There are eight billion people in the world, each with their own unique life story. New York City is home to over eight million people, but it's the most attractive urban center in the world for a reason. There probably isn't any other city so diverse and multicultural, so unique in its inhabitants and history.

So, today, we're featuring the renowned project Humans of New York. It's a well-known photoblog by photographer Brandon Stanton, who presents intriguing snapshots of New Yorkers in photo and story form. You'd think the tales from Humans of New York were from a movie, a story made up by a brilliant screenwriter. But this is real life, Pandas. As real as it gets.

More info: Humans of New York | Facebook | Instagram | Twitter (X)

#1

“It’s not instant. It’s something you do over a period of time. It began with green accents. I’d mix green into my nail polish, and put green streaks in my hair. There’s a small school across the street from our house. And whenever I walked our dog Dylan, I noticed that the children responded to the green. They’d give me little, timid waves. Oh, I love children. Little, happy people. They’re just so naturally there. And they love green. They’re drawn to it. Children are always bringing me green things, and dropping letters into my mailbox. Sometimes I can’t even read the handwriting, but it makes me so happy. People make me happy. They’re always so loving and sweet. I’ve never met a negative person—I just don’t bother with that part of people. When someone approaches me on the street, I give them a hug, and say something nice. It’s all that I’m looking for. And it’s all that I find. It really makes a big difference in life, not to be closed up. It’s a way of life. Whether you become a doctor, or a lawyer, or a green lady, you’re accomplishing what’s in your heart.”

Image credits: humansofny

#2

"Mom died on the first day of school. She’d been really sick that entire summer. And she passed away on a Monday. At 7 AM. Almost exactly the time I’d be leaving for school. I don’t think I fully grasped how traumatic it was for me. I was there when she took her last breath. I comforted my little sister while she said goodbye. And the next week I had to start classes at a brand new school. I was a junior at the time. All the teachers knew what happened. And they had told all the students, so everyone was pitying me when I showed up. I met Alex that very first day. We were in choir together. We became friends almost immediately, but we didn’t start dating until we were both cast as leads in Seussical The Musical. We became more serious during college, and we ended up getting married right after graduation. I felt so sad that my mom couldn’t see any of it. Every time a big event would happen, it would be like—she’s not here. And she’s never going to be here. I was a moody, shitty teenager when she died. And I’m having this whole life where I become the person I’m supposed to be, and she doesn’t get to see any of it. She’s not going to see me graduate. She’s not going to meet my children. And it especially sucks that she’ll never get to meet Alex. We lit a lantern at our wedding to signify that my mom was still with us. It was a beautiful ceremony, and afterwards we took our honeymoon in Hawaii. A few days into the trip, I received a call from my oldest friend Meredith. She sounded excited. She’d just discovered a picture of our childhood soccer team, and there was a boy who looked just like Alex. When I showed Alex the photo, he confirmed that it was him—he’d played goalie on that team. I just started laughing. It was such a God moment. It was a moment when everything felt connected. Alex and I had known each other as children, back when my mom was still alive. The first thing I did was call my dad. I asked him if he remembered anything about the Swan’s Dermatology Soccer Team. ‘I remember the goalie,’ he replied. ‘During the games he’d always sit down in the net and play with the dirt. And your mother thought it was hilarious."

Image credits: humansofny

#3

“It was just the three of us. And dad was a truck driver so he was gone most of the time. It could be a lot of stress. My mom was almost like a single mother. On my third birthday we moved to a small house outside of Denver. Next door there lived an older couple named Arlene and Bill, and they started talking to me through the fence. My first memory is Arlene handing me strawberries from her garden. It was a wonderful connection. After a few months, I knocked on their door, sat down in their living room, and said: ‘Will you guys be my grandparents?’ It was so silly. They could have laughed it off. But instead they started crying. They printed out an adoption certificate and hung it on their living room wall. That certificate remained until I left for college. They became so important to me. Their house was a refuge. Bill was the kind of grandfather that always smelled like oil. He taught me to drive everything. He was always fixing stuff. But he’d stop anything to sit down with me and have a glass of tea. Arlene was the type of grandmother that loved crafts, which was perfect for a kid. We were always putting tiny sequins on things. Both of them supported me in all my dreams. Through all my phases. They encouraged me to apply for college, even though I didn’t have the money to go. And when I got accepted, they presented me with a fund. They told me they’d been putting away money since the day I adopted them. Since I’ve become an adult, I’ve learned more about my grandparents. They both grew up poor. Arlene struggled with alcoholism when she was young, and that’s why they never had children. Their lives weren’t as perfect as they seemed through the fence. My grandmother passed away in 2013. It was two days before our adoption anniversary. My grandfather gave her eulogy. And at the end, he said: ‘Arlene leaves behind her husband Bill. And the greatest joy of her life-- her granddaughter Katie.’”

Image credits: humansofny

Brandon Stanton, the creator of Humans of New York (or HONY, for short), started the project in 2010. After working for three years as a bond trader in Chicago and losing that job, he decided to move to New York to pursue his passion: photography.

His initial plan was to take 10,000 portraits and out them in an interactive map. A photographic census of the city, as he himself described it. He admits that the plan might've sounded crazy. Even his friends and family were telling him: "So you're just going to take pictures of random people on the street and somehow that's going to equal profit? OK..."

#4

“I was just a neighborhood kid. There was no running water in our house. Or electricity. So in the evenings, when I came home from school, I’d sit out near the road. Across the street there was a hotel where foreigners stayed. I’d watch them play Frisbee. I’d watch them buy African souvenirs from the street vendors. Occasionally one of them would come speak to me. I was an inquisitive child. I liked to ask questions. So I think they found me entertaining. One evening an American girl came up to me and started asking me questions. Just small talk: ‘What’s your name?’, and things like that. But then she asked my birthday, and I told her: ‘November 19th.’ ‘No way.’ she replied. ‘That’s my birthday too!’ And after that we became friends. Her name was Talia. She’d come visit me every evening, and bring me chocolate chip cookies. She’d let me play her Game Boy. She’d ask about my family. She’d ask about school. I was the best student in my third grade class, so I’d show her my report cards, and she’d get so excited. She was the first person to take me to the beach. I’d never even seen the ocean before. We had so much fun together. But one evening she told me that she was going back to America. And I began to cry. She bought us matching necklaces from a street vendor, took one final picture, and promised that she’d write me letters. It was a promise that she kept. The first letter arrived a few weeks after she left. And there were many letters after that. She told her parents all about me. They invited me to America to stay with them for a month. They took me to baseball games, and amusement parks, and shopping trips. It was the best time of my life. When I returned to Ghana, they paid for all my school fees. They bought my books and clothes. They paid for me to get a degree in engineering. Now I have my own company. The Cassis family turned my life around. I was just some random kid they didn’t know, and they gave me a chance for my dreams to come true. I went back to visit them last year. But this time I didn’t need them to pay my way. I was giving a speech at MIT, because I’d been selected as one of their top innovators under the age of 35.”

Image credits: humansofny

#5

“I don’t blame the girls. Not at all. I get it, I get it. But I’ve always wanted a wife. And kids. And as I get older it starts to get more real—I’ve never had a girlfriend. I’ve always been the funny fat friend. It’s the one thing I’m good at. Making people laugh. It’s the greatest feeling in the world. Somebody is having a great time, and it’s because of me. I’ve always lived for that feeling: in elementary school, in middle school. But as I got older—something got twisted. All my jokes became about myself. When it was time to eat the cake at a birthday party, I’d joke about the size of my slice. When it was time to jump in the pool, I’d joke about taking off my shirt. I’d say: ‘The moon is coming out.’ And it always got a laugh. Which felt good, but it kind of sucks. Because I don’t think I’ve ever taken off my shirt without making a comment. It’s my way of protecting myself. Like: ‘No asshole, you can’t make fun of me. Because I beat you to it.’ But I think it might have fucked me up. All those jokes, all those years. Because it made everyone look at me as the fat guy. It made me look at myself as the fat guy. My twitter handle is ‘Fatrick Ewing.’ My bio says: ‘Fat white guy with glasses.’ It sort of became my identity. I’m just a fat, funny idiot. That’s what I think about myself. And I feel like that’s what everyone else is thinking too. Every time I’m in a waiting room, and the seat’s a little too small. Or when I walk into CVS. My anxiety gets so bad I can barely talk to the person behind the register. My therapist tells me: ‘You’re a good guy, you’re nice, who cares?’ And she’s right, I get it. But I also think if I wasn’t fat, I’d probably have a girlfriend. But I’m trying to love myself more. Every day I’m working on it. I make deliveries for my job, and let’s say I leave my scanner in the car. My mind is immediately gonna say: ‘You’re a fat asshole.’ But I’m trying to stop myself. I’m trying to say: ‘No, you’re not. You just forgot. People forget.’ I’m trying to get back to Luke again. The nice, funny dude. Who loves his friends. And his family. Not Luke the fat guy. Just Luke, before he decided to bully himself.”

Image credits: humansofny

#6

“He had five daughters. And whenever he came home from a work trip, we’d all line up to give him a kiss. But he always kissed my mom first, because she was his ‘first love.’ Then he went on to his ‘second love,’ and his ‘third love.’ On weekends we’d all pile into the car and take these long road trips. We’d drive for hours, and the whole way he’d be singing to my mother. It was a normal thing for us, because we were used to it. But that kind of affection wasn’t normal in our culture. We used to have these karaoke parties with our extended family, and everyone else would sing normal songs. But Papa would choose these old, romantic Bollywood songs. And he’d sing directly to Mama. She loved every second of it. She’d get dressed up for him. She’d put on her brightest red lipstick. And she’d do her hair just as he liked it—even after she got sick. The tumor was deep in her brain. After every surgery, more and more of her would slip away. When she couldn’t walk properly anymore, she grew embarrassed of her limp. So Papa held her hand wherever they went. He’d sit next to her bed, and stroke her cheek, and recite the Quran until his lips went dry. Some nights he’d fall asleep sitting up in his chair, but then he’d wake up, and begin praying again. In her final moments, when she was slipping away, he leaned close to her and whispered: ‘You won’t be alone. I’m coming with you.’ I heard him say it. And I got so angry. It seemed selfish to me—as if the rest of us weren’t worth living for. But all his children were grown. Most of us had our own families. And I guess he felt like there was nothing left for him. Every day he visited Mama’s grave, even though we told him not to. He applied for the plot next to her, and every few hours he’d ask if the cemetery had called. He was obsessed. When the paperwork finally arrived— I rolled my eyes. But he got very quiet. For the next two days he barely said a word. Then on the third morning, he walked in our front door and told me he wasn’t feeling well. I bent down to help him with his shoes, but he collapsed on the floor. There wasn’t time for him to suffer. Because by the time the ambulance arrived, he was already gone.”

Image credits: humansofny

Brandon wasn't an experienced photographer as well. He had only taken pictures around Chicago and while traveling the East Coast. At first, he published all his photographs on his personal Facebook page. But when he started posting them on the HONY profile, that's when things took a turn.

Although a million followers didn't come in a day, Brandon knew he could strike gold with his idea, so he persisted. Not long after he established Humans of New York, he started including captions in his photographs. And soon after the interview and people's life stories followed.

#7

“I became a mother without ever having sex. I was sixteen. My sister was older than me, and she was living a reckless life. By the time we found out she was pregnant, she was already three months along. And the baby was born premature—so there was no time to prepare. My sister went back to the street life, and everything fell on me. I became the mother. I was feeding him, changing his diapers, waking up in the middle of the night. My mother helped at first, but soon she had a stroke and lost all movement on her right side. The doctor told us she wouldn’t be able to care for a child. So she signed Aidan over to me-- right there in the hospital. I was only eighteen years old. I was taking care of my mom. I was taking care of my son. I kept it all very private. I didn’t tell my tennis coach why I had to quit the team. I didn’t tell my friends why I couldn’t take vacations, or go to parties, or go to college. I didn’t want the stigma. I started working four jobs. I pushed all my own feelings to the back of my mind just to make sure my son was OK. I couldn’t even grieve when my mom passed away. I had to think about him. I had to make sure he was fine. Since then it’s been the two of us. Aidan and I grew up together. He’s a great kid. He’s so respectful. I get stopped all the time in our building. Complete strangers tell me how much they love him. He holds the door for people. He helps people carry their groceries. He’s focused. He’s a go-getter. He gives one hundred percent-- just like his mom. When there’s something that has to be done, he gets it done.”

Image credits: humansofny

#8

“My dad took his own life when I was fifteen years old. I’m sure it was traumatic for my mom, but she sort of just sucked it up. She’d already experienced a lot of heartbreak in life. She grew up in a dysfunctional household and became a caregiver at a very young age. So she was able to conceal her emotions and focus on supporting me and my brother. I was the good kid. I worked hard in school. I played three sports. And Mom supported me in everything I wanted to try. Not in a pushy way. More of a helpful way. So much of her life was just driving me places: practice, games, extra lessons. Unfortunately her relationship with my older brother was different. Jacob was defiant. He wouldn’t listen. He had a good heart but he was doing a lot of reckless, scary things. Jacob had been the one who discovered my dad’s body, and I don’t think he ever fully recovered. Five years later he took his own life. When my mom got that phone call, she came into the living room, laid on top of me, and starting crying. ‘Jacob just shot himself,’ she said. Both of us barely recovered. I began training for triathlons to deal with my grief. It had been my mom’s suggestion, but I think it inspired her. Because one morning she made herself go outside, lace up her shoes, and take a run. Later she told me that running gave her something to live for. She began to compete in triathlons herself, and eventually became a certified coach. Mom’s ultimate goal was always to finish an Ironman competition, but it didn’t seem possible. She failed on four different attempts. Nobody wanted her to try again. She was 68 years old. She was the oldest female competing in Ironman Texas, and they literally thought she could die. But Mom was determined to try one more time. I cheered her on the entire way. I walked alongside her while she swam the canal. I biked alongside her while she ran. I remember we were nearing the end of the race, and she had to get to mile eighteen by 9 pm, or she’d be disqualified. I was telling her to pick up the pace. But by then she knew. She looked at her watch, then she looked at me, and said: ‘I’m an hour ahead. I’m going to be an Ironman!”

Image credits: humansofny

#9

“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 fucked 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.

Image credits: humansofny

Today, the Humans of New York Instagram page is fast approaching 13 million followers. On Facebook, the audience is even bigger: around 17 million. Brandon spoke in one interview about how in the early days of HONY, having 10,000 Facebook fans seemed like a massive success. Now, the numbers a a thousand times larger than what his definition of success was back then.

#10

“I knew right away something wasn’t right. When they plopped her on my chest, she was amazing, and alive—but she looked like a skinny pink frog. The only way to feed her was to drip milk in her mouth, 24/7. Those first weeks I was getting such little sleep that I began to have hallucinations: babies on the ceiling, babies on the wall. My husband’s job was to hunt down the diagnosis, while I kept her alive. The blood tests suggested two rare genetic conditions. He had a harder time with it than me. Optimism felt like denial to him, so he got lost in the research. But I tend to be a magical thinker. Maybe too much at times. I love Disney World. I worked on Sesame Street. I draw comics for a living, and make children’s books. I’ve even written a letter for after I die. It says: ‘Don’t be sad. We’re given this life and bad things happen, but we get to be with our families and look at trees.’ I’ve heard people ask: ‘Why bring a child into this world?’ With climate change, and all that. Would you choose to be born? My answer is yes. Even during the apocalypse I’d want to be alive. So I could have a few more minutes in the shelter, with my family, watching on TV as the fireballs fall from the sky. Maybe I’m weird like that. My husband is a little weird too. So it just makes sense that now we have this weird, magical kid. Dalia is 2.5 now. She wears her little helmet, and braces. We take little walks, and see the city, and look at trees. Her condition makes it hard to wake up in the morning, so we get to have thirty minutes of huggy time. And any time she smiles it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. It’s not easy. There’s a lot of doctor visits. Therapies every day. But I danced when I was young, so I’m used to repetitive movements. Everything in my life just makes it seem like I was meant for this child. And it’s impossible to predict what will happen. There’s such a wide spectrum with her condition. When we asked the therapist if she’d ever walk, we were told: ‘Miracles happen.’ But Dalia is walking now. So I’m optimistic. I think things will work out. I think she’ll live independently one day. Either that, or I get to live with my best friend forever.”

Image credits: humansofny

#11

(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.’

Image credits: humansofny

#12

“He wasn’t my type. He was nerdy. He was wearing Converse. And he talked like a robot. But it had been over a year since anyone had paid attention to me. And I was enjoying our conversation. I never told him that I had a daughter. I just wanted to be ‘that girl at the brewery.’ For one afternoon, I didn’t want to be the young, single mother. And it was nice. It was nice to feel wanted again. When he asked if we could go out sometime, I didn’t even hesitate. But I started feeling nervous as soon as I got home. Because I started thinking about all the places a date could lead, and I knew I had to tell him. So I sent him a text. It said: ‘You should know I have a daughter. Things aren’t good with her father. I’m not asking you to fill that role, but if you want to cancel the date-- we can.’ There were twenty minutes of silence. And then he replied: ‘It is what it is.’ Just like a robot. Then he wrote: ‘If the date sucks, we never have to talk again.’ We made plans to meet at a famous brunch place. They didn’t even serve alcohol, which made everything twice as awkward. We agreed to take it slow. And to just have fun with things. He made it very clear that he wasn’t in a place where he wanted to be a dad. And that remained his official stance for about three months, until he met her. It’s been over two years now. So he’s been there her entire life. They’re obsessed with each other. She constantly wants to talk with him about everything. She wants me to call him when she farts. She wants to be a Wildcat fan because he went to Arizona. And when we find a shell on the beach, she’ll pick it up. But it’s always for him—not me. And he loves that little girl. But that’s not surprising. What’s surprising is that he loves me. Roo is easy to love. She’s so young. She doesn’t withdraw or want space. She doesn’t have scars. She’s never been abandoned. She accepts love without question, and she gives it without question. They love each other so much. So much that it makes me nervous. Sometimes I’ll ask him: ‘Do you just love me because you don’t want to lose her?’ And he’ll say: ‘No. I love her a ton, and I love you a ton.’ He always says it very calmly. Just like a robot.”

Image credits: humansofny

But Humans of New York are not only social media pages. Stanton put the most captivating street photography and the accompanied stories in a book in 2013. In 2015, a second book was published: Humans of New York: Stories. With the love his project received online, it's no surprise both books were #1 New York Times Bestsellers. HONY also received an official proclamation from the City Council of New York for its contributions to New York City.

#13

“I’ve blacked a lot of it out. But I do remember that recess was a nightmare for me. My mom told me later that she would sometimes hide in the bushes, and when she saw me sitting by myself, she’d start crying. The diagnosis was ‘selective mutism.’ I’d get so anxious around people that I physically couldn’t speak. I’d get a rock in my throat, and it would feel like that moment right before you faint—when everything sounds so far away. It could be lonely at school. I was the only student with a full-time aide. I was the only one who held up a sign when the teacher called attendance. It doesn’t feel good to be different. But my parents did everything they could to minimize that feeling. Every night before I went to sleep, my mother would say: ‘You’re a terrific kid, and I love being your Mommy.’ When my school had a Halloween parade, she knew I’d be too anxious to do it alone. So she dressed up as Minnie Mouse and marched right alongside me. She was always very attentive to my emotions. But she was also a lawyer so she made sure that my rights were being respected. She knew that the Individuals With Disabilities Education Act promised a ‘free appropriate public education.’ And that’s exactly what she wanted for me. She once shut down my entire elementary school for an in-service day, and the entire faculty was taught to ask me ‘yes or no’ questions so that I could nod in reply. She wanted me in a mainstream classroom, having mainstream experiences. So that I would never be left behind. And by the time I hit 5th grade, I was able to speak. It didn’t happen all at once. But I grew more and more confident. I got better at making friends. I joined the debate team in high school. Recently I graduated from Cornell and completed my senior thesis on disability rights—which I defended verbally. All of this was possible because of my mother. She was beside me the entire time. I took the LSAT in January, and even though the test was five hours long, my mom waited in the lobby. She gave me the biggest hug when I walked out. When I asked her why she didn’t leave, she said: ‘I don’t know. I just wanted to be here. In case you needed anything at all.’”

Image credits: humansofny

#14

“I don’t know why my mother hated me. She had a sickness that you could not see. But she convinced me that I was sick. And that everything was because of me. And that I’m a monster. She criticized everything. My way of eating. My way of speaking. My way of dressing. Anything that brought me joy-- she would deny me. If I defended myself, she would hit me. I was terrified of lunch and dinner because that’s when I had to face her. I spent my entire childhood alone. I just played with my cats in the garden. Or sat on the floor of my bedroom. I’d try so hard to leave my body because I didn’t want to be on earth. And that’s when the spirits and fairies would come to me. Even Mother Mary came to me. I was never afraid of them. They’d comfort me. I remember being seven years old, sitting alone beneath a tree, talking to the fairies. Another little girl walked up and asked what game I was playing. That’s when I realized nobody else could see what I was seeing. And it’s been a very lonely existence since then.” (Paris, France)

Image credits: humansofny

#15

“Crowds were the worst. Any little person will tell you that. There’s nothing worse than crowds: getting looked at, getting seen. People making fun of my family. All three of us are little people: my mother, my brother, and me. My mom raised us on her own. With no help. But she knew the struggle, and she would build us up every time we got bullied. Sometimes I’d even feel like killing myself. But she’d say: ‘You’re special. Your mother loves you. Your brother loves you.’ But my mom was also a thug. She was the muscle in our family. If we complained that people were staring at us, she’d say: ‘Look right back. Talk your shit.’ Whenever I got in trouble for fighting, she’d never get mad. She’d say: ‘You defended yourself. That’s good. Now do it again.’ She encouraged us early to play basketball. First it was my older brother. Then it was me. There was this center in our neighborhood where a dude named Hammer ran a program. He’d make us read a book for thirty minutes—I hated that part, but then we’d play basketball. And that’s how I learned about my size abilities, not disabilities. If you’re a six or seven footer, and you aren’t perfect, I’ll time your dribble. I’ll steal it the moment it hits the ground. So you’ve got no choice but to dribble low. You gotta come down to me. And I’m already down here. This is my world. This is where I live. The guys in my neighborhood grew to respect me. I was never getting trash talked in the Douglas Projects. But when I started playing in high school, and we went to other arenas—the crowds could be cruel. My teammates would try to protect me, and motivate me. But there’s not much you can do with three hundred people chanting ‘midget.’ I hated walking out to the court. Any little person will tell you—crowds are the worst. But as soon as I made that first shot, they’d get quiet. Then I’d do it again, and again, and again. Then eventually the crowd would start to get on my side. Cause they’d never seen anything like me. They’d start cheering for me even though I was on the other team. And my mom would be in the stands, talking her shit. Saying: ‘My son is smaller than all of you. And he’s kicking your ass!’”

Image credits: humansofny

The process of how Stanton interviews people has evolved as well. Back in the day, he used to only approach people on the street and ask them for their stories. Today, he does remote interviews as well. He's got over 200,000 emails in his inbox from people waiting to share their life stories. 

#16

“I first ran for Congress in 1999, and I got beat. I just got whooped. I had been in the state legislature for a long time, I was in the minority party, I wasn’t getting a lot done, and I was away from my family and putting a lot of strain on Michelle. Then for me to run and lose that bad, I was thinking maybe this isn’t what I was cut out to do. I was forty years old, and I’d invested a lot of time and effort into something that didn’t seem to be working. But the thing that got me through that moment, and any other time that I’ve felt stuck, is to remind myself that it’s about the work. Because if you’re worrying about yourself—if you’re thinking: ‘Am I succeeding? Am I in the right position? Am I being appreciated?’ – then you’re going to end up feeling frustrated and stuck. But if you can keep it about the work, you’ll always have a path. There’s always something to be done.”

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#17

“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.”

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#18

“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.’”

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Whereas before it was all about the story, now, Stanton says, readability plays a huge part too. "It can't just be a compelling story, but it has to be a story that's compelling and will work in short-form. It has to fit in 2,200 characters, which is the character limit on an Instagram caption," he said in a 2020 interview.

#19

“I never thought I’d come back to New York. I have a lot of bad memories here. It can be an ugly place. My ex-husband lives here. On September 11th I was on the street below the second tower. So there are things I’d just prefer not to remember. But recently my mother got sick and I came home to take care of her. I was in a bit of a rut at the time. I’d fallen away from my passions. I was just working to pay the rent. And one evening I was walking by the river and I passed a place called Hudson River Community Sailing. They offered free sailing lessons. I don’t know why I stopped. I was intellectually convinced that sailing was not for me. I was getting older. I was out of shape. But I decided to give it a try. And I got hooked on it. I got kinda obsessed with learning to sail. I remember the first time I was out there alone. It felt amazing. I was in the middle of the Hudson, the wind was blowing, I could see the whole city, and my hand was on the tiller. It seemed like I was doing something impossible. I’m not white. I’m not male. I don’t own a boat. I don’t even have money. But I’m in New York City and I’m fucking sailing.”

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#20

“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.”

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#21

“I woke up with a gasp in the back of an ambulance. They’d shot adrenaline directly into my heart. Apparently I’d been dead for 2.5 minutes. The EMT’s were freaking out. My chest hurt from the electric paddles. And I was already in acute withdrawal. At the time, it had been nearly twenty years of addiction. I weighed 128 pounds, and I’m a six foot tall man. There comes a point when you’re given the gift of desperation. And that was it for me. Today is my 160th day clean. I’ve never gone this far before. One of the first things I did after getting sober was write my son a letter. He was raised by my parents. I told him: ‘You did nothing wrong. I was an addict. I loved heroin more than you, more than your mother, more than my own mother.’ And he’s forgiven me. He’s a good hearted kid. I think more than anything he just wants his dad back. He came to visit me in November. It was the first time I’ve seen him in seven years. He’s become my biggest advocate. He knows my day count. He texts me every day for a feelings check. He’s become my biggest motivation. I just don’t want my legacy to be ‘dope fiend.’ That can’t be what’s on my headstone. That can’t be how he remembers me. I don’t want my kids telling their kids: ‘Your grandfather was a heroin addict.’ I want them to brag about my sobriety. I want them to say: ‘That’s something he was, but he beat it.’”

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Although Humans of New York is Stanton's main project, he's done similar ones in other cities and countries as well. In 2014, he went on a 50-day tour with the U.N., photographing and interviewing people from 10 countries in the Middle East region. In his blog, he includes stories from people from Pakistan, Iran, Iraq, Uganda, Jordan, The Democractic Republic of Congo, South Sudan, Kenya, Ukraine, India, Vietnam, Mexico, and Jerusalem.

#22

“After my grandmother passed away, Dad stepped out of the hospital for some fresh air. Then he said a prayer and asked my grandmother to send him a sign. When he opened his eyes, there was a dime at his feet. And after that day-- he began to look for dimes everywhere. I was six years old at the time, and he’d always get me to help him search. And whenever we found one, he’d say: ‘Bubby sent it to us!’ Then we’d add it to a little clay jar that I made. Sometime when I was in third grade, my parents sat me down and told me that Dad had cancer. I remember sitting in the guidance counselor’s office during recess. Apparently he’d already been sick for several years. It was a rare type of cancer. And it was aggressive. It would go away for two months at a time, but it would always come back. But even the people who knew him had no idea. He never let it stop him. He worked really hard. He woke up every morning at 4 AM to use the elliptical. Unfortunately his last few years lined up with my angsty teenage years. I pushed him away a lot. I wanted to hang out with my friends. But he kept trying. And things did get better between us. He was really silly and affectionate. He’d burst into my room while I was studying, singing at the top of his lungs, using a bottle of shampoo as a microphone. He’d always ask me to get coffee. Or breakfast. And I’d usually say ‘no.’ Because it’s hard when you have a terminally ill parent. You think about it all the time, but it’s the last thing you want to think about. And there’s this knowledge that the closer you become, the harder it’s going to be. He died when I was sixteen. It was November 30th. I remember walking around the parking lot at his funeral, staring at the ground. There wasn’t a dime anywhere. And it really pissed me off. I was looking at the sky. Shouting at the sky. But nothing. We found over 300 dimes when he was alive, but I couldn’t find any after he died. I searched everywhere for an entire month. Then one day I had a really bad day. So I decided to visit his grave for the first time since his funeral. I parked my car, walked down the steps, and found my dad’s plaque. Then I looked down at my feet. And there it was.

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#23

“I was five when he became a person in my world. I didn’t know exactly who he was. I just knew that there was someone around that was making my mother smile. I had to look way up to see him. I’d never met someone so strong. He’d tell me to hold onto his wrist, and he’d lift me into the sky with one hand. He worked at an auto shop, airbrushing designs onto the side of vans. I think he dreamed of being an artist. But he needed something more stable. So after he decided to marry my mom, he became a cop. He never lost touch with his creative side. He was always building things around the house—making things look fancier than we could afford. He built my first bike from scraps. He encouraged me to read. He encouraged me to write. He loved giving me little assignments. He’d give me a quarter every time I wrote a story. Fifty cents if it was a good one. Whenever I asked a question, he’d make me look it up in the encyclopedia. One day he built a little art studio at the back of our house. And he painted a single painting—a portrait of Sting that he copied from an album cover. But he got busy with work and never used the studio again. He was always saying: ‘when I retire.’ ‘I’ll go back to art, when I retire.’ ‘I’ll show in a gallery, when I retire.’ But that time never came. Dad was a cop for twenty years. He was one of the good ones. The kind of cop you see dancing on the street corner. Or skateboarding with kids. But in 1998 he was diagnosed with MS. First there was a little weakness. Then there was a cane. Then there was a wheelchair. It got to the point where he couldn’t even hold a paintbrush. We did his hospice at home. He seemed to have no regrets. He’d been a wonderful provider. He’d raised his daughters. He’d walked me down the aisle. During his final days, we were going through his possessions, one by one. He was telling me who to give them to. I pulled the Sting painting out of an old box, and asked: ‘What should I do with this?’ His response was immediate. ‘Give it to Sting,’ he said. All of us started laughing. But Dad grew very serious. His eyes narrowed. He looked right at me, and said: ‘Give it to Sting.’ So I guess that’s my final assignment.”

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#24

“Oh God, he was my life. You couldn’t miss him. He was big. 6’3” and 200 lbs -- and he was so alive. Wayne always stopped for life. That’s one thing he taught me—if you want fullness in life, you have to stop for it. He’d pull over on the side of the road to explore a creek. Or to look at a piece of road kill. Or he might visit a friend to help fix a roof, and end up staying the entire week. By the time Wayne left, the whole house would be renovated. He could fix anything. He once found a Model T in the woods and had it working in days. He was a complete genius like that. But one unfortunate thing about Wayne—he wasn’t a doctor oriented person. So by the time we discovered the cancer, it had already spread to his lungs. We were arrogant at first. We thought we could beat anything. But it was only a matter of time. A few weeks before his death, we were hanging out, smoking hash, and talking about what to do with his ashes. Suddenly Wayne picked up the vial of hash, looked at it closely, and told us he had an idea. It took a lot to get that man down. Wayne wanted to live until his 54th birthday, and that’s exactly when he died. You can’t grieve for a man like that, so we threw him a ‘fun’eral. We had bluegrass music and two bushels of Chesapeake Bay crabs. And as a parting gift, every attendee received a vial of Wayne’s ashes. There were hundreds of them. We only requested that each recipient share where their vial ended up. Mine got mixed into some ink and tattooed on my finger. The other vials have gone all around the world: seven continents, so many bodies of water, the Wailing Wall, the Great Barrier Reef. Wayne’s in two different volcanoes. A sarcophagus in the Louvre. He’s even in the evidence room of a Georgia prison, because one of our friends got arrested with Wayne in his pocket. Wayne would have loved that. That’s such a Wayne place to end up. You could never contain him. Not when he was alive. Not when he was dead.”

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Stanton has also done several series on specific populations. Invisible Wounds is a project about American veterans who served in Iraq and Afghanistan. The Pediatric Cancer series features stories about the patients, parents, family members, and professionals in the Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center.

#25

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

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#26

“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.”

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#27

“My husband had a sudden heart attack a few months ago. It was just a few blocks from here. They called me in to identify his body and then just let me walk right out onto 7th Avenue. I felt so lost. My friends were wonderful and supportive but eventually everyone moves on with their lives. I don’t have children. And I’m not a workaholic. So I was left with this intense loneliness and void. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. Then one day I started researching dogs that are good for grief and depression. And ‘poodle’ kept popping up. But when I went to the rescue fair, all the poodles were gone. There was this one old dog in the back that nobody was looking at. She was skin and bones. She was trembling and scared and mucus was running out of her eyes. She seemed so fragile. She reminded me of myself. I named her Grace because I think my husband sent her to me. She’s my first dog. She’s been pure joy. We spend all our time together. She’s gained her weight back. She comes with me to therapy. We’re getting better together.”

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The creator of Humans of New York has also done a series on people living in prison. For Inmate Stories, Stanton talked to and photographed the inmates from five different federal prisons in the U.S. He's also done projects on Syrian Americans and refugees in Greece, Hungary, Croatia, and Austria.

#28

“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 fucking them. Not that I ever fucked 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!”

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#29

“Leah was my absolute best friend. She was an only child too, so it was this next level sisterly bond. Her boyfriend Rasual became like a brother as well. He valued Leah’s friendships—so we became like a family. One night the two of them were driving home and lost control of their vehicle. Both of them passed away-- instantly. My grieving process was very hard. People were worried about me. The everyday, basic things became so difficult. I wasn’t cooking dinner for my kids. I wasn’t painting very much. Then one year after their death, I got invited to exhibit at an art show in Cleveland. It was on the anniversary of Leah’s funeral. I’m not even sure why I accepted the invitation. While I was getting ready in my hotel room, I remember saying a little prayer. I said: ‘Leah, I love you so much, but help me get through tonight without talking about you. Just one night.’ I arrived at the event and noticed that I’d be sharing my wall with another artist. His name was Bonic. He was deep in conversation with someone. The first thing I noticed was his voice. It was a very strong voice. And it was so familiar. I introduced myself, and told him: ‘This is going to sound crazy, but your voice sounds just like my friend who passed away.’ And he said: ‘Do you mean Rasual?’ It turns out that he’d known Leah and Rasual for years. He recognized me from their memorial service. That was over a year ago. Since then, Bonic and I have done so many collaborations. We’ve been all over the world together. He’s great with my kids. He’s my soul mate. Without question—he was the reason I was at that show. At the end of that night, I went back to my hotel room, and I wrote an entry in my journal. I wrote the date, and a single line: ‘Leah—did you send him to me?’

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#30

“Our community was hit first. Asian restaurants were empty long before other restaurants. Even on the subway I could sense that racism was on the rise. On television one night there was a story about an elderly man who was collecting aluminum cans—just to survive. He was robbed and taunted. His bags were broken. His cans were strewn all over the street. And he didn’t speak English, so he couldn’t even ask for help. It broke me. Because in his face I could see the faces of all our grandparents. In our culture there is a tradition of: ‘Never speak out. Never ask for help.’ If our elders were suffering, would they even let us know? I decided to call a service organization focusing on Asian elderly, and I asked: ‘How many meals do you need?’ They replied: ‘As many as you can cook.’ We started preparing 200 meals per week in our little 300 square foot apartment. Moonlynn cooks beautifully and efficiently, so she lovingly banned me from the kitchen. But I still wanted to help in some way. So I found a black sharpie, and began to write on the plastic containers. Traditionally our elders are very reserved with their affection. I can still make my father blush just by kissing him on the cheek. But since I grew up in America, I have the privilege of being more direct. I found the traditional Chinese characters for ‘We are thinking of you’ and ‘We love you,’ and I wrote them on every container. I thought it was important to use the word ‘we.’ I never signed our own names. Because I wanted it to feel like a whole bunch of people— an entire community who cared. And before long that’s exactly what it was. We found ten restaurant partners within a half mile who helped us prepare culturally relevant foods. And over the past eighteen months @heartofdinner has delivered 80,000 meals to our Asian elders. We weren’t able to personally write notes on each one. So we put out a call on Instagram, and 100,000 hand-written notes poured in from all over the world. We told people to go wild. Add as much character as you’d like. There were so many styles, and so many colors. But every note had two things, written in big, bold letters: ‘We are thinking of you.’ And ‘We love you.’”

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Humans of New York is also a documentary, released on Facebook Watch in 2017, Humans of New York: The Series. It includes videos of Stanton interviewing people on the streets of New York, a whopping 1200 of them. Hearing the people tell their stories in video format adds a new layer to the whole project. In 2017, it was reported to be the most popular series on Facebook Watch.

#31

“The first thing I noticed was a tremor. I’m a computer programmer and I kept accidentally hitting the shift key. Then I started to lose my sense of smell. And finally came the depression. My wife made me see a doctor. She said to me: ‘Either you get on an antidepressant, or I’m going to.’ That's when I learned I had Parkinson's. Over the years my tremors got worse. My voice got quieter. I had to quit working. My dopamine levels fell so low that I lost communication between my brain and face. I couldn't express any emotion. My daughter grew up without seeing me smile. I probably seemed distant. A lot of times I felt like I couldn't fit in with the rest of the family. Then a few months ago I had an experimental surgery. They inserted a wire in my head that stimulates the brain with electricity. Now all my emotions are coming back. I’m more talkative. I have more energy. I’ve cried more in the last few months than I have in the past thirty years. And for the first time in her entire life, my daughter can finally see me smile.”

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#32

“My sister was the only girl in our family. There were four of us—but between me and her it was different. We were the closest in age, so we shared a lot. We shared the same bedroom. We shared the same food. And we shared lot of secrets. That’s why I was so disappointed that she didn’t tell me about the pregnancy. She was already seven months along when I heard the news from a friend. When I confronted her, she tried to deny it. She only told the truth when I promised that I’d support her no matter what. My niece was born on December 19th. She was named Aseda, which means ‘thanksgiving.’ After the birth, everything seemed fine. My sister and I were talking on the phone. She was sending me pictures. But on Christmas Eve the complications began. Her condition worsened quickly. The doctors said she needed to go to another hospital. But she never made it. She died next to me in the back of an ambulance. Before she passed, she told me-- in our native language, she said: ‘Bro Ato, anything that you’d do for me, please do for my baby.’ These words were written on my heart. Everything that followed was like a bad dream. I’d just lost my sister, and suddenly I was taking care of a preterm baby. I had to feed the child. There was no formula in the hospital. I had to search everywhere. I didn’t have time to sleep. I didn’t have time to mourn. But somehow I found the strength. There are some things that you don’t know are within you. Aseda is almost four months old now. My girlfriend has been helping me every step of the way. She has been amazing and I’m so thankful. Our plan is to legally adopt Aseda. It’s a very personal thing for me. I want the child to stay with me. I’ve been with her from the very first hour. This is what I need to do for the baby. For my sister. And for humanity.”⁣ ⁣ (Tema, Ghana)⁣

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#33

“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.”

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#34

“It was my friend’s birthday, and everyone else was twenty-one except for me. So we went to a bar that wouldn’t check ID. It was called ‘The Clif Tavern,’ and it was a total dive. The cash register was from 1948. The owner was an old, weathered guy named Skip. He seemed very excited to have customers. He told us stories all night long. He talked about meditation, and racing cars, and being a black belt. I remember he was really proud that his brother’s dog had been in a movie with Cameron Diaz. By the time we left, all of us were in love with the place. We started coming back every weekend. And I was hanging around so much that Skip offered me a job as a bartender. He didn’t teach me much. He knew very little about business. He kept all his documents in an empty Budweiser box. But he was the spirit of the place. He gave great hugs. He called everyone his ‘kids.’ And he was a total hippie. Whenever he posted on social media, he’d sign it ‘Peace and Love.’ We worked together for ten years. Skip was with me when I met my husband. He witnessed our first kiss. He became like a father figure to me. And his bar became a huge part of my life as well. Skip used to always say that the bar was ‘killing him,’ and he kept threatening to move to Costa Rica. But he could never stay away for long. There were maybe six days in ten years that he didn’t come to the bar. So when he didn’t show up one evening, everyone knew that something was wrong. The police went to his apartment and found him unresponsive. He’d died of a heart attack. None of us knew what to do. I gave the eulogy at his funeral, and then left to go open the bar. All of us assumed it was the end of everything. But one month after the funeral, I got a call from Skip’s brother. He said he couldn’t sell Skip’s legacy to a stranger, so he offered the bar to me and my husband. Over the past few months we’ve renovated everything. We have a new tap system now. We’ve added a modern register. We’ve made a lot of changes, because we know that it needs to be an actual business if it’s going to survive. But we’ve also covered an entire wall with Skip’s photos and notes. Because we always want the place to feel like Skip.”

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#35

“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.”

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#36

“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)

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#37

“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.”

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#38

“I was just a kid from a little cow town in Montana, but I was convinced I knew everything. So I got into a little tangle with my dad and ended up joining the Air Force. They stationed me out in Spokane, Washington. And not long after I arrived, me and a couple of buddies decided to take a day trip out to Liberty Lake. It was a real neat little lake. Fifteen feet deep and so clear that you could see straight to the bottom. We started playing a little football on the beach, but then we noticed three girls out on a floating dock. So we decided to swim out there. The water was really cold. And about halfway to the dock, I charley horsed in both my legs and started to sink. I thought for sure I was going to drown. When I woke up, I was laying on the dock, and one of those girls was staring down at me. Apparently she’d seen me go under, jumped in her brother’s boat, and pulled me out by the hair. That girl was named Dolores. She saved my life in August of 1952, and she saved me again and again for the next 64 years. We raised four children together. Not only was she my wife, but she was also my mentor. I was just a kid from Montana. She turned me into a good man. Her personality, her love-- I’m talking deep love-- for me and the children, changed me one inch at a time. And she never lost that heart for rescuing people. She worked with youth. She worked in street ministries. Whenever somebody was in a little bit of trouble, Dolores would jump right in. I know she sounds a bit like Wonder Woman—but she was. We were inseparable. People called us ‘joined at the hip.’ Two years ago she passed away. And I’ll tell you the only reason I’m still living—because I know, that one day, I’m going to wake up in heaven, and see Dolores looking down at me one more time.”

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#39

“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.”

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#40

“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.’”

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#41

“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)

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#42

“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.”

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#43

“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)

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#44

“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)

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#45

“My first end-of-life patient was a 97-year-old man. He had a much younger girlfriend; she was seventy-four. But they loved each other so much. Back when their spouses were still alive, the four of them had been great friends. They would double date together. And when their spouses passed away—the two of them became a thing. Every day she would come over for lunch. I’d always cook a little meal for them. I’d prepare the table; I’d lay out my little candles and my little flowers. As soon as she arrived I’d put on music and dim the lights, then I’d leave the room and go wait in the bedroom. They would cuddle and snuggle. And the beauty of it was—even though he couldn’t control his fluids at that point, she never minded the smell. Her love for him was so great that they would still kiss and all that good stuff. When the doctors said that it was time for him to go to hospice, he said he didn’t want to go. He told them that he wanted to come back home and die with me. I was with him in the end. My patients never die alone. Never, ever. One week after his passing I was hired by his girlfriend’s family. She had terminal Alzheimer’s, and I ended up staying with her for seven years. I fell in love with her. We were family, just family. She used to be a tap dancer. We’d sing together. And if she didn’t feel like singing, I’d sing. Even near the end, she always knew when something was wrong with me. When I wasn’t being the Gabby that she knew-- she would always know. When the doctors said it was time for her to go to hospice, her children said: ‘We want her to die with Gabby.’ In the final days she wouldn’t eat, she’d lock her jaw. But she would always eat for me. One night I could see the fright in her eyes, and I knew it was time. My patients never die alone. Never, ever. So I climbed under the covers with her. And she passed away in my arms.”

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#46

“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."

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#47

“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.”

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#48

“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.”

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#49

“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)

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#50

“I’m from a small country in Africa called Benin. I won the visa lottery to come here. I didn’t even know I was eligible. My brother entered my name and didn’t even tell me. I was studying to be a psychiatrist at the time. I assumed that I’d be able to continue with medical school. But when I arrived here, I found out that none of my credits would transfer. I had a choice: either go home and become a doctor, or start from the bottom. I didn’t speak any English. I didn’t have any money. But I knew if I could somehow make it here, my degree would be much more valuable. So I made the choice to stay. I began practicing English with my young nieces. The first thing I learned was: ‘I’m going to kick you.’ I got a job with a catering company and learned how to say ‘I’m here to deliver your food.’ I studied as many YouTube videos as I could during my free time. It’s been three years now. I’m almost finished with my bachelor’s degree. Just two classes left. At nights I work as a behavioral specialist in a mental health facility. I’m going to take the MCAT in September. My friends back home have all become doctors already, but I try not to think about them. I don’t want to lose my focus. I haven’t made it yet, but I’m making it.”

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#51

“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)

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#52

“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.”

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#53

“I’m a physical therapist for severely disabled children in the South Bronx. Their observation skills are so keen. They understand more than you know. But they rarely get spoken to, or hugged. Often they aren’t even treated like humans. When the world can’t understand what you want, it kind of ignores you. I had one student named Tamisha who was stuck in a wheelchair. She could only move her eyes. She couldn’t speak, but I could basically read her mind. Tamisha was very intelligent, and very sarcastic. If someone in tight clothing got on the elevator, she’d roll her eyes. And giggle. I’d have to pretend I didn’t know why she was laughing. We grew so close over the years. On Halloween I dressed her up as a butterfly, because that’s how I saw her. She was trapped in this body, but she was a soul with so much depth and so much future. Many of these kids have nowhere to go when they graduate from school. They lose their social lives, and sense of purpose. They’re imprisoned in their bedrooms for the rest of their lives. When Tamisha graduated I wanted to do something for her. Her economic situation was not good. She was being raised by a single father. But Tamisha was completely immobile, so it’s not like I could just get her something cool on Amazon. But my husband and I came up with another idea. We went to Home Depot and got paint, and butterflies, and rainbow decals. And we completely transformed her bedroom. We wouldn’t let her look. We made her sleep in the living room. But at the end of the weekend, when Tamisha’s father carried her in--- she started going wild. Her eyes lit up. She’s making all kinds of vocalizations. Her father is holding her, and he’s crying. It was a miracle. Every makeover is a miracle. We’ve done about 20 of them now. We always manage to find the money. We always manage to find the volunteers. Somehow they always come together in a magnificent way. Our process always begins with an interview process. We ask the person: what makes you happy? What colors do you love? What are your favorite things? We figure out exactly what they want. We let them design their dream room. Then we become the instruments who bring that dream to life.”

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#54

“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 fucking chill.” (Barcelona, Spain)

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#55

“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)

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#56

“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.”

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#57

“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)

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#58

“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: ‘Shit happens.’ But then she got pregnant. Luckily through the divorce process I had the opportunity to take over this shithole 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)

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#59

“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 shit 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 fuckin’ way,’ but he wouldn’t take it back. ‘Pay me back whenever,’ he said. ‘And go see your brother as much as you need.’”

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#60

“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.”

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#61

“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)

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#62

“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.”

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#63

“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 asshole, 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.”

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#64

“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.”

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#65

“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)

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#66

“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.”

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#67

“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)

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#68

“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.”

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#69

“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.”

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#70

“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 shit 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 shit, 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 fucking nuts for this shit. 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 fuck 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 shit like that, but I kinda miss him. And let’s be honest. I ain’t exactly a summer breeze.”

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#71

“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.”

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#72

“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.”

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#73

“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.”

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#74

“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.”

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#75

“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?’”

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#76

“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)

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#77

“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.’”

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#78

“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.”

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#79

“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 muthafucka. 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 shit 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 fuck 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: ‘Shit, 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 shit 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.’”

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#80

“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.’”

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#81

“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)

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#82

“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)

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#83

“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.”

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#84

“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.’”

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#85

“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.”

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#86

"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?"

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#87

“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.”

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#88

“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)

Image credits: humansofny