“It all began when my Grandpa Moe made a wrong turn. He was 93 years old, but he was still driving to and from his butcher shop. And one night he missed his turn in the dark. That’s when I offered to start driving him home. But he misunderstood me. Because the next morning he called at 7:30 AM, and asked: ‘When are you picking me up?’ That was the beginning of me coming here every day. The shop has been in our family for a very long time. But it was barely running by the time I arrived. Moe could still prepare the meat, but I’m not sure people even realized the place was open. He saved every piece of paper, so even the refrigerators had files in them. But thankfully he had guardian angels in the neighborhood. People were always stopping in to make sure he had water, or coffee. And there was always a neighbor to sit with him while he closed the store. It wasn’t really making money, but I think this shop is what kept him going. My first priority was to clean everything. He didn’t like that very much. He thought I was ‘messing everything up.’ He’d already started to lose his memory, which frustrated him. He’d always prided himself on telling stories and remembering names. But he was still so young at heart. We’d put on records from the 40’s and 50’s, and he’d remember the songs. And he was so gentle with me while I learned the business. Whenever I felt overwhelmed, he’d say: ‘piano, piano,’ which means slow in Italian. He taught me how to saw a lamb in half. And how to pick out meat at the market. He could get impatient sometimes. But if he ever lost his temper, he’d always apologize before the end of our car ride home. We worked together for 2.5 years. But during the first week of quarantine, my whole family got COVID. And Grandpa Moe passed away two weeks later. It was right before Easter. And when I came back to the store, there were so many flowers at our door. It was a little scary because the streets were empty. And I kept the door locked because I was all alone. But loyal customers kept stopping by, to see if I needed anything. And at night, when it was time to leave-- there was always a neighbor to sit with me while I closed the store.”

“My daughter was about to graduate high school when I lost my husband to a motorbike accident. She wanted to go to university but there was no one to support us. I’m an old-fashioned person. I’m not very smart. I only graduated from junior high school. But I wanted her to be better than me. I asked our relatives for help, but they all refused me. Out of desperation I approached my landlord. And she was the only one who supported us. She told me: ‘Get back on your feet so your daughter will have a chance.’ She loaned us half the tuition. The other half I earned by working morning to night. I was doing laundry. I was doing dishwashing. I was going around selling cookies and cakes. My daughter graduated recently and became a midwife. All my hard work paid off. We’ve been paying back the loan. And a few months ago she asked for my bank account number, and she’s been putting money in every week.” (Jakarta, Indonesia)

“I’m ninety-six years old. I’d rather just take a pill and get it over with. Whenever I tell that to my wife, she pretends to slap me in the face. But I’m ready to go. And I’d like it to be sudden. I’ve had a good run. I was lucky enough to share my life with someone. She’s ninety now. We’ve had a lot of time together. We have seven grandchildren. Eight great-grandchildren. But there are just so many things I can’t do anymore. I have the money. I have the time. Just not the ability. Whenever I walk, everything hurts. I enjoy sitting here in the park. I think about all the friends that I’ve lost. People come talk to me. Time passes by. But I’m ready. I’m not scared of it. I’d like my soul to go to wherever the souls go.” (Barcelona, Spain)

“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.”

“We had dorm rooms next to each other freshman year. We mainly just played a lot of board games: Risk, Scrabble, Scattergories, a Trivial Pursuit game from the 1980’s-- which everyone sucked at. But we became best friends, and the next year decided to get a house together. That’s when things started to get tense. We began sitting closer together. We were touching more. We’d play with each other’s hands. Never holding hands-- but playing with hands. And we’d even fall asleep in the same bed together. There was a time that she told me goodnight, and I swear I felt her brush my lips, but by the time I opened my eyes she was out of the room. Neither of us had ever dated a woman. And I was terrified to try anything. We were such good friends. There was always this fear that if I voiced the desire, it would ruin our friendship. But one night we were out for drinks at a hotel where Al Capone used to stay. I was feeling pretty drunk, so I leaned over and said: ‘Sometimes I feel like I want to kiss you.’ And she replied: ‘Sometimes I do too.’ I didn’t say a thing. I wasn’t even sure that I’d heard her correctly. I just kept thinking: ‘Oh my God, it’s happening. It’s happening.’ Then once we finished our drinks, and started walking home, I stopped her in front of a bridge. I said: ‘Shall we do it here?’ It was December 12th, 2002. And even though we got married five years ago, that’s the day we celebrate as our anniversary.”

“My father called me ‘stupid’ a lot. Even when I’d bring home good grades, he’d say things like: ‘You’re smart, but you don’t know anything.’ I just wasn’t a big reader like him. He always had a book in his hand. Math was my thing. During lunch I’d go to the junior high library and sit on the floor with puzzle books. Now I’m a teacher, and I’ve taught every math class in the high school curriculum. A few years ago I was teaching my precalculus class, and I stumbled upon a set of numbers that generated ellipses with identical positioning in both the rectangular and polar coordinate systems. So I turned them into variables, wrote a two-page proof, and had my work published in a journal called The Mathematics Teacher. Take that, Dad.”

“Early childhood was chaotic; my brother and I endured a lot of abuse. Having one another helped. It was sort of: ‘Hey, at least there’s another human with me.’ We’ve handled our trauma differently over the years. My brother doesn’t trust authority, and he’s been arrested in seven different states. It usually involves some sort of power struggle with police. His last altercation was in Texas, and it landed him in solitary confinement for 18 months. It couldn’t have come at a worse time. Law school was kicking my ass. I was living off student loans, so I didn’t have the cash to go visit him as often as I wanted. I was drinking a lot. On weekend nights I’d stumble out of the subway at 3 AM or 4 AM, after the bars had closed. And Abe, my coffee cart guy, would be outside my station-- setting up for the day. He’d talk s**t to me before giving me a bagel and water. Then he’d walk me to my building to make sure I got home safe. He was my late-night safeguard in addition to my morning barista. The 8AM line was long, so we had a cheat system. I’d send him a text when I was leaving my place, and he’d have a paper bag with my food and coffee waiting for me inside the cart window. On Saturdays when it was slower, I’d sit on a crate behind the cart and we’d talk for hours. He became a best friend. He introduced me to his wife and children. I learned that his cart supports some of his family back in Egypt, and that’s why he hadn’t taken a day off in almost twenty years. I told him about my family too. Mainly I talked about my brother’s incarceration. Others advised me to cut him off, but never Abe. He told me not to give up on my family. During one of our Saturday conversations, I mentioned that I couldn’t afford to go see my brother. I was careful how I phrased it, because I didn’t want Abe to think I was asking for help. But the following Monday morning when I grabbed my paper bag from inside the window, there was another bag rolled up inside. I thought it may be a chocolate croissant that he’d sneak in sometimes, but it was $3000. I said, ‘Abe no f**kin’ way,’ but he wouldn’t take it back. ‘Pay me back whenever,’ he said. ‘And go see your brother as much as you need.’”

“I used to walk 12 kilometers to school. And every day along the side of the road, there’d be an old woman who was so sick that she couldn’t move. The sun would beat her. The rain would beat her. And nobody would help. I was only seven years old. I couldn’t stand it. But my parents wouldn’t agree to bring a total stranger into our house. How are we OK with people dying like chickens on the side of the road? Millions of people in this country haven’t even taken a single meal today. I can’t stand it. I’m thirty now and I’m struggling. But I’m still trying to help even though I don’t have money. I taught myself to treat diabetes with herbs. I’ve treated ten people so far who can’t afford the hospital. But I want to do more. I’ve given myself a timeframe. I’ve been working at this conservation center for three years now, and I’ve learned a lot. In a few years I’m going to open my own center. I can use the profits to build houses for people who have no place to stay. Each person can stay for a year. Maybe if they can just rest their head for a month, they’ll find a way to feed themselves. And if they eat for a week, they’ll start to reason like a human being. At the very least they’ll see that it’s possible to be loved by someone. And maybe they’ll realize that God loves them too.” (Lagos, Nigeria)

“My mom threw me out of the house at seventeen for getting pregnant, then had me arrested when I tried to get my clothes. Then she f**ked the head of parole to try to keep me in jail. She was some prime pussy back then. But the warden did some tests on me and found out I was smart, so I got a scholarship to go anywhere in New York. I chose the Fashion Institute of Technology, which I hated. But by that time I was already getting work making costumes for the strippers and porn stars in Times Square. All my friends were gay people, because they never judged me. All I did was gay bars: drag queen contests, Crisco Disco, I loved the whole scene. And I couldn’t get enough of the costumes. My friend Paris used to sit at the bar and sell stolen clothes from Bergdorf and Lord and Taylors, back before they had sensor tags. So I had the best wardrobe: mink coats, 5 inch heels, stockings with seams up the back. I looked like a drag queen, honey. One night a Hasidic rabbi tried to pick me up because he thought I was a tranny. I had to tell him: ‘Baby, this is real fish!”
Many of you will remember this young lady. Tanqueray caused quite a stir a few months ago when she dropped some truth bombs on us, while wearing a hand-beaded faux mink coat that she made herself. What you don’t know is what happened afterward. Tanqueray—whose real name is Stephanie—sat for a series of twenty interviews with me, during which time I transcribed her entire life story. And whoa boy, what a story. Stephanie is a born performer, so we were initially going to make a podcast out of it. But unfortunate circumstances have required a change in plans. Stephanie’s health has taken a bad turn, and she’s in a really tough spot. So I’m going to tell her story right here, right now. It’s the most ambitious storytelling I’ve ever attempted on the blog. It will unfold over the course of 32 posts. But if there’s anyone who can hold an audience for an entire week—it’s Tanqueray. As her story is shared, we will be raising money to ensure that Stephanie can live the rest of her life in comfort and dignity. Stephanie has a lot of urgent needs, so her care will be expensive. But her story is priceless. If the series adds any value to your life over the next seven days, please consider making a contribution to our fundraiser through the link in bio. ‘Tattletales From Tanqueray’ will begin tomorrow.

“Adults guess and assume that I’m not going to understand things just because I’m a little kid. And it can be frustrating. Cause, like, I really want to know stuff. Or even when they do talk to me about things, they’ll always try to ‘tone it down to my level.’ They especially avoid the heavy themes like sex and death and cannibalism and stuff. But that’s stuff I want to talk about. I’m really fascinated by the Donner Party. The entire expedition-- really. What did it feel like to eat people that you knew? I’m also fascinated by how the human mind deals with death. It’s like people shut down the idea of death completely, and insist that heaven and hell are places after death. But death is death. And everyone after death is dead, because consciousness is just your brain. And even if there is evidence of life after death, it’s difficult to assess. We’re going to be incredibly biased toward any information that suggests there’s something more. Because we are so desperate to believe it.”

“My wife gave me our son while she’s at a doctor appointment, so I have the chance to watch him for a little bit. I’m going to bring him to lunch at the office and introduce him to my colleagues for the first time. I’m sure some of them won’t care, but I’m excited about it. It’s like my two worlds are coming together. Being a father is a huge part of who I am right now. And my colleagues are the people I spend the most time with. I’m excited for them to see why I’m so happy to go home every day.” (Berlin, Germany)

“My dad said we could do something special for my 6th birthday. ‘Anything you want,’ he told me. I think he thought I was going to say ‘ice cream.’ But I said I wanted to go to New York City, and two weeks later we were on a plane. We spent the morning of my birthday shopping at the American Girl store. Then we went to lunch at Balthazar. Afterward my dad wanted to stop by an old Irish bar called McSorley’s. He’s not a creepy alcoholic father or anything. He designs bars for a living, and he’s always looking for inspiration. It was early in the afternoon so the bar was pretty calm. My dad ordered a beer, and an old man came and sat down at our table. He looked very Irish: suspenders, loose pants, red face. And he was very, very kind. He showed us a few card tricks. He loved that my last name was O’Brien. He kept calling me a ‘real life Irish princess.’ At the end of our visit we took a photo together. And as he was leaving, he told me: ‘I’m Matty Maher. The owner of this bar. And I’ll be expecting to see you again on your 21st birthday.’ As soon as we got home, we mailed Matty the photo of us. My dad and I visited McSorley’s a few more times over the years— anytime we were in New York. I’d always send Matty a postcard in advance, to let him know we were coming. But after awhile I wasn’t a little kid anymore. The bouncer got less and less excited about letting me inside, so we stopped going. I didn’t see Matty for several years. But when my 21st birthday came around, my dad took me on one last trip to New York. I sent Matty a postcard to let him know we were coming, but I wasn’t sure he’d remember me. It was early afternoon when we walked in the bar. It was almost empty—just like it had been fifteen years before. Matty was nowhere to be seen. And I was coming down with strep throat, so I wanted to leave. But it was just like a movie. The doors swung open, and Matty came in like a ray of sunshine. He brought a plate of cupcakes over to our table. He showed me a framed photograph of the two of us—it had been hanging in his office all these years. And then he gave me a birthday card. Inside he had written: ‘I’ve finally met a woman who keeps her word.’”

(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. (Yes, there were two.) Many of you asked what happened to Stephanie’s first son. They have had a relationship for almost his entire life. Sometimes distant. Sometimes close. But by the time I met Stephanie, she had not spoken to him for a few years. This was clearly a source of pain for her. But Stephanie has that particular habit of people who have been hurt, where at the slightest hint of conflict, she’ll reflexively withdraw— so at least she can be hurt on her own terms. This is what happened with her son. I’d always wondered about Mitch. And during the course of our story, some determined readers discovered his Instagram account. I reached out to him and we had a long chat. As it so often goes, Mitch and Stephanie’s estrangement was based on a misunderstanding. There had been a particularly bad argument, and both were convinced that the other did not desire a relationship. Stephanie asked me to give Mitch her new cellphone number. And a couple days later they spent a wonderful afternoon together. It was the happiest I’ve seen Stephanie. ‘It hasn’t always been easy with my mother,’ Mitch explained. ‘But I know her story. And I understand her traumas. So I have nothing against her. It’s taken a lot of work—but I’ve arrived in a place of positivity. My worldview is this: ‘At all times, people are doing one of two things. They’re showing love. Or they’re crying out for it.’

“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)

“She’s like a second chance for me. I was widowed very young. My husband died in a car crash. Our daughter was only six at the time, and I barely got to see her because I was always working. She was mainly raised by my mother. I remember on the weekends she always wanted to go to the cinema, but I’d suggest other activities because it was our only chance to talk. But things are different with my granddaughter. I have all the time in the world. I can focus on her completely. She lives in another town, but she visits once a week and we spend the whole day together. I look forward to it all week. I prepare her favorite foods-- mostly cheeseburgers because she loves cheeseburgers. We go on walks. And we sit in the park. And we paint a lot. And we read books. This morning we played hide-and-seek in the apartment. Her head was always sticking out, but I pretended not to notice.” (Barcelona, Spain)

“I wanted to go to the NBA like everyone else. I played sun-up to sun-down. But I’m 4’11,” huskier than a muthaf**ka. It wasn’t happening, sir. So I opened up a sneaker store with the kid who caught Barry Bond’s 756th homerun. But then my Aunt Lucy passed and I was over at her crib, cleaning out her closet. I’m reaching up for the top shelf and mad s**t fell on me, one of them is a cookbook. Two recipes popped out: ratatouille and vanilla ice cream. Now I don’t know what the f**k is ratatouille, so I says let me see what this ice cream be about. I had no machine, no nothing. I put the ingredients into a bowl and popped it in the freezer. It was trash. So I was like we gotta change this. I went to Bed Bath and Beyond and got a tabletop ice cream machine, and then it was like: ‘Oh, I see what this is.’ People started coming over to my crib. They’re saying: ‘Mikey, this ice cream is damn good.’ Then somebody told my mom that I was an ice cream man now, and I wasn’t gonna sell weed no more. She got so excited I was like: ‘S**t, now I gotta open up a shop.’ I’m gonna be honest—I thought it was put the scoop in a cup. But it’s a whole bunch of other s**t too. I got no line of credit, no nothing. I just use whatever cash is coming into the register. Every time I run out the bill collectors come and throw stones at me. If Ben and Jerry’s grew up in the hood, that’s what we’re dealing with here. But we’ve been open for eight years. Black Enterprise Magazine called this place a ‘safe haven.’ You know how every gangsta’s got a grandma saying: ‘Sit down baby, have some food.’ That’s what this about. It’s bigger than ice cream. I grew up two blocks from here, so on Thanksgiving I’m blasting out hot food in the projects: turkeys, sandwiches, mashed potatoes. We put on for the community. That’s what we do. Cause if you ain’t doing it for the community, that means you’re taking. We like family here. My employees are like my kids. That’s why I stay blessed. I’m gonna put one of my shops in every neighborhood. Imagine how many kids I’m gonna take off the streets. I'll take em' from pants saggin' to: ‘Welcome to Mikey Likes It.’”

“I love walking around the city. I catch the Metro North train at 11:40 every morning. I go to the same gym that I’ve been going to for forty years. Then I just start walking. If you take big strides it really stretches you out. And there are millions of other people walking around. You never feel alone. People smile at you. On weekends I’ll bring my granddaughters with me and we’ll tour different neighborhoods. We’ve seen ten or twelve so far. Sometimes I get to borrow them for the whole afternoon. But they’re at sleep away camp right now so I’m missing them a lot. And that’s about it. I do a little shopping at the thrift store. I stop and read the paper. I eat at outdoor restaurants. It’s simple but I found what makes me happy and I’m doing it. And when I’m heading home at night, sometimes I think: ‘I just had the best day of my life.’”

“It happened so quickly. I’d just quit my job at an after school program. I’d been unemployed for three days. I was waiting for my train at the 125th Street Station, and I noticed so much animosity. It didn’t feel like a sharing and caring kind of place. So I said to myself: ‘I’m going to help change the pace.’ I went to visit my high school chorus teacher-- Mr. Williams, and I told him: ‘I want to sing on 125th Street.’ He thought it was great idea. He said that he’d done the same thing when he was my age. Together we found a cheap amp and microphone, and I gave it a try. My first day was a Tuesday. I stood on the downtown platform. I’d never sung in public before. I was so nervous that I couldn’t find my voice. I wasn’t exactly mute, but I wasn’t fully singing either. Then an old lady came up to me. I’m pretty sure she was an angel. She told me: ‘Sing Whitney Houston.’ Then she stood there, and kept saying: ‘Louder, louder, louder,’ until I was singing full volume. I made $60 that day. And I got so much positive feedback. Now I’m singing four days a week and making enough to provide for me and my daughter. And I get so much love. So much love. So, so much love."

“I didn’t get accepted into any of the universities that I wanted, and I ended up going to a lesser quality school. I hated being there. On the first day, I thought about buying a plane ticket and going home. I felt like I had nothing in common with the people around me. I felt like they belonged and I didn’t. My plan was just to survive-- get through six lectures a day, keep to myself, and get back to my dorm room as soon as possible. I didn’t even talk to my own roommate. I’m ashamed of it now. I was so rude and self-centered, and it ended up making me lonely and miserable. I felt depressed. I was barely sleeping. Then one night I overheard my roommate talking on the phone with her mother. And I could tell she was having family problems. After she hung up, we stayed up all night talking. I told her that I was having a hard time too. She became my best friend after that night. We’d have dinner together. Whenever I left the room, she’d ask me where I was going. It felt so good to have someone worry about me. It’s been an important six months for me. I’ve realized how much I need other people. By not valuing the people around me, I was only hurting myself.” (Mumbai, India)

“Last week I was picking through the trash, looking for bottles and cans to recycle, and my social worker walked by with her family. She walked just a few feet from me. And I know she saw me. But she didn’t say a thing. Not even ‘hello.’ I asked her about it during our next meeting, and at first she denied seeing me. But then she told me that she had been in her ‘private space.’ That really put a stake in my heart. Why can’t you say ‘hello’ to me in your private space? So I’m writing her a letter. I’m using a dictionary because I want the words to be perfect. If you mess up your words, then it’s easy for people to ignore what you’re trying to say. And I want to be sure she knows exactly how it made me feel.”

“I’ve never seen the man read a book in his entire life. One time I saw his high school report card—and the only class he got an ‘A’ in was gym. His parents never had any money. So right after school he got a job stocking produce at a local food market. The owners realized that he had a knack for numbers, so they promoted him to manager at the age of twenty. He met my mother at the store. They got married. And not long afterward I came along. For as long as I can remember, the store has been a huge part of his life. He worked six days a week. He saved enough money to buy out the other owners. But it was never an obsession or anything. Whenever he was home with us, he was fully present. His family was his sweet spot. He never needed to hang out with his buddies. He was madly in love with my mom. And his idea of a good time was spending time with his kids. I used to think that dad was just a ‘family man.’ But as I got older, I realized that his ‘family’ extended to the folks who worked for him. Nobody ever leaves our store. We have fifteen managers-- and the newest one started ten years ago. Our employees stick around because my dad has always taken care of them. He has their back—through divorces, parenting issues, health problems. One of our managers has a brain condition, and my dad’s the one who drives him to the appointments. Sometimes he’s too generous. He’s been burned before. But he kinda doesn’t care. He just keeps pushing in all his chips for other people. The man has a handwritten note from Mother Teresa because of all the food he’s given away. If you came into the store today, you’d find him stocking produce—just like he was doing when he was eighteen. He loves to tell people that he works for his children, and that we can fire him at any time. Everyone thinks he’s joking. But he’s not. On the day my dad got full ownership of the store, he signed over everything to his four kids. I was in the room when it happened. His lawyers and accountants tried to talk him out of it. They told him: ‘You’re giving away everything. You’ll never be able to stop working.’ And he replied: ‘I was poor when I started this thing. And that’s how I plan on leaving.’”

“We’d get in these blowout fights whenever she asked me to stop drinking. She’d try to tell me to slow down. Or that my behavior was ridiculous. Or that she loved me and she wanted me to be healthy. But it just seemed like she was trying to interfere with my life. Your own selfishness becomes completely invisible when you’re that addicted. And the more a person cares-- the more they become an obstacle. It’s horrible because you start hating them for loving you. It would be so much easier to escape if nobody cared. But somehow she stayed. It’s hard to imagine why because she had every reason to go. But this summer we’re getting married. And I’ll be three years sober this April.”

“His mother wanted a break. You know, it’s hectic. She’s a single mother. She just bought a house. It’s a lot taking care of a kid on your own. She thought maybe it would be a good experience for him to come live with Uncle Olasegun for the summer. As soon as she suggested it, I was like: ‘I want to do this.’ And here’s the reason: she did the exact same thing for me. We lost our mom when we were kids. I was really young at the time— like three. Whitney was twelve or thirteen. She and my other sister ended up taking care of me: cooked for me, took me to school, made sure I had a shower, brushed my teeth. Back then I thought she was annoying, because of my ignorance. But now it’s crazy for me to think about. It must have been such a burden. She’d be hanging out with her friends, and I was always there. So I’m just trying to pay it forward. I picked him up from the airport last night. I have no idea how the summer is going to go. I like to cook, so I’ll cook for him. Maybe we’ll paint a little in the evenings. I’m going to teach him some kickboxing on the terrace; hopefully that’ll tire him out so that I can get some work done. I’d love to be a father one day when I find the right woman. So it’s going to be a good test for me. I’m just hoping he has fun. And when he goes back home, he tells his mother all about the amazing summer he had with his uncle.”

“I’m on the way to buy soft drinks for my mother. I also fetch water, and sweep, and help her wash clothes. She calls me ‘boss’ because I work so hard, but I love to help her because she cares for me so much. She buys me clothes. She reads me storybooks. She sings me gospel songs. She helps me with my homework. She gives me medicine when I’m sick. One time she baked my friend a cake because his parents couldn’t afford any presents. I’m going to buy her a house one day. She’s very dark and beautiful. I really have a wonderful mother.” (Accra, Ghana)

“Nobody would give us a chance. We were in our early twenties. We had two young kids. We were working, but living check to check. At the time we were staying in the projects with my mother-in-law, but my kids were growing up, so we needed our own place. But all the rental brokers wanted to see our bank statements. And we had no savings. We didn’t even have accounts. Then one day I was walking down the avenue, and I saw a super fixing up an empty apartment. I told him I needed to speak to the landlord directly. No brokers. And I guess he liked my vibe, because he gave me the name: Ronald Petrowski. When I called Mr. Petrowski, I explained everything. I told him we needed a chance. He agreed to meet me and my husband at Lenny’s Pizzeria. He bought us a plain pie and listened to our story. He’d grown up poor himself, so he knew the struggle. And he gave us a chance. We’ve been in that apartment for 35 years now, and I’ve paid him every cent. We’ve fallen on hard times. At one point I owed him an entire year of rent. But he was so gracious. He never sent us an eviction notice. Every time he came to collect, he’d sit at our kitchen table, have a cup of coffee, and listen to our situation. Mr. Petrowski is my hero. He sold the building a couple years ago, but we still keep in touch. That man gave me a home to raise my children.”

“I’m the best uncle. I think it’s because I have a little more energy in the reserve tank, since I’m the only one of my siblings without kids. I’d love to have children but just haven’t had the chance yet. But I do have twelve nieces and nephews, and I try to see them as much as I can. This morning I called my sister and offered to take these two for the day. I know how much she needs the free time. Just a chance to get stuff done. Maybe get out of the house for a few hours. And no matter how crazy it gets with these two, it’s always stress free for me. It’s just golden. I always want them to have someone they can come to that’s not their mum. They have a great relationship with their mum. But mum is always mum. And you don’t want to disappoint her. So if you ever have a problem, or you get in a little trouble, and you’re afraid to tell someone—but you still need some guidance-- that's when you come to Uncle Markus.” (London, England)

“My boyfriend left as soon as I got pregnant. I was terrified to tell my father, but he discovered my pregnancy test hidden in a drawer. He didn’t speak to me for a few days. We’d always been close, so I knew something was up. Finally he asked me if I wanted to tell him something. I began to cry. I thought he was going to kick me out of the house. But he just went to speak with my mom in the other room, and when he came back, he asked what I planned to do. I told him I wanted to keep the baby, and from that moment on he was very supportive. He cooked me all kinds of dishes whenever I had cravings. He gave me words of encouragement. He started saving money in case I needed a cesarean section. But during my seventh month he came down with a fever after wading through floodwater. The next week it turned into a cough. We took him to the hospital, went home to get clothes, but he died by the time we got back. It was so sudden. I had no idea what I was going to do. I got all my strength from my father. It seemed like keeping the baby had been a mistake. It’s been a tough few years. I had to drop out of school and find a job, but my son is doing well. He’s very smart. He comes home from school with stickers and stars. He’s a ‘Mama’s boy.’ It’s been hard, but I’ve proven to myself that I didn’t have to end a life just because I couldn’t face it.” (Manila, Phillipines)

“It wasn’t a secret. The first day we met I told her I was bisexual, and that I’d been with men and women my entire life. At the time she shrugged it off. And it wasn’t an issue for the first ten years of our marriage. The relationship was perfectly loving and stable. But then I don’t know—something happened. It wasn’t a particular man. I never cheated on her. It was something abstract. I just missed relationships with men. So I told her. I was honest. But when I uttered that thing it was like a bomb went off. She turned away her face like she’d been slapped very hard. It caused her so much pain. She lost a lot of weight. We cried and cried and cried about it. For three years we cried. We’d meet at Starbucks every day and cry in front of everyone. We didn’t live together after that. And we were never sexual again. But we were still intimate. We still took a lot of naps together. I always held her. We’d go shopping and walk arm-in-arm. She kept my last name and called me her gay husband. Her health began to deteriorate in 2007. It was a nerve disease. She lost her hearing. Then her sight. And I took care of her. She always told me to forget about her. To go out there and find a good guy. But I stayed by her side. We’d never officially gotten divorced, which helped in the end. They let me in the hospital room as her husband. I wasn’t allowed to touch her, but I was right next to her as she died, breathing with her. It’s been two years now. I’ll move away soon. There’s nothing left in this city for me. But first I’m going to have a ceremony in Central Park, and give an envelope of her ashes to everyone who loved her. I don’t know whether to call her my wife. It’s not important to me. Alexandra was the love of my life.”

“I started my career as a teller at a community bank in Florida. I was in my early thirties. At the time I had a young child and I just needed a way to pay my rent and car payment. But I kept moving up. I wouldn’t say I’m overly ambitious. It didn’t come from a place of ‘I need more.’ I just have a lot of energy. And I’d always ask the next question or apply for the next job. So I worked my way up to CEO. It was demanding but I enjoyed the position. I was handling it quite well until a few years ago when my husband passed away. Then my mother. And then my best friend. All of this happened in a single year. I’d never even lived alone before. Suddenly I felt unanchored. I reached this place of ‘what do I do now?’ I couldn’t go back to making more money. So I decided to make a change. I went back to college to get a Master of Public Administration. And right now I’m actually on the lunch hour for my final class. I’ve already got a job waiting on me back home. I’m the new Director of Broward County's Business Council on Homelessness. We’re working toward getting homeless people into permanent housing. And I’m really excited. I want to do a great job. I’m in a place where I can change some lives. It feels like I've moved from success to significance.”

“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)

“Life was easy as a child. I grew up in Burkina Faso. My father was a primary school teacher and we had everything we needed. But he died when I was eleven. And three years later my mother passed away, so I became an orphan. I was left with my brother and sister. They were very young. Almost too young to remember. And we had nothing. I had to learn how to take care of them. My brother especially was very traumatized. But I swore, swore, swore: we would never leave school and we’d never be separated. I dropped out of seminary and enrolled in a technical school. I fought hard. I sold small things. I started a theater company. We were contracted by NGO’s to perform educational skits in remote villages. Then I studied social media and learned how to be a community manager. I have my own business now. I help artists and organizations with their digital presence. I have eight clients. Through all of this my brother and sister have been allies in my fight. We talk all the time. Even though I’m in Europe right now, I know everything that is happening in their lives. I paid for their education. I taught them what my parents taught me. Be honest. Work hard. And never give up. The best thing to do is never give up.” (Rome, Italy)

“I was a full time housewife. I kept mostly to myself. I was a very shy person. Then one year a local school asked if I could volunteer to teach art to the children. Just one hour every day. I did such a good job that the next year they asked me to teach full time. My husband didn’t want me to do it. He said: ‘You told me it would just be one hour.” But I told him: ‘I listened to you for twenty-five years, now it’s my turn to take the reins.’ I ended up teaching for fifteen years. I built such a good reputation that children came from other schools to join my class. The whole school threw a party when I retired. The children sang songs and danced. It just made me feel so special. Teaching was the best decision I ever made. Now I feel like I’ve done something positive with my life.” (Mumbai, India)

“Once when I was fourteen I was getting on the Q Train in Brooklyn. It was two o’clock in the afternoon. I was going to a friend’s house. I swiped my card quickly because the train was coming. And as I ran to catch it, an undercover police officer just grabbed me. I remember he was wearing a Jake Plummer Michigan football jersey. I told him that I’d paid my fare. I told him he could check my card. But he pushed me against the wall and started searching through my stuff. I’ve probably been searched about half a dozen times in my life. So I don’t have a lot of faith in the system. I know a lot of people in prison are just unlucky. Right now I’m finishing up my Masters’ in accounting and my goal is to own my tax firm. I’d love to employ formerly incarcerated individuals one day. It’s so hard for them to find employment, but I can teach them to do taxes. It’s something anyone can learn. They can provide an excellent service, and their history wouldn’t make a difference.”

“I used to be a corporate attorney for Coca-Cola. I worked eighty hours a week. Then one day I asked my boss for a single Friday off and he said ‘no.’ So I left my dog with my brother and flew to Europe. That was ten years ago. It’s been super f**king chill.” (Barcelona, Spain)

“My husband got involved with a younger woman at work. I was relaxed about it at first. He’s thirteen years younger than me, so I thought: ‘S**t happens.’ But then she got pregnant. Luckily through the divorce process I had the opportunity to take over this s**thole place with no heating, which I've turned into an art studio. And now I’m living my best life. Everything is for sale except the pink chandelier and the dog. Anyone is free to stop by at anytime. You can eat or drink whatever you want. All the young people in the neighborhood love me. I’m the oldest person in our friend group. Everyone else is in their twenties or thirties. They call me Queen Mama. I call them my adopted kids. I always help them with their school projects and resumes and interviews. I only ask one thing in return. Each of them has to teach me one new thing every week: a piece of music, a trend, an idea. Just so I can stay up to date. Before you take the photograph, let me go inside and put on some make-up. We were out until 2 AM last night.” (Amsterdam, The Netherlands)

“I’d just turned twelve. I think Dad realized that I needed somebody in my life. He was working two jobs so I never had anyone to talk to. Mom wasn’t around. Middle school was a complete disaster. I had no friends and was getting bullied tons. Then one day I came home from school, and Dad was home—which was shocking, because he normally worked until 9 pm. And he introduced me to this guy. I had no clue who he was. He said his name was Adam, and that he was my ‘Big Brother,’ and he was going to help me. But I had no clue what that meant. I just thought it was a friend of my dad’s or something. We were only supposed to meet two times a month. But it ended up being more like three times a week. He helped me study. I could call him whenever I felt sad. And he helped me with my anger outbursts. Whenever I was having a bad day, we’d go to a bridge near his house and throw a bunch of rocks in the creek. He helped me so much over the years. Even after he moved to New York, I was able to do the last two years of high school by myself. He promised me that if I graduated with all B’s, he’d fly me up to New York for a visit. Well I did better than that. I graduated with all A’s and B’s.”

"I’m a single father raising a teenager. We’re meeting here in a few minutes to go on a run. I’m trying to teach him discipline and focus. He’s had some problems paying attention in school, but I don’t want to put him on medication. His mother and I divorced when he was four. She’s a good person. She’s very appreciative of what I’ve done. She just wasn’t ready to be a parent. I was in a much better place. So she didn’t fight me on custody. But it scares me to think if she had. The courts are set up against men. They almost always determine that women should raise kids and men should pay child support. I don’t understand it. There’s a big push to see women as equal workers. Why can't men be equal parents?"

“We’ve been boyfriend and girlfriend for just over two months. We met at camp. We didn’t talk to each other much at camp. But then we decided to talk more after camp. I go to boarding school, so this is the first time we’ve seen each other for five weeks. But we talk a lot on the phone. And we’ll help each other if we’re having a rough day. This week I had an AP US History Exam. I studied all the wrong stuff. I thought there’d be a lot more questions on the War of 1812. But instead there were a ton of questions about The American Revolution. So I was pretty depressed. But she texted me and said: ‘You tried your best. It’s all you can do.’ Then we talked about it all night until I went to bed. And it just felt really nice to have somebody to make you feel better.”

“It started with super light contractions. So it seemed like we had plenty of time. Leanne went to take a quick shower. I started packing up our stuff. Then suddenly she had a contraction that was like—‘ whoa.’ So I thought we’d be conservative and head over to the hospital. As we’re walking out to the truck, Leanne had an even bigger one, and I’m like, ‘Oh man.’ We jumped in the truck and pulled out of the driveway. I put on some Grateful Dead—light volume. I started out doing 5 to 10 over the speed limit. Nothing crazy. Then Leanne’s water broke. But it still didn’t seem like a ‘baby coming out right now’ situation. So I pushed it up to 60 mph. Then Leanne started screaming. Very guttural. And I heard her saying something about the baby coming out. Now I know people delivered babies for a long time outside the hospital. But I’d never done it. So I brought us up to 65 mph. Then I hear her saying, ‘Oh my god, I feel a head.’ And I start seeing something out of the corner of my eye. My wife is pulling a baby out of herself. Next thing I know, she’s holding it up in the air, and she’s saying ‘oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.’ I pulled over into a church parking lot and called 911. They told me to stay calm, and that I needed to tie off the umbilical cord with something. So I looked everywhere for some sort of string. I briefly considered my shoelaces, but those would take too long to untie. There was only one other option.”

“He ran his last NYC marathon on the day before his final surgery. The oncologist told him not to do it. By that time he had a massive tumor on his jaw. He couldn’t even swallow. It took him five hours, but he finished the race. Nobody could tell him to stop. He tried to pass down his love of running, especially when we were little. He signed us up for all the kiddie races. But it never took hold. It wasn’t until college that I decided to run one marathon in Dad’s memory. When I reached the finish line I was hurt, and sore—but I remember thinking: ‘That was easier than I thought.’ And since then I’ve run 33 of them. It isn’t about the finish line anymore. It’s just a part of my life now. Most mornings I wake up at 4 AM and run ten miles to the hospital. I’ll take a quick shower and be on the unit by 7: feeling energized, and resilient. I work in the pediatric ICU, so you have to be resilient. It’s part of the job. But recently I was really tested. I’d just gone through a bad breakup. My brother was in a bad car accident. There was a period when my mental health finally broke down. Everyone gave me grace: Mom called multiple times per day, my friends were incredible, my coworkers pushed me into the back office whenever I needed to cry. But I was so mad at myself. Because I’m a happy person at baseline. I don’t focus on problems. I’m a fixer. I’m always looking for reasons to be grateful: it’s a beautiful day right now, it’s summer, it’s the weekend. I’m the kind of person who appreciates those things. That’s my baseline. It’s who I am. And I was so mad at myself, because for a time I just couldn’t connect with that person. The one thing I did was keep running. No matter how I felt—it’s the one thing that stayed consistent. That’s probably my favorite thing about running. It’s always there. Even if it’s between shifts, and it’s snowing, or your life’s falling apart-- you can just put on your sneakers and go. And no matter how lost I felt, there’d always be a moment. It would be 5:30 in the morning, and I’d be halfway to work, and the endorphins would kick in. And there’d be a moment. When I’d come back to baseline. A moment when I felt like myself.”

“I was only sixteen when I got pregnant. I was so disappointed in myself. I thought I’d end up like one of those pregnant teens on Maury. I did finish high school – I will say that. But afterwards I had no good options. My family didn’t have money. My son’s father wasn’t around. It was on me to do something. So I joined the Navy. I was basically gone for the next six years. I had to leave my son with my parents. It was an extremely hard decision. But anything I did was going to look bad—if I had stayed behind, I would have just been a bum ass ‘project girl’ with a kid. I had to provide. And I was still a kid myself, so I needed experience. When I came home for good, my son was seven years old. He lives with me now. We’re working on it. I’d love for him to be a ‘mama’s boy,’ but in a lot of ways he’s still closer to my parents. He gives them random hugs and kisses. I have to ask for mine. So we’ve still got a ways to go. But I used the GI Bill to get a bachelor's degree. And I’ve got a job where I make real money. I’m proud of myself. I work in a place that I never could have imagined when I was sixteen. I have ‘work friends.’ I spend my day with people who are motivated to be better—not just in work, but as people. I’m doing well. And considering how I started— that’s an amazing thing.”

“Being six is so hard. I have to go to school, and do math, and do a lot of words, and spell things, and take tests every Friday, and exercise, and play games that I don’t want to play. And mom says we’re going to have another baby soon, so it’s going to be crazy. We wanted a girl but we got a boy. I don’t even know what I’m going to do. I already have one brother who hits too much and goes everywhere without permission.”

“My mom is in prison. I see her every fifteen days. My siblings take me to visit her, but then they leave me when it’s over. My grandmother doesn’t want me. My uncle beats me up. I have nowhere to live. The only person I have in my life is my mom. Every time I visit, she asks me if I’m staying with relatives, and I tell her: ‘Mom, nobody wants me. I have no one.’ I sleep on the street. I can’t go to school. I just hang out with the older kids. Sometimes we wash cars together for money. Last week I was washing a man’s car and he bought me clothes and food. He told me I could sleep at his house. So maybe I’ll start going there.” (Cairo, Egypt)

“We’d been friends for three years. We’d mostly see each other at the Catholic Center on campus: picnics, group outings, stuff like that. But then we started hanging out alone. And one day during finals week we spent an entire day together. We talked for six hours straight, and that night we ended up eating burgers at Five Guys. Remember it was finals week, so I was stressed out and sleep deprived and not thinking clearly. I started telling him that he’s so great, and that I’ve never felt so comfortable with someone, and suddenly I realize that I’m practically telling him that I like him. And he’s got this blank expression on his face. Total poker face. So I panicked, and said something silly.” ——
“She told me, word-for-word: ‘But don’t worry. I could never date you.’ My heart sank. I’d been planning on asking her out after finals. I had a whole plan. Suddenly it felt like I’d misread the last three years, and especially the last few months. I tried to keep a straight face. No crying. And after we paid for the check, I dropped her off at the dorm and walked the entire two miles home. I kept telling myself: ‘You can recover. She’s still a dear friend. Life has its ups and downs.’ Two weeks later I helped her move into a new apartment. And we kept hanging out as friends for the next few months. But then on Valentine’s Day, she sent me a neuroscience card. It’s a bit of a tradition because we’re both neuroscience majors. The card said: ‘Are you a neuron? Because you have action potential.’ Then she followed up with a text that said: ‘If a man really wants to impress me, he’d bring me pancakes and yellow roses.’ Suddenly things were looking up again.”

“My late husband had a quote he’d say at the end of all his podcast episodes: ‘Dream those dreams. Then live those dreams.’ He never seemed to mention that he could only live those dreams because his wife was at home with the kids. I never intended to have so many children. I was a womanist before I knew what the word meant. I was president of the student council. I skipped three grades in math. I went to Barnard. But my boyfriend and I became pregnant when we were young. We made the choice to get married, and after that it became this whole different chapter: cooking, cleaning, homework, dance, soccer. We raised four wonderful children together. And I enjoyed so much of it. But sometimes it could seem like everything I did was connected to another person. My husband tried in his own way. He understood the importance of presence. And he did learn to cook three good dishes. But at the end of the day— his projects always took precedence. Because he was ‘dreaming those dreams.’ His schedule was the ‘inflexible’ one. There might be discussions, or arguments, but all he had to do was say ‘business’—and that was the end of it. I did have my tricks for claiming my time. I never just exercised— I took classes. My Zumba class was at 7 pm on Tuesdays and Thursdays. It was on paper. So he had no choice— he had to be home. I also did a lot of private tutoring. Sometimes I’d do it with a baby strapped to my chest, but at least I was putting those math skills to work. But I always wanted something more. I wanted a physical space to call my own. So when my children got a little older, and this storefront became available near my house, I teamed up with some friends and we took the leap. The bakery opened on my birthday. And it gave me the best present of all— a place I had to be. Something inflexible. Like a permanent Zumba class. And there was nothing to discuss, because at the end of the day—it was business. I remember the day we opened-- there was a moment when my husband tried to walk back into the kitchen. But I stopped him. Because only employees were allowed in the back. This was not his space. And it wasn’t our space. It was my space.”

“I just finished medical school. Now I’m heading to residency, which is supposed to be even tougher. I’ve been working sixteen-hour days. Then I’m expected to study every night when I get home. Some of my classmates only sleep three hours per night. I tried that for a few months during my surgery rotation, but I ended up getting really depressed. I felt completely depersonalized. Everything seemed like a dream. To make matters worse, a lot of the instructors are jerks. I think they went through hell when they were students, so they feel like they should put us through hell. On the first day of rotations, my attending physician told me: ‘I’m an a**hole, but I’ll make you a better doctor.’ He made fun of me in front of other students. He put me down in front of patients. He’d threaten to kick me out every day. I guess they’re trying to weed people out and make strong doctors. But they’re just traumatizing people. They’re making us apathetic. I got into medicine because I really wanted to make a difference in people’s lives. But after going through hell, I just don’t care anymore.”

“I’ve been telling myself since the age of twelve: ‘I’ve got to be a mogul. I’ve got to be the greatest. I’ve got to get my family out of the hood.’ I started working full time at the age of eighteen, doing door-to-door sales for a gas and electric company. They’d give me $20 every time I signed up a new customer. I worked harder than anyone. I’d wake up at 6 AM every day. I became one of their top performing vendors. I opened new offices. I trained people to work for me. I thought I was happy-- but it was just temporary happiness. I was money-minded. I was only chasing vanity. I didn’t care about nobody. Not you. Not your family. The only thing I cared about was what you could do for me. But Shanice changed all that. She made me more spiritual. She’s loving. She’s caring. And she’s confident. I thought I was confident, but I was just cocky. Shanice is confident. She knows what she deserves. She gives out nothing but love, and that’s what she expects. I can’t imagine calling her out of her name. I can’t imagine hurting her feelings. I can’t imagine breaking her heart. I put her on such a high pedestal. I was scared to even touch her when we met. But now that she’s let me up on the pedestal with her, I want to take her even higher.”

“You can do things when you’re six that you can’t do when you’re three like my little sister is. One thing is ice skate I guess, which I’ve done like maybe two times. I fell down a lot and it felt kinda frustrating because it’s kinda frustrating when you keep falling but you have to keep your eyes open even if you’re scared. On the fifth or seventh time around I didn’t even fall and I even did a fancy twirl jump but not in real life just in my imagination.”

“I was late to the delivery room when she was born. But as soon as I walked in, her eyes started tracking me. Like she knew I was her Dad. Even the nurses were laughing about it. She’s always been my road dog. She never went through a ‘teenage phase.’ She never stopped wanting to spend time with me. We could always talk about the problems she was having at school. Even as she got older, we’d still go to the park on Saturdays or find some exotic place to eat in Brooklyn. It’s a little tough now that she’s away at college. I miss spending time with her. But I trust her completely and I want her to enjoy these years. I just hope that when she falls in love with some dude, I’ll still get to see her.”

“It’s so hard to ask for help. Because you’re supposed to be ‘Mommy.’ And you never want to say: ‘I need help being Mommy.’ I carried this person for nine months. I knew she was coming. I felt like I should be able to handle it and I didn’t want to ask other people to stop their lives. Especially if they had no part in making this baby. But eventually I had to give in. I’m just one person and being ‘Mama’ 24/7 can make you crazy. I found myself getting frustrated that other people were going on with their lives. I’d let things fester. And it was unhealthy for my relationships. I’d get heated with my mother and boyfriend. Instead of beginning with ‘Can you help?’ I’d lose my temper, and jump straight to: ‘Why aren’t you helping?’”

“We moved from Brazil three years ago. We love Thanksgiving. We cook everything. But we’re still learning many things about the American culture. Back home everyone likes to hug and kiss on the cheek. It communicates that you care about someone. But here it is different. My friend tried to give me a Thanksgiving handshake at the gym today. But I went in for a Thanksgiving hug. And he only gave me a Thanksgiving half-hug. A few months ago I was called into Human Resources, and they said: ‘Mr. Mauricio, no more hugging at the office. It is making people uncomfortable.’ So I learned my lesson that day. I came home and told the children: ‘Be careful not to touch your classmates.’”

“Most teachers say I have messy handwriting but I’m just trying to write quickly so I can get it over with. The assignments don’t make sense. I’m not sure why our teacher is always saying ‘write about this’ or ‘write about that.’ If I decide to be an author, I’m not going to write about other people’s books or the play we just saw on a field trip. I’m going to write about monsters.”

“It wasn’t a shotgun wedding. He proposed before Dad got diagnosed. We’d already scheduled the ceremony. We’d rented a large room at the museum. And Dad promised me that he’d make it. He said he’d still be healthy enough. But as the date got closer, he got sicker. And we didn’t want to risk it. So we changed our plans. We moved up the date. We held a tiny ceremony at the registry office. Maybe twenty people came. Dad stayed in bed until it was time to go. But he made it the entire day. He drove me to the wedding in the same car that he’d driven my mum— a green MG Midget. He walked me down the aisle. He gave a speech at the reception. There was no focus on being ill. Or why we moved the wedding. It was just a nice speech. I have a film of it, but I haven’t watched it yet. I think it might be too sad. Dad passed away five months later. My husband and I had a vow renewal recently. It was exactly one year from the planned date of our original wedding. We held it at the same museum. It was the original guest list. There was a lot of soul searching involved. We weren’t sure if it was the right thing to do. We weren’t sure if people would understand-- especially because it happened to fall on my dad’s birthday. But it turned out lovely. Really lovely. There was so much Dad in the room-- his photos were everywhere. But this day was about us. About our relationship. About showing the world how much we loved each other. About our future. And about moving forward.” (London, England)

“My mother’s friends say that I’m just like her. She died of breast cancer when I was two years old. I had to grow up fast because my father was always working and seldom around. I was doing my own laundry at the age of seven. I figured the puberty thing out on my own. During high school, I’d leave for entire weekends without my dad even asking where I’d been. Then one year at Thanksgiving, my aunt told me that my mother had left me a letter and a video. She got so angry when I told her I’d never gotten it. I confronted my Dad about it, and he said that he ‘remembered something like that.’ He drove me to a safety deposit box—but the box was empty. He couldn’t remember what happened. He had one job. One thing that would mean more to me than anything else, and he couldn’t do it. My mom’s friends always tell me: ‘She would be so proud of you,’ or ‘She was so in love with you. But that’s not the same. It’s not the same as something directly from her. Something she made especially for me. Just one thing that actually says: ‘This is how much I love you.’”

“She always responds with empathy. She meets anger with empathy. She meets hate with empathy. She’ll take the time to imagine what happened to a person when they were five or six years old. And she’s made me a more empathetic person. I had a very fractured relationship with my father. Before he died, she made me remember things I didn’t want to remember. She made me remember the good times.”

“The scene was different back then. All the adult clubs were mob controlled. It all flowed up to some guy named Matty The Horse. Honestly the mob guys never bothered me. They were cool, and I liked how they dressed. They wore custom made suits. And they went to hair stylists, not barbers. These guys wouldn’t even let you touch their hair when you were f**king them. Not that I ever f**ked them. Because I never turned tricks. Well, except for one time. I took a job from this woman named Madame Blanche. She controlled all the high dollar prostitutes back then. She was like the Internet-- could get you anything you wanted. And all the powerful men came to her because she never talked. She set me up with a department store magnate who wanted a black girl dressed like a maid. I thought I could do it. But when I got to his hotel room, he wanted to spank me with a real belt. So that was it for me. I was done. But Madame Blanche set my best friend Vicki up with The President every time he came to New York. And don’t you dare write his name cause I can’t afford the lawyers. But he’d always spend an hour with her. He’d send a car to pick her up, bring her to his hotel room, put a Secret Service agent in front of the door, and get this: all he ever did was eat her pussy!”

“I wasn’t planning on dressing up as a clown. I’d been drinking all night in Poughkeepsie and I somehow ended up at the train station, so I decided to take the 4 AM train into the city. I had $200 in my pocket from some gutter cleaning work. I immediately spent the first $60 on brunch and Bloody Marys. Then I walked by Party City and I had the idea to get a clown wig. But then I noticed the suspenders, and the top, and the bow tie, and some balloons. I bought a red nose too but I’m not sure what happened to it. I left the store with about $100, which was enough to get some shoes and a half pint of Seagram’s. I ended the day with $10 but that got lost when I passed out in Times Square. Now I'm trying to figure out how to get home. I need to stop drinking.”

“I like this other stuff you’re posting, but let’s get real. We gotta keep this thing going. There’s like a million people who were really famous, then something else came along and now they’re nothing. That ain’t happening to me. I’m not gonna let things die down so somebody else can start their own parade. Trust me, baby. I know what I’m talking about. I’ve been doing this all my life. Last week I was handing out business cards nonstop. And let me tell you—now that everybody’s got their shots, it’s getting crazy out there. People are stopping me left and right. I think it’s the hair -- $39.95 at the wig store, but they don’t know that. I’m taking pictures with everybody. I’m telling them that this Tanqueray s**t is just getting started. There’s gonna be TV stuff, and books, and they ain’t seen nothing yet. But you’ve got to pick up the slack. You’ve gotta post something about Tanqueray. Just a taste to keep ‘em hungry. This morning I found two rolls of 35mm film underneath my couch. And they look old as s**t, so who knows what’s on there. Those could be good for money. After we leave here I’m going to get them developed. Then I’ve got to go uptown to get my sewing machine fixed, cause I’m gonna start making hats and masks—that match. It’s going to be huge. I’ve got a slogan and everything: ‘It don’t mean a thang if you don’t got that Tang.’ People are gonna go f**king nuts for this s**t. Also— I’m taking you to this place downtown where I buy my candles. They got a guy there who reads cards. He’s young, which I don’t love. But he reads good, and you’re gonna get a reading. I’m paying. If you’re riding with me we need to know if anyone in your life is trying to f**k you over. And while we’re there, I wanna find out if my last boyfriend is ever gonna come back around. The movie producer. I think he’s got Asperger’s or some s**t like that, but I kinda miss him. And let’s be honest. I ain’t exactly a summer breeze.”