم. واپسین بخش راه را پیاده رفتم. تا مرز دو فرسنگ راه بود. راه از میان کوهستان می‌گذشت. مرز بسته بود، گذرگاه هم تهی بود. هر گامی سخت بود و اشکم جاری. فردوسی چنین می‌گوید:
بکوشیم و از کوشش ما چه سود
کز آغاز بود آن چه بایست بود
همواره از این گفته بیزار بوده‌ام. از مفهوم سرنوشت بیزارم. هرگز نپذیرفته‌ام که سرنوشت از پیش نوشته شده باشد. همیشه گزینش و انتخابی هست. ولی آن روز سرنوشت من چون رودخانه‌ای به یک سو روان بود. و من چون برگی شناور بر آب. دور از جایی که آهنگ رفتنم بود

(3/54) “It’s been forty-three years since I’ve seen my home. All I have left is a jar of soil. It’s good soil. Nahavand is a city of gardens. A guidebook once called it ‘a piece of heaven, fallen to earth.’ The peaks are so high that they’re capped with snow. A spring gushes from the mountain, and flows into a river. It spreads through the valley like veins. We lived in the deepest part of the valley, the most fertile part. Our father owned thousands of acres of farmland. When we were children he gave us each a small plot of land to plant a garden. None of the other children had the discipline. They’d rather play games. But I planted my seeds in careful rows. I hauled water from a nearby well. I pulled every weed the moment it appeared. As the poets say: ‘If you cannot tend a garden, you cannot tend a country.’ My garden was the best; it was plain for all to see. The discipline came from my mother. She was very devout. She prayed five times a day. Never spoke a bad word, never told a lie. My father was a Muslim too, but he drank liquor and played cards. He’d wash his mouth with water before he prayed. The Koran was in his library. But so were the books of The Persian Mystics: the poets who spent one thousand years softening Islam, painting it with colors, making it Iranian. Back then it was a big deal to own even a single book, but my father had a deal with a local bookseller. Whenever a new book arrived in our province, it came straight to our house. I’ll never forget the morning I heard the knock on the door. It was the bookseller, and in his hands was a brand-new copy of Shahnameh. The Book of Kings. It’s one of the longest poems ever written: 50,000 verses. The entire story of our people. And it’s all the work of a single man: Abolqasem Ferdowsi. Shahnameh is a book of battles. It’s a book of kings and queens and dragons and demons. It’s a book of champions called to save Iran from the armies of darkness. Many of the stories I knew by heart. Everyone in Iran knew a few. But I’d never seen them all in one place before, and in a beautiful, leather-bound edition. The book never made it to my father’s library. I brought it straight to my room.”

چهل‌وسه سال از هنگامی که از میهنم دور افتاده‌ام می‌گذرد. آنچه برای من باقی‌ مانده، شیشه‌ای‌ست پر از خاک. خاک خوبی‌ست. خاک نهاوند، خاک ایران. نهاوند شهر باغ‌هاست. زمانی کتاب ایران‌گردی را خواندم که آن را "تکه‌ای از بهشت بر زمین افتاده" نامیده بود. بر قله‌های بلندش برف همیشگی پیداست. چشمه‌ای که از دل کوه می‌جوشد، رودی می‌شود. چون رگ‌های تن در سراسر دره ‌پخش می‌شود. ما در ژرف‌ترین بخش دره زندگی می‌کردیم. حاصل‌خیزترین بخش آن. پدرم از زمین‌داران بود. او در کودکی من، به هر یک از فرزندانش پاره زمینی در باغ خانه داد تا باغچه‌ای درست کنیم. بچه‌های دیگر چندان علاقه‌ای به این کار نداشتند. آنها بازی را بیشتر دوست داشتند. ولی من دانه‌هایم را به هنگام با دقت می‌کاشتم. آب را از حوض یا چاه نزدیک می‌آوردم. گیاهان هرزه را بی‌درنگ وجین می‌کردم. همانگونه که می‌گویند: «اگر نتوانید از باغچه‌تان نگهداری کنید، از میهن‌تان نیز نمی‌توانید.» باغچه‌ی من بهترین بود؛ زیبایی‌اش بر همگان آشکار. این نظم را از مادرم آموخته بودم. مادرم بسیار پرهیزکار بود. روزی چند بار نماز می‌خواند، هرگز واژه‌ی بدی بر زبان نمی‌راند، هیچگاه دروغ نمی‌گفت. پدرم نیز مسلمان بود، ولی در جوانی گاهی نوشابه‌ی الکلی هم می‌نوشید و ورق‌بازی هم می‌کرد. پیش از نماز دهانش را آب می‌کشید. در کتابخانه‌اش قرآن و کتاب‌هایی از عارفان ایرانی داشت. شاعرانی که در درازای هزار سال اسلام را نرم و ملایم کرده بودند، به آن رنگ و بو بخشیده بودند، ایرانی کرده بودند. در آن زمان که داشتن کتاب کار آسان و عادی نبود، پدرم با کتاب‌فروش محلی قراردادی داشت. او هر بار کتاب جدیدی به دستش می‌رسید، باید یکراست نسخه‌ای به خانه‌ی ما بفرستد. هیچ‌گاه آن بامدادی را که صدای کوبیدن در را شنیدم، فراموش نخواهم کرد. کتاب‌فروش آمده بود و در دستانش کتاب شاهنامه‌ی جدیدی بود. نامه‌ی شاهان. یکی از بلندترین شعرهایی که تا کنون سروده شده است، بیش از پنجاه‌ هزار بیت شعر. همه‌ی داستان‌های مردمان‌مان. همه‌ی ایران در شعری یگانه. و همه‌شان سروده‌ی یک شاعر: ابوالقاسم فردوسی. شاهنامه کتاب نبردهاست. کتاب شاهان و شهبانوان، اژدهایان و اهریمن‌هاست. کتاب پهلوانانی‌ست که ایران را در برابر نیروهای اهریمنی پاس می‌دارند. بیشتر داستان‌ها را از بر بودم. هر ایرانی داستانی از شاهنامه می‌‌دانست. ولی من هیچگاه همه‌ی داستان‌های شاهنامه را یکجا در جلدی چرمی و زیبا ندیده بودم. آن کتاب هرگز به کتابخانه‌ی پدرم راه نیافت. آن را یکراست به اتاقم بردم

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Brandon Stanton

@humansofny

Dec 12, 2022

(1/15) “It’s a magic trick, a dupe. Nothing but an illusion. And it starts the moment you walk in the door. Biggest store in the world. Eight full floors of shopping. And Santaland is at the very top. You can take the elevators. Or you can do what I did when I was a kid..."

(2/15) “Christmas, 1983. The year I learned it was all a dupe. I was twelve years old. And the holiday season began like any other. With my mother sitting me in front of the TV to watch the Thanksgiving Day parade. Every five minutes I’d run into the kitchen with updates..."

(3/15) “We lived in a house that my great grandfather bought in the 1930’s. My mother was in charge of decorating. Every room she’d fill with little tchotchkes: santa on a ladder, santa on the beach, santa on skis. There was a banner in the living room with every photo..."

Read 15 tweets

Brandon Stanton

@humansofny

Aug 4, 2022

(1/13) “It’s time for the show. When those doors open at 5 o’clock, it’s showtime. I tell that to every member of my staff, it doesn’t matter how you feel: you could be hungover, you could be facing eviction, your girlfriend could be home in bed with the neighbor..."

(2/13) “My life of crime came to an end in Room 911 of the Philadelphia Lowes Hotel. Room 911. That was the Feds fucking with me. I hadn’t been in the room for 5 minutes when there was a knock on the door. A voice said: ‘Housekeeping.’ But I knew..."

(3/13) “Three months later I’m out at a club with a friend. It’s 2 AM. I’m getting tired, so I say I’m going home. He pulls out a key and says: ‘sniff this.’ I’d never done a drug in my life, not even weed. Not even once. But I figured I’d be dead..."

Read 13 tweets

Brandon Stanton

@humansofny

Jun 9, 2022

(1/15) “I wasn’t the first preacher’s wife to run away. There had been three more. One met a man on the internet. Another went into a life of drinking; she posted pictures on Facebook. And the third was Mary Anne. One Sunday morning Mary Anne was singing..."

(2/15) “When I was a little girl there were two records in our house that weren’t church music. One was a single of a kid named Jimmy singing ‘I saw Mommy kissing Santa Clause.’ And the other was Nat King Cole. We weren’t allowed to dance. So I’d put on Nat King Cole..."

(3/15) “A month before we got married I was sitting with my husband in a gravel lot behind the old Hidden Valley Catfish Restaurant. He said: ‘Detra, you’re a strong woman. Do you plan on being a submissive wife?’ I told him that I certainly would try my best. And he said..."

Read 16 tweets

Brandon Stanton

@humansofny

May 9, 2022

(1/12) “There wasn’t no plan really. I’m walking down the street with my best friend Koreh, and we see this house. And Koreh’s like: ‘Yo. Let’s break in.’ And I’m a stupid eighth grader—so I agreed. We climbed in a window and started grabbing whatever we could. The police were.."

(2/12) “I tried to stay friends with Koreh when he came out of prison, but he was full blown. He didn’t seem like a kid anymore. There weren’t as many jokes. It was always: ‘What’s the next move? What’s the next play?’ He started saying crazy stuff, like..."

(3/12) “We did notice certain changes as the year went on. Ms. DiCo’s voice got deeper and deeper. Her hair got shorter and shorter. But I didn’t think much of it. To be honest I wasn’t thinking much about Ms. DiCo at all. She was white, from Manhattan. She’d gone to Yale..."

Read 15 tweets

Brandon Stanton

@humansofny

Mar 3, 2022

(1/13) “We went on a cruise for our ten-year anniversary. There was this dance competition. They came out on the floor and tapped four couples, and they tapped us. Tripp was towering above everyone. He’s 6’3”, 6’4”, dancing in the middle of the crowd. He’s so stinking cute..."

(2/13) “My first memory is watching my mother’s fingernails. My stepfather would make me sit beside the couch, and watch her fingernails. If they turned blue I was supposed to call 911. She’d be in bed when I left for school. In bed when I came home. There was nobody..."

(3/13) “He was the most gorgeous man I’d ever laid eyes on. All-American. Great shape. The cutest little dimple. And the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen. On our first date we went with a bunch of people to a golf tournament in Hilton Head. All of us were sharing a hotel room..."

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