editorial writing

a collection of photos i’ve taken, accompanied by stories i’ve written to bring them to life

untitled

I’m bad with names. I could blame it on my poor memory or sporadic attention span, but quite frankly I find them incredibly meaningless for the amount of weight they’re expected to carry throughout our lives. How can we put so much pressure on a word to live up to a person? To force it to be a title, adjective, noun, and definition all in one. It could never truly be the person it’s assigned to describe. As humans we grow, bend, break, and shed, while our names stay inelastic. They’re the one thing that carries with us from the day we arrive to the day we depart… and even then will last long after we’re gone. However, despite how seemingly fundamental they are to our existence, they neither contribute nor create any form of elucidation. 

I couldn’t tell you this man’s name. He may have told me, but it doesn’t matter. Though our encounter was microscopic within one another’s lifetime, it was significant enough to inspire an ounce of my attention - which is more than I could say for his name.

His loud, red, full body ski suit, juxtaposed against the warm, friendly wooden floor and wall panels of the Brooklyn coffee shop I spotted him in was enough to stop my train of thought. He fit in so perfectly but stood out so much at the same time. I couldn’t help but approach him and learn more about who he was - not who he was by name, but by nature of being. When we got to talking, his story was as fascinating as his physical narrative. But I’ll keep our dialogue between us. 

Whatever his name is, recalling it wouldn’t change our interaction. In fact, it was the least significant descriptor of his person that I could have taken away from our conversation. If you think about it, our names carry different meanings to every person we encounter. And funny enough, that’s really the only flexibility a name carries. Whatever his name is, he still would have been the same person I met, just attached to a word I’d easily forget amidst his memorable character.

Oh, and I don’t remember his dog’s name either. But I know she loves ice cream, and that speaks louder than words.

sun salutations

When the sun rises and sets so programmatically each day, it’s easy to get stuck in an equally methodical rhythm of life and time.

At what point do we get off the rollercoaster ride and see if our legs can still hold steady on solid ground? For my friend Andrew, it was roughly 4pm on a Wednesday in March of 2020. His work day hadn’t yet ended, but his mind was already getting on the L train from Brooklyn to Manhattan. Immediately upon halting forward motion, he was presented with a moment to think, truly, deeply, about his life. In this moment he realized that while his mind regularly fixated on glamorizing his bottom-of-the-totem-pole job at a distinguished record label, he was entirely neglecting to face the fact that he was a twenty-three year-old male sleeping in a bunk bed.

eric from the park

It was a Sunday night, long after sunset, and I was walking through Washington Square Park by myself. I’m sure quite a few people will shutter reading that sentence. And although I’m ashamed to say it, my first thought in that moment was, “I probably shouldn’t be here.” By virtue of the fear my parents tried to ingrain in my head at a young age, I inevitably experience a small quake of unease when I place myself in certain situations that my mother would classify unsafe. Walking in the park at night would be one of them. But why? It’s not the unknown of the dark, but rather what we assume lurks in it. The “why” is the people who inhabit the park late at night. The people who are assumed to be drug dealers, sex offenders, hustlers; crooks. These assumptions are what defines the line that is privilege.

On this Sunday night, I entered the southeast corner of Washington Square Park to find a single streetlight illuminating over one out of a circle of 12 chess tables. On the far side of this dimly lit table, seated on a park bench, and defended by the black pawns of a game ready to be played, was a man waiting for his next opponent. His silhouette was perfectly framed by the dim light and, with my camera around my neck, I couldn’t help but approach him for a photo. Upon asking, he replied “No. I do not allow reporters to photograph me. You can play me in a game of chess and maybe I’ll think about it.” Now if I’m being honest, I was consumed by the assumption - fueled by the negative connotations associated with street chess - that he just wanted money from me. I told him I respected his case, but I wasn’t a reporter and really just wanted a photo of him for a project I was working on. He immediately dismissed me, spitting his disapproval at my intentions. Right as I was prepared to walk away, I asked him why. Then he said something that caught my attention. He began shouting about a “Mister Dan Barry from the New York Times,” whose name I only recall on account of how many times he repeated it in anger and disgust. The man under the picture perfect spotlight claimed he was last photographed several years ago by said Dan Barry, who approached him while gathering a story for New York’s prestigious publication. The source of his anger stemmed not from the photo taken, but from the outcome of the submission of personal information he provided the reporter - information which he was extremely passionate about. 

He told Mr. Barry everything, and recollected it for me. Washington Square Park has been a home to the game of street chess for decades. Beginning with the history of chess in the park, he recalled the greats who came before him, such as Bobby Fisher, who was famously taught by the man’s very own mentor; Grandmaster William Lombardi. He shared their stories and the impact they made on both the game and the park by creating a reputable community for chess players within the lines of Washington Square. He spoke about these men in the highest regard, devoting his life not only to their legacies and the game they built on the very bench he sat on, but to paying it forward. 

At this point in the story, he lifted his hand up, flexing his pointer finger into the air, and abruptly crashed it point-down into the cement table with intent. With his finger still pressed against the marble top, he looked up at me and told me with passion in his eyes that what they do in the park is more than just chess.  To them, the park is a haven; a place where they can practice their craft buoyantly. It’s here that they’ve built a community where they come to play and grow, leaving worry and negativity outside of the park. In addition to their own practice, they actively encourage families to bring their children to learn the game with them, and have seen generations of positively impacted youth come out of their circle. However, in recent years, the worries of the modern world have infiltrated the community, causing apprehension among parents. For that reason, as of recent, the veteran players have gone as far as contacting the NYPD to bring lights into the park, which stay on late into night, in order to keep the rumored "drug dealers and violence" out of their space. 

Upon sharing his wealth of knowledge on the community with Mister Dan Barry, the man was thanked for this information and promised his story would be in that Sunday’s issue of the New York Times - oh, and to tell his family to look out for it. Ecstatic to hear that his community’s impactful story would finally be shared with the city of New York, he enthusiastically did as he was told. “My family couldn’t believe I was going to be in the paper,” he said. 

When Sunday came, he, his family members, and his community of players all picked up Sunday’s fresh print to find the headline which read, “Have Board, Will Hustle.” 

His story was not in the paper. More-so, his story was taken and his words were twisted into a piece that destroyed the sanctuary he lived to protect. The article was far from what was to be expected, painting street chess as “Hustling chess,” and shedding a negative light on this “long tradition."  He was deceived by the reporter who gave him his word. And for what? To fuel the invalid assumptions I myself regrettably had, to ensue fear among park-goers, and to spread misinformation about a valuable community that lives beneath the line that is privilege? It took the positive impact they built around their game and pushed it a step backward. Most notably, it infected the name of Washington Square Park - a place that is home to so many, for reasons far beyond the game of chess.

In light of his story, I respected the man’s disinterest in being photographed, as well as gave him my word that I would share his story the way it was meant to be told. Before leaving, I asked him for one thing, so I could give him the credibility he deserved - his name. He told me, “Eric. Eric from the park."

becoming

Jim Rohn famously wrote that we are the average of the five people we spend the most time with. When it comes to relationships, we’re heavily influenced by those closest to us. It affects the way we think - from our beliefs and decisions to our interests and actions. As I’ve grown into my adult self, I am proud of who I have become, not because of who I innately am, but because of the incredible people I have been surrounded and influenced by. I am consistently sent into a state of shock and awe by the people around me. Watching my best friends and closest peers grow from the children I first met to the people they are now has been an absolute honor. Sometimes I find myself wondering if I am simply in awe at the wonders of life and development, or if I am fortuitously the luckiest person on earth to be surrounded by so much growth. I cannot humbly know why these people have chosen to love me, or how I could possibly deserve their love. But that is exactly what motivates me every day to be the best version of myself. Today, what I see when I look in the mirror is a collection of all of the people I have encountered, and most prominently the people I am closest with. And it’s an honor to see them staring back at me.