Stop-and-Frisk’s Fiercest Foe

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As New York’s minority communities fume over the controversial crime-fighting tactic known as stop-and-frisk, one camera-wielding ex-con makes it his mission to catch the cops in action.

He was racing like a madman somewhere on the edge of the Bronx, listening to a police radio and hoping to catch some cops on camera, when suddenly he got lucky. Two officers were approaching a young black man on Bruckner Boulevard, a location Jose LaSalle had marked on his map, which he uses to track citizen complaints of the NYPD routinely and unreasonably stopping and frisking people on the street. LaSalle and his crew, a troop of middle-aged Bronx residents and young female activists, got there within seconds, pulled out their phones and surrounded the officers with cameras. Baffled, the police backed away from the young man.

LaSalle’s gold tooth was gleaming in the lights of passing cars; he couldn’t hide his excitement. “Those were rookies,” he laughed as the officers walked away.

The badge on his vest reads “Cop Watcher,” and he never leaves home without his camera. At night, he works for New York City’s parks department, but by day LaSalle patrols some of the poorest and most violent areas of New York City, places like the South Bronx and Brownsville, Brooklyn, where the police make up to fifteen times as many stops as in New York City in general.

New York’s stop-and-frisk program, which enables officers to stop, question and frisk people on the basis of reasonable suspicion of illegal activity, expanded tremendously during the Bloomberg administration. The police defend the practice as a tool for getting guns off the street and keeping crime low in the city, but opponents call it racist and unconstitutional. While a back-and-forth legal battle continues to wind its way through the system, Jose LaSalle and his crew of cop watchers are monitoring the NYPD on their own.

“Basically, I am patrolling the police just like the Black Panther Party did in California in the 1960s,” says LaSalle. “I just traded the shotgun for a digital camera.”

Jose LaSalle in East Harlem. He uses his phone to film what he says are unreasonable stops by police.
Jose LaSalle in East Harlem. He uses his phone to film what he says are unreasonable stops by police.

At forty-three, his face is scarred from prison gang fights and his body is covered with tattoos, revealing a different and darker life. In his apartment in the Bronx, he still keeps the bullet that nearly killed him in a turf war over the corner of Lexington Avenue and 123rd Street back in the late 1980s. When he folds his left hand around his camera, the letters L-O-V-E emerge on the back of his fingers from an old faded tattoo, and on his chest, close to his heart, he keeps the ink contours of a woman who saved him from the drug world many years ago, but who now exists only in his memory.

I first met Jose LaSalle about a year ago. Originally from Puerto Rico, he grew up in East Harlem and told me he didn’t like talking to white people. “Can’t trust them,” he said. He finally gave in one day on the outskirts of East New York, relenting to my many months of stalking and, perhaps, a desire for company. “Come on my little white friend,” he said, and we began hitting the streets together: He constantly preaching about the evils of stop-and-frisk and always two steps ahead, as if he knew that the darkness hiding inside him would catch up if he paused.

“I miss my wifey,” he would say sometimes when we sat down for coffee or waited for the train. For a moment, he would segue into his own thoughts, but wherever he traveled in his mind, he never stayed long before distracting himself with one of his fiery speeches about the police, or pulling out an iPad to show off his video library of what he said were unreasonable stops and unlawful arrests. He was not only fighting the cops, I would learn. He was fighting himself, too. As we walked the streets of New York, Jose LaSalle unfolded his story.

*   *   *

When he was thirteen, his father died. New York was the richest city in the world, but East Harlem—”El Barrio”—where he was growing up, was one of America’s poorest and most devastated neighborhoods. Buildings were crumbling around him and entire blocks were abandoned. LaSalle used to dig for fruits and vegetables in the garbage and eat the parts that weren’t rotten. Other kids made fun of his tattered clothes and cheap shoes.

In 1985, three years after he lost his father, the world around him changed. Crack cocaine hit the streets, and president Ronald Reagan warned the nation of a smokable epidemic haunting America. Suddenly anyone could buy a gram of cocaine, cook it up with water and baking soda on the stove and double their money in the rising underground economy. Eager crack entrepreneurs occupied the corners of East Harlem, and a scramble for street control began. Gunshots rang out almost every night and parents made their babies sleep in bathtubs to avoid stray bullets as the violent crime rate soared.

On every corner of El Barrio, crews of young men shouted out the brand names and colors of the vial tops indicating the quality of the drug—blue tops, red tops, pink tops.

LaSalle began selling black, green and purple tops on Lexington Avenue from 133rd Street to 116th Street. And suddenly he had “the gold, the green, and the girls.”

He soon managed a crew of thirty drug dealers and began selling heroin. His team would easily make $100,000 in a few days. At nineteen, he had a van with chrome rims and almost enough gold chains to sink a ship. Finally, he was getting the respeto he had been searching for.

Then one day in the early spring of 1988, a drug dealer from a rival crew shot him twice in a territorial fight over a street corner. One bullet missed his vital organs and went through his stomach. The other lodged in his chest and nearly killed him. He woke up in an ambulance, breathing through an oxygen mask and on his way to spending twelve years in prison.

*   *   *

While LaSalle was locked up, New York City was poised for dramatic change, as former prosecutor and newly elected mayor Rudolph Giuliani declared in his 1994 inauguration speech. Giuliani and police commissioner William Bratton set out to clean the streets with a zero-tolerance strategy of cracking down on petty crimes by targeting vandalism, broken windows, graffiti, litter and other so-called quality-of-life crimes in the hope that reducing minor offenses would bring down major felonies, too. Helped by the data-driven mapping system known as CompStat, the NYPD was able to dissect crime trends block by block, sending more officers to aggressively patrol and pursue serious crime in the most troubled areas.

From 1990 to 2003, New York City experienced an unprecedented drop in crime. Despite other factors like the booming economy, a saturated crack market, declining unemployment, and the fact that crime began lowering even before Giuliani and Bratton took office, the police were hailed as the saviors of the city. Many minority residents, on the other hand, felt they were paying a high price for this new, aggressive policing strategy, which they associated less with decreased crime than with harassment and alleged police brutality, culminating with the death of Amadou Diallo, the immigrant from Guinea who was shot forty-one times by police officers mistaking his wallet for a gun. As a response to Giuliani and Bratton’s intense policing in minority neighborhoods, former members of the Black Panther Party announced in 1996 that they would put away the .9mm and pick up the 8mm camera. Armed with celluloid, the Panthers created the first cop watch patrols in New York City.

“We were aggressive. We didn’t just stand back and film, we walked straight up and confronted the police, commanding them to step back and stop harassing people,” says Shepard McDaniel, a former member of the Harlem chapter of the Black Panther Party.

In prison, Jose LaSalle didn’t care much about the Black Panthers or racial profiling. He was too busy trying to stay out of the gangs that ruled the corridors of Attica Correctional Facility, a maximum security prison in Upstate New York.

*   *   *

The Latin Kings, the largest Hispanic drug gang in America, perceived his lack of engagement with their group as betrayal. LaSalle heard rumors that they would take him down, so he prepared carefully in his cell. At night, he broke off little pieces of the ceiling fan and wrapped them in metal wires to fabricate a shank that he would carry under his clothes.

The Latin Kings waited patiently. One day, when he went to the bathroom unprotected, three of them came up from behind and one sliced his lip. LaSalle couldn’t feel a thing, just kept stabbing his knife in all directions while blood was dripping from his mouth.

LaSalle watches his videos of stop-and-frisk on his iPad in East Harlem.
LaSalle watches his videos of stop-and-frisk on his iPad in East Harlem.

“In there, you become an animal. It’s all about survival,” he said one night as we rushed through the subway system, from Rockaway Avenue towards East Harlem and the Bronx. “I remember thinking that if they didn’t kill me, I would kill them. I just wanted to get out alive.”

His shank hit one of the gang members in the eye, popping it, and LaSalle was transferred to the D-Block of Clinton Correctional Facility, the largest maximum security prison in New York. He can’t recall exactly how much time he spent in Clinton—he was transferred a lot—but he does remember that he was put in solitary confinement for more than a year. In total, LaSalle spent four years in isolation. Somewhere in a dark corner of his loneliness he discovered something that would help him in the streets many years later.

“At first, I was just running around desperate in my cell, screaming to myself, but that didn’t get me anywhere,” says LaSalle. He couldn’t see beyond his room, except for those few seconds a day when food was delivered through a small hole in the door. So he began using his ears to envision the world outside, listening to every little sound: footsteps, conversations. “I became patient, and I became an observer,” he says. “And that taught me to stay in control of my rage and channel it in ways that would actually reach somebody.”

*   *   *

When LaSalle was finally released in 2000, the streets of East Harlem were barely recognizable to him. Most drug dealing had moved inside, and he was constantly stopped, questioned and frisked by the police. El Barrio was slowly gentrifying, and renovations were taking place everywhere. But it wasn’t only New York that had changed. LaSalle was different, too.

He no longer felt at home in his apartment, so he tried to make it look like his solitary cell. He painted the walls black, blinded the windows and kept himself in darkness for nearly six months while searching for a way back into the drug trade. He’d probably have found himself behind bars again if it hadn’t been for a slender brown-eyed girl who lived next door.

“She looked like a queen, everything was popping out. I felt something, so I began to say ‘hi.’ And one day, she said ‘hi’ back,” he recalls. Her name was Nancy Ocasio, and with her, LaSalle became a law-abiding family man. He moved into her apartment, got a job at a moving company, and ten years went by.

“I guess she taught me to love myself, and that was really what I’d been looking for my whole life,” he says.

Nancy cooked for him when he came home from work and they talked for hours at night. She was the kind of woman everyone in the community bent an ear to, and she would tell LaSalle all about the neighborhood. He often said that he wanted to do something for his community, be like Martin Luther King or Malcolm X. In prison, he’d become a member of the Five Percent Nation, an organization founded by one of Malcolm X’s early students. The group taught members to rise above street life in order to free their communities from oppression. But at the time, LaSalle didn’t know how to do it.

“I was in love, I was happy and I didn’t want to lose all that, so she kept me off the streets and out of trouble,” he says.

LaSalle took care of Nancy’s kids like his own, especially her son Alvin. His biological father, a police officer, hadn’t been present much in Alvin’s life, so LaSalle stepped up as a father figure.

In his early teens, Alvin was a member of the Explorers, an NYPD youth program designed to guide teenagers into careers in law enforcement. But in the spring of 2011, LaSalle noticed that Alvin wouldn’t leave the apartment, claiming that the police were hunting him all over Harlem. LaSalle thought his stepson was being paranoid, but on the night of June 3, something happened that made him think otherwise.

Alvin was walking home from his girlfriend’s house when three police officers jumped out of their car on 116th Street between Madison and Park Avenues.

“You look very suspicious when you are walking the block with your hood up and you keep looking back at us like that,” one officer said.

Alvin tried to explain that he was wearing a hoodie because it was cold, and that he was only looking at the officers since they’d already stopped him a few blocks away.

“Do you want me to smack you?” the officer said. Then he pushed Alvin and twisted his arm while he aggressively frisked him, threatening to break his arm and punch him in the face before he handcuffed him.

“What am I being arrested for?” Alvin wanted to know.

The officer drew close and yelled into his face: “For being a fucking mutt.”

“Is that a law, being a mutt?” Alvin asked before the cops left him in the street without any explanation.

You couldn’t blame Alvin for wondering if there actually was a law against being brown-skinned. Within the previous few months he’d been stopped, questioned and frisked multiple times for no other reason than looking “suspicious.” That year, the NYPD stopped a record-high number of almost 700,000 people. Nine out of ten were young black or Hispanic men like Alvin.

Under Mayor Michael Bloomberg and Police Commissioner Ray Kelly, the stop-and-frisk program expanded 500 percent, growing from 97,296 people stopped in 2002 to 533,042 in 2012. More than five million people were stopped in New York City during the Bloomberg administration; 4.3 million were black or Hispanic.

What made the stop on the night of June 3, 2011, different from those millions of others was that Alvin had secretly hit the record button on his iPod.

*   *   *

When LaSalle heard Alvin’s recording, he immediately woke Nancy up and they went to the 25th Precinct. LaSalle was furious, and Nancy yelled at the officers. She asked for an explanation, demanded someone be held accountable. They filed a complaint to NYPD’s Internal Affairs Bureau but never heard back.

Months went by. Then one October morning, just before the first rays of light hit Harlem, life knocked LaSalle back into the dark. Nancy made him breakfast as usual, eggs with fries and ketchup, and he left for work before the sun rose. Three hours later, her children called. Nancy wasn’t moving, they said. LaSalle rushed home and found Nancy lying on the sofa. Her face was pale.

LaSalle's tatto of his late wife, Nancy
LaSalle’s tatto of his late wife, Nancy

He kept blowing air into her mouth even though her lips had turned purple, and he knew it was too late. She had died of a heart attack. “Her body…there was nothing there. Whatever kept her alive was gone,” he says. The kids cried and screamed. LaSalle waited for the ambulance to arrive before he stumbled down the stairs, dizzy and disoriented, and for a moment stood paralyzed in the hall.

“I was messed up, I was hurt, and I didn’t know what to do. The only thing that had kept me on the straight and narrow path, that kept me being a righteous person, was gone,” LaSalle says.

He left the kids with relatives and disappeared for weeks. At night, he moved into different hotels. He didn’t show up for work in the mornings, wandering the streets aimlessly all day. He had no idea where he was heading. He just kept walking, hoping that each step would lead him further away from the pain.

*   *   *

He was roaming the streets somewhere around 135th Street and Amsterdam Avenue when a young man handed him a flyer about a rally against stop-and-frisk. LaSalle noticed that Cornel West was speaking at the event. He’d read several of his books while in prison and thought the Princeton professor was right when he said that American racism is as prevalent as ever, that American society is designed to protect the white and the privileged, and that none of it will change until the people themselves take care of it.

LaSalle went to the rally, mainly to get a picture with his jail-time hero. When he arrived, West, dressed in his signature black suit matched with dark shades, was roaring about Martin Luther King and Malcolm X, and the need to stand up for the young generation.

A woman was walking around with a notepad asking people to sign a sheet. LaSalle, eyes focused on West, wrote his name thinking that he was signing up for a newsletter. But then the woman started shouting out the names on her list. She called his name.

The protesters instantly began cheering and patting LaSalle on his back. He hadn’t signed up for a newsletter. He’d volunteered to block the NYPD’s 28th Precinct in order to get locked up in an act of civil disobedience that marked an escalation in the fight against stop-and-frisk.

LaSalle desperately looked for an escape. There was no way he was going back to prison, he thought. But the protesters kept pushing him forward, cheering and clapping.

“They were constantly telling me how brave I was, and saying that I was ‘the man’” says LaSalle. Suddenly he was standing next to Cornel West. For a brief moment the pain felt a little less piercing, and right there, on the corner of 125th Street and 7th Avenue, where Malcolm X held his legendary speeches back in the 1960s, LaSalle’s life as a crusader against stop-and-frisk began.

*   *   *

Cautiously he started sneaking around in the streets, watching the cops in secret. He mostly walked around with just a pen and a notebook, writing down whatever he witnessed. If he saw an officer acting particularly aggressive towards people in his neighborhood, he sometimes took out his phone, but he always kept his distance and immediately put it away if the police noticed him.

He always carried a copy of Alvin’s audio recording on his phone, but he couldn’t figure out what to do with it. He played it to anyone who would listen and sent it to all the media outlets he could think of, from Channel 7 to CNN, but none would publish it without revealing Alvin’s identity, and LaSalle was scared that the officers might retaliate against his stepson if they saw his face on TV. He carried the recording around for almost a year, until a filmmaker LaSalle met through the activist network convinced him that Alvin had to step forward in order for the recording to have a real impact.

On October 8, 2012, The Nation published a short documentary about Alvin on its website. Called The Hunted and the Hated, it quickly generated almost 900,000 views, spread across the Internet and amplified the debate about stop-and-frisk in the mainstream media. It also infuriated New York City Council members when it was played a few days later at a meeting of the council’s public safety committee. “It’s totally despicable, totally unacceptable,” council member Robert Jackson said during the meeting. “It should not be tolerated in our NYPD.” Alvin became the poster child of a policy that many felt had grown out of control, and LaSalle vowed he would do everything in his power to protect Alvin and teenagers like him by watching their streets. He studied the law, realized that watching the cops was well within his rights, “and one day I just didn’t step back,” he says.

*  *  *

LaSalle usually gives his phone number to young men he meets on his walks, and sometimes they call to him: “Yo, Jose. The cops are working some kid over here. Come over.” LaSalle then patrols the area intensely to let the police know he is watching. Some of the areas he patrols, like Brownsville in Brooklyn, are home to members of notorious gangs like the Crips, Bloods, Latin Kings and MS-13, who fight turf wars with each other, often turning their neighborhoods into bloody battle zones. LaSalle fears that if the good kids don’t feel they can trust the police, they will become easy targets for such criminal gangs. “I don’t want that life for anyone,” he says. “I hope to be at least one person in the street that they can trust.”

When he spots a new officer, he walks up and introduces himself. “Hello, my name is Jose, I’m in charge of the Cop Watch Patrol Unit, patrolling this area to make sure you’re carrying out your duty of Courtesy, Professionalism and Respect. So, be safe and see you around.”

One freezing January night, we passed an officer at Thurman Munson Way in the Bronx. Jose handed him one of the brochures he normally gave people in the streets. It outlined do’s and don’ts for citizens stopped by the police and explained the concept of cop watching.

LaSalle hands out his business cards to residents in East Harlem.
LaSalle hands out his business cards to residents in East Harlem.

The officer, who is black, browsed through the material while his white partner came over. LaSalle handed him a brochure, too.

“It doesn’t matter if the cop is black, brown, white or yellow. Once he puts on that uniform he becomes alienated from the community,” LaSalle explained. The officers looked puzzled.

“So you are running around filming? Waiting for us to punch somebody in the face?” the black cop asked.

LaSalle laughed disarmingly. “As long as you follow the procedures you’re not in trouble,” he said. “But you have to remember that you are out here to protect and serve us. You are not out here to harass us or make us afraid of you, but that’s what’s happening. We’re not gonna stop until this ends—”

The white cop interrupted him. “They almost eliminated stop-and-frisk in Philly and look what happened.” The officer was referring to a class action lawsuit settlement that caused reform of stop-and-frisk in Philadelphia, while the murder rate had gone up.

“All that talk about guns is just bogus,” said LaSalle, “You stop 1,000 people to find one gun. When 600,000 innocent people get stopped and almost all of them are people of color, we have a problem.”

The officers began fidgeting. They had to get working, they said.

One day, LaSalle got a chance to talk to Ray Kelly. It was a sunny September afternoon during the African American Day Parade in 2012, and the police commissioner was visiting Harlem. With the green, black and red Pan-African flag in one hand, LaSalle marched straight up to him. They were an odd couple: Kelly in a hand-tailored suit and silk tie and LaSalle in a Yankees cap, drinking a Red Bull to keep himself energized.

“Ray Kelly, my man, I think you are doing a great job,” he recalls telling him. He only offered that praise to get his attention, and it worked. “But I have a problem with the stop-and-frisk. You have to end it,” he then told Kelly, pointing his flag at the police commissioner. Kelly told him to put it away, but LaSalle was so eager that he couldn’t stop pointing. Kelly grabbed the flag and his bodyguards moved closer. Then he asked LaSalle: how he would otherwise get guns off the streets?

LaSalle told him that stop-and-frisk wasn’t getting guns off the streets. In fact, NYPD’s own data show that a gun was found in only .15 percent of stops in 2012, and that most guns are recovered outside stop-and-frisk hot spots.

“I just got brave out of nowhere,” LaSalle says of his encounter with Kelly. “I always wanted to be able to stand in front of the police and let them know that what they’re doing is wrong.”

*   *   *

Since the first day I met him, LaSalle had been talking about the court case against stop-and-frisk, a class-action trial suit in U.S. District Court in Manhattan. In Floyd vs. the City of New York, four black men and the Center for Constitutional Rights challenged the department’s use of stop-and-frisk as racist and unconstitutional.

When the first day of trial finally arrived, the courtroom was crammed; even the overflow room was flooded. Social workers, lawyers, community organizers and scholars of all kinds were taking notes. This was not just the case of a few bad apples in the police department or a single incident of cops crossing the line. This was an entire practice of the NYPD going on trial.

Black and Hispanic teenagers, Muslims and members of New York’s LGBT community rallied outside the courthouse nearly every day of the hearings. Floyd vs. The City of New York had become the symbol of injustice in minority communities. Meanwhile, the long-shot mayoral candidate Bill de Blasio was starting to gain momentum based on his “tale of two cities” platform and aggressive opposition to stop-and-frisk.

Inside the courtroom, whistleblowers documented that CompStat had turned into a numbers game, constantly demanding officers to stop and frisk more people in the streets. They also documented what black and Hispanic teenagers had complained about for decades: that they were being stopped because of the color of their skin.

On an audio recording from 2011 that was played during the trial, Deputy Inspector Christopher McCormack told officer Pedro Serrano that in order to suppress violent crime in the 40th Precinct they had to stop, question and frisk “the right people at the right time at the right location.” Serrano asked who the right people were.

“I told you at roll call, and I have no problem telling you this: male blacks, fourteen to twenty, twenty-one,” the commanding officer replied.

A wide range of officers were questioned: Sergeants, lieutenants, commanders, the whole chain going all the way up to the recently retired Chief of Department, Joseph Esposito. Meanwhile, Judge Shira Scheindlin sat rock solid behind her desk, sipping large cups of Diet Coke while listening to testimony from more than a hundred witnesses and reading the transcripts on her computer in real time. She’d been hearing lawsuits against the NYPD for more than a decade, and now she was faced with a rare chance to rewrite the rules and end an era in the history of New York City.

In the third row sat Yolanda Matthews, a volunteer with LaSalle’s cop watch unit in Brownsville. She showed up in court every day, as long as the trial went on.

Jose LaSalle talking to the police in East Flashbush, Brooklyn, during one of the protests following the fatal shooting of sixteen-year-old Kimani Gray.
Jose LaSalle talking to the police in East Flashbush, Brooklyn, during one of the protests following the fatal shooting of sixteen-year-old Kimani Gray.

“Finally, karma is coming back,” she said.

LaSalle, however, was nowhere to be seen. A few days after the trial began, I found him in East Flatbush, Brooklyn. The streets needed him, he said. He’d been out there every day since a young black teenager had been killed by the police on March 9. Two plainclothes police officers shot Kimani Gray seven times just before midnight on East 52nd Street; three bullets hit him in the back. The officers said Gray, sixteen, had a gun. A loaded .38 caliber was found at the scene, but at least one witness said Gray was unarmed.

A little less than a year earlier, Shantel Davis, twenty-three, black and unarmed, had been shot and killed by a narcotics detective just a few blocks away, and the community was outraged. Following Gray’s shooting, young people filled the streets. Forty-six were arrested, and police occupied the neighborhood. Cops were everywhere: on rooftops, along buildings, two on almost every corner.

It had been more than a week since the shooting when I found LaSalle. Things had cooled off a bit, but on the corner where Gray used to hang out a crowd of two dozen protesters refused to give up. LaSalle stood in front of the police, all fired up and showing teeth.

“Whose streets? Our streets!” he kept roaring at the protesters, leading them on. He had hardly any voice left, and he looked exhausted.

“But this gives me energy,” he said. “This is my new family.”

*   *   *

When the public learned about Alvin, the police finally began investigating his case. At around the same time, his biological father stepped into his life, and Alvin now lives with him in Harlem.

“Alvin really needed that. Nothing can replace the biological father. They will always have a special bond that a stepfather can’t give,” says LaSalle. His voice turns almost silky when he speaks of Alvin, and he always refers to him as his son. “Of course I miss seeing him every day, and I wish I could bring him with me wherever I go, but I just want him to be happy,” he says.

Sometimes, Alvin bumps into the officers who handcuffed him and called him a “fucking mutt” on that summer night in 2011, but they haven’t touched him since. Other officers have stopped and frisked him, though. So when Judge Scheindlin ruled against the NYPD on August 12, stating that New York City’s stop-and-frisk practice was unconstitutional, Alvin was excited.

“This is what I’ve been waiting for for a very long time,” he said.

A federal appeals panel later removed Judge Scheindlin from the case after questioning her impartiality, and the city has asked the court to vacate her order that stop-and-frisk be reformed. Regardless of the court case’s final outcome, Mayor-elect de Blasio has pledged to change the program and install new leadership at the NYPD.

*   *   *

Since Nancy died, LaSalle has been living with his seventy-four-year-old mother in the Bronx. She was recently diagnosed with cancer, and LaSalle is terrified that she will die just as suddenly as Nancy did. Sometimes he finds himself sneaking into her room at night with a flashlight to make sure she is still breathing. He can’t let go of the thought that Nancy might be alive today if he hadn’t left her to go to work.

Whenever he is not patrolling the streets he makes sure he is there for all the families who’ve lost their loved ones to confrontations with the police. He marched with the fiancé of Sean Bell, a young unarmed black man who was shot on the morning of what would have been his wedding day.

He showed up at Ramarley Graham’s house on the day after the unarmed eighteen-year-old was shot and killed by an officer who chased him, based on false information that he had a gun. The officer kicked in Graham’s door and shot him in the bathroom, in front of his grandmother and six-year-old brother.

And he spent every moment he could in East Flatbush to support the family of Kimani Gray.

“I am doing all I can to help them find some form of peace. When someone you love is suddenly taken away from you, you are searching for answers. You keep torturing yourself with the question: What could I have done differently to prevent this from happening? And you feel so lost, so alone,” he said.

The protesters on the corner were waiting for a cue from LaSalle to move on. They would march to Gray’s home and then to the precinct to show their anger.

“I never knew I had all this inside me,” said LaSalle. ”I guess I had to go through all that shit to find myself. That’s the funny thing about death: sometimes it pushes you to your right place.”

* * *

Liked this story? Our editors did too, voting it one of our 20 best untold tales!

See the complete list of Editors’ Picks here. 

* *

Sara Maria Glanowski is an award-winning freelance journalist and documentary filmmaker exploring culture, politics and social affairs, especially the issues of race, poverty and inequality. She holds an MA in Politics from Columbia Journalism School, and her work has appeared in The Atlantic, Vice, and on Al Jazeera America. Follow her at @Sara_Glanowski on twitter and at saramariaglanowski on Instagram.

This Graffiti Fanboy Steals Priceless Street Art Under the Cloak of Darkness

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On the prowl with the Thomas Crown of the New York City streets.

Tommy is a bit jumpy. The six-foot Queens, New York native, his closely cropped, dirty blonde hair covered by a black hoodie, just downed a Red Bull in his car. It’s well after midnight on a weekday and now he’s ordering a can of Coke with two extra-spicy chicken tacos from a food truck.

Tommy, who asked that his name be changed to protect him from retaliatory acts, knows this Bedford Avenue corner in Williamsburg, Brooklyn is not the ideal location to commit what many in the street art community consider a crime. The fire engine red food truck has a scrawling LED sign advertising its menu, and there’s light pouring onto the sidewalk from a bodega. But a police patrol car just sauntered past and continued down the block, so Tommy knows they won’t be back for a while. Plus, earlier, New York endured a three-hour downpour, softening the glue behind an indeterminable number of posters affixed to walls by some of the most respected street artists in the world. And directly across from the food truck is one wall with pieces by two of Tommy’s favorite artists sticking to it…at least for now.

As I place my own entrée order, Tommy takes two nimble steps back toward the wall, looks left, then right. He flips around and his fingers go to work on a poster signed in white stencil by the local street artist “SacSix.” Tommy has already claimed a few pieces by SacSix since he began hoarding street art a year ago.

The woman in the truck giggles as she watches Tommy, and I turn to see the outstretched arm of a dancing Mike Tyson being pulled off the brick. Wearing a black-and-white striped shirt, the body of Iron Mike is buckling its knees and striking an Elvis Presley “Jailhouse Rock” pose. Tommy carries a box cutter and a heavy duty, pump-action spray bottle filled with water for assistance on these excursions. But because of the day’s rainfall he doesn’t need either of them now, and once Tyson is secured, Tommy starts on the eight-inch-tall Paris Hilton dancing in line next to him.

Hilton succumbs to Tommy even quicker than Tyson. “Normally it takes me five to ten minutes to take a piece down,” Tommy explains. “But on a great, rainy night they come off like butter and I almost feel guilty. It’s too easy.”

Tommy removes a work of street art posted in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.

The gritty New York graffiti subculture of the ’70s and ’80s was effectively wiped away by the ’90s, due to the city enacting new aggressive train- and wall-cleaning policies. Since then, street art – the more elaborate and nuanced version of the medium – has infiltrated New York, and cities around the world. More recently, high-end galleries and auction houses have included street art among their offerings.

Michael Doyle, director of business development at Julien’s Auctions – a West Hollywood auction house that sells a wide variety of art – says street art, and its acceptance as a legitimate commodity, is here to stay. “It still has that rebel, fringe, controversial” side to it, he says, “but nonetheless we’ve seen a strong, steady increase in demand as well as prices.”

But because of the illegal nature of their work, street artists rarely see direct financial returns from their efforts – unless they’re formally commissioned. Like the London-based, world-famous Banksy, most street artists are anonymous, and the pieces that end up in public galleries and formal auctions are typically served up by lucky building owners who’ve had a noteworthy artist choose their wall as a canvass, or by an art dealer who brokered an agreement with such a building owner. Spray-painted walls targeted by respected street artists have been relinquished from buildings, and more elaborate installations have been plundered. In 2013, when Banksy embarked on a widely chronicled New York residency, he placed a Sphinx statue made of cinderblocks in Queens, and then disappeared as he always does. Soon, several men began to deconstruct the statue and load a truck with the blocks. The majority of Banksy’s Sphinx is now in the Keszler Gallery on Long Island, awaiting a buyer. Portions of its base, though, are in a storage unit rented by Tommy.

Such outcomes irk documentarian Colin Day, whose “Saving Banksy” chronicles the fate of a mural the artist painted in San Francisco. “It’s wrong if street art is removed for the intent of profit,” Day says, adding that, if someone does sell a piece taken from the street, they should at least try to track the artist down and give them a portion of the booty. He also feels it is important that a piece of street art placed on a wall remain on that same structure and, somehow, stay within the community the artist presented it.

A wheat paste poster attributed to SacSix in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.

Distinct from the ritzy galleries and auction houses, a street art black market has also developed on sites like eBay where authentication isn’t required. There are people who tour city streets, finding the right moments – and practicing the most efficient methods – to remove art.

But Tommy doesn’t consider himself a thief. He says he does not sell the artwork he confiscates from the streets, under any circumstances, and does not intend to do so. His collection is approaching four-dozen pieces, but he wishes to keep them all for himself, simply because he’s a fan.

Propped up next to the Sphinx slabs in Tommy’s storage room are works by New York street artists SacSix, Cost, Dee Dee, Dain and others, as well as the Frenchman known as Invader. There are stickers – some still on city street signs Tommy cut away, others carefully pulled off – and tile designs. Most of his collection is made up of posters known as “wheat pastes” because a flour-based glue is used to put them up.

“I know it looks selfish,” says Tommy, who works as a freelance graphic designer. “But I feel like I’m capturing a moment in a really artistic time. I wish I got my start sooner. It turned into a big hype thing, and now the big artists don’t want to put up wheat pastes because they know they’re going to be torn down and sold.”

* * *

An hour earlier, Tommy and I stood outside one of Brooklyn’s many fenced-in construction zones. On the far side of the plot, fixed to the wall of an as-yet demolished building, was one particular piece Tommy desperately wanted: a cutout poster of the iconic skull logo associated with the horror-punk band the Misfits, except the top half above the jawline more resembles the ’80s World Wrestling Federation star Andre The Giant. Tommy hypothesizes that the piece is by Shepard Fairey, who rose to prominence in the early ’90s by posting tons of stickers depicting Andre The Giant above the word OBEY, then in 2008 found worldwide fame for his Barack Obama HOPE poster.

“I’m going to ask permission [from the construction workers] to save it,” Tommy said, staring at the Misfits-Andre mash-up. He added that many nights he’s thought of breaking into the construction zone to retrieve the piece, but is afraid of being arrested for trespassing. “They’re going to put this building up in front of it and then it’s going to be gone,” Tommy said. “And that bothers me.”

“I’m saving it from its ultimate doom of getting defaced, and, probably, people are going to try and take it and they’re going to take it the wrong way,” he continued, insisting that most others would casually peel off small portions of the poster, possibly on a dry day. “Piece by piece it’s just going to start disappearing.”

Tommy shows off a New York City street sign he removed and the stickers by long-time street artist Cost that remain on the back.

SacSix doesn’t see Tommy’s actions as “saving” street art.

“There has been the occasion where I’ve seen a wheat paste that is essentially off and I’m taking it back to my apartment,” SacSix said during a recent phone interview. But then he added: “I would never go up to a piece that I know is securely wheat-pasted and try and tear it. If you have to wait for rainy days and you gotta go out there with blades and tools, that’s not really rescuing. That’s more stealing.”

He insists a “weathered” poster can be even more alluring than a freshly pasted one, and deserves to endure a complete lifecycle. “Colors fade, corners tear,” SacSix says. “Let it be beautiful in its decay.”

Not all street artists are so strongly against what Tommy does. Los Angeles-based Paige Smith – who goes by “A Common Name” and is best known for her “Urban Geode” street art project – says she quickly came to terms with the fact that people were going to claim her art for themselves. “I kind of consider people forces of nature on this planet. They destroy things; I expect it,” she says. “If anyone is walking through a forest and finds a gem or an arrowhead, they take it. I think it makes sense that they take it.”

Fellow Los Angeleno Illma Gore, a veteran street artist who is best known for her rather unflattering nude portrait of Donald Trump, says, “When you do something in street art, in the public domain, you’re giving it up; you’re saying, ‘This is for you. This is for the public.’” But Gore also feels that, financially, “It’s getting harder and harder to be a living artist, so there’s only a certain amount of art that street artists can give out for free.”

A piece of street art signed in stencil by local artist SacSix, now in Tommy’s possession.

Back at the Bedford Avenue wall across from the food truck, with Elvis-Tyson and -Hilton completely removed, Tommy eyes a neighboring two-by-four-foot poster attributed to Dee Dee. The haunting piece has a soft, pastel purple background with a flock of bats flying behind an Asian woman wearing green and yellow cat ears and a black ball gown. Tommy says he’s prized the poster for months after spotting it on a drive through the area, but the glue Dee Dee used has been too up to the task for peeling. As Tommy scurries to put the SacSix dancers in his car he says, “That Dee Dee is coming down tonight.”

“I appreciate the love for my work, it is very flattering,” Dee Dee wrote to me in an email. “However, it is placed in public for everyone and at a personal risk to myself. I would hope people would consider that.”

Tommy begins to peel off the Dee Dee poster, pulling the bottom corners up. Within seconds the artwork is his, rolled up into a ball and on its way to his car. Later we’ll find a dancing Mel Gibson piece by SacSix as well, and at home, Tommy will unravel them all and let them dry. Then he will mount and seal the pieces in frames.

Tommy takes down a piece by Dee Dee in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.

A bit of a loner, Tommy says he works long hours in graphic design to make ends meet. He doesn’t show his art collection off much, but says he may commit some of the posters to the walls of a new workspace he’s renting. Of these late nights on street art hunts, he says, “This is the only excitement I have in my life right now.” Typically, he goes out looking for art by himself, though in the past his girlfriend joined, and even assisted him. (One time she videotaped Tommy taking a Sawzall drill to the side of a SoHo building in what would prove to be a jarringly loud and sheepish effort to procure a famous Invader mural depicting the Ramones, which had been whitewashed in paint.) However, he and his girlfriend recently broke up, and Tommy confesses that his obsession with street art may have cut into the time he should have been devoting to her.

Tommy admits to getting an adrenaline rush when he takes street art for himself, dating back to his very first heist. Though he says he’s been a fan of street art since the early ’00s, it wasn’t until May 2016, when Tommy noticed a fluorescent wheat paste posted on a door in Greenwich Village, that he began to build his collection.

“I went to take it,” Tommy recalls, “and some guy asked me not to because ‘some spots are hard to get.’” Tommy interpreted that to mean that busy intersections like that one are marked by law-bending street artists with great caution. Tommy says he respected the message, and let the piece stay put – for a few days. He returned with his girlfriend, placed a large wood board on the ground underneath the poster, and began peeling. Another man approached Tommy and asked him to stop. When Tommy refused, the man took his picture. Then, Tommy stuck the poster to the board, went home and noticed the piece was signed by the artist Dain. He Googled the name and saw scores of pictures of Dain’s work, all of which Tommy loved. “I was just happy to get a cool piece of street art,” Tommy says, “and then the next day the post went up on Instagram and I was devastated.”

The Instagram user @themuseumofurbanart posted the picture of Tommy removing the Dain piece and captioned it: “A thief caught in the act of steeling {sic}.” Liked by more than 1,200 Instagram users, the picture’s comments are overwhelmingly critical of Tommy. There’s a suggestion that Dain should hire a security detail to watch over his work. More than one user wrote “Boooo!”

“I don’t think so much of my work that I’m bothered by it,” Dain responds. On the one hand, he feels complimented when a guy like Tommy takes his work. Still, Dain does admit he would prefer to “get some life” out of a piece and see it remain where it was placed for a time. Should someone truly covet a poster that’s already on the street, so much that they’re willing to go through the trouble Tommy does to remove it, Dain offers: “Just contact me and I’ll try and give you a good price on a piece.”

Looking up through the rain at street art in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. The top set of tiles is attributed to the French artist Invader, while a wheat paste by Cost occupies the space below it.

Tommy recognizes the thought and effort put into street art, and tries to absolve himself of personal guilt by surveying the work over some time before pulling it down. “If it’s new, I usually won’t take it,” Tommy says. He claims he’ll only remove a piece if it has been up for some time, and has already garnered some attention on social media.

Several of the artists interviewed for this article agreed that if their work has been posted to social media, they don’t mind as much if it’s removed, either by rain, a building owner, a city worker, or someone like Tommy. New York-based Hanksy – well known for his “Dump Trump” mural depicting Donald Trump in the form of a gigantic turd – says, “We live in this day and age where everyone has a pretty capable camera in their pocket, so now you can take a digital picture and have [your artwork] spread around the world in a second.”

Hanksy also says, though, that he understands why some, perhaps because they’re from the old school of graffiti writing, would object to premature removal of their work. “Back in the day you wanted a high-visibility spot and you wanted your work to run a long time to get eyes on it.” However, he points out that, today, “a piece can get taken down a day after you put it up, but if you have a nice, digital, colorized photo of it, then it lives forever.”

Prolific graffiti writer Adam Cost, whose work dates back to the late ’70s, firmly disagrees with that contemporary take. “When the focal point of being a street artist is getting a photo of your work and throwing it on social media as your exposure, that’s just not good,” says Cost. “Really, what comes into play is where your work is, the vibe it gives off [and] the way people are interacting with it in the public.” He adds that a photograph will never convey such aspects of the street art experience.

Tommy frequently uses a razor blade to cut through glue behind a street art poster. Here, he demonstrates his method of removing street art in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.

Dain says he’s consulted other artists, including Cost, on measures that can be taken to thwart thieves as best he can. They include avoiding posting on mailboxes – because when they get wet, the piece will slide right off it – as well as wood billboards, fences or doors that can be easily removed altogether. Dain also now refrains from signing his street art, which makes authentication far more challenging for black market sellers.

Cost says that when he’s on the streets he’ll place posters in higher, harder-to-reach places; use a stronger homemade glue; and “blanket” an area with numerous identical posters, so that if a fan takes one, plenty more will remain.

Tommy remembers once coming across nine Cost posters placed on a wall, all in a row. “To a person like me that’s like Christmas!” Tommy says. “I went one day with my work ladder. I sprayed them all and I just took them down, one by one. They’re all framed and they’re all sexy.”

Cost questions the sincerity of Tommy’s claim that he’ll never sell the artwork, postulating: “He’s gonna put his kids through college with this stuff, potentially.”

Getting upset, Cost says of people like Tommy: “They’re stealing a part of me, actually, and I didn’t give them authorization to that part of me.”

Still, he recognizes his work was never destined to be permanent, and a moment later he adds, calmly: “The only way you can have any solace with it is in the end you say, ‘well, at least my work is being preserved…for better or worse.’”

 

 

When Young Muslims Want to Stop Masturbating, They Turn to Reddit

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Inside the makeshift online support groups where devout men go to break their taboo sex habits.

This story is republished from MEL Magazine, a new men’s digital magazine that understands that there’s no playbook for how to be a guy. Sign up for their newsletter here.

On a Friday night a few weeks ago, Ibrahim “Ibby” Mamood was frantically typing on his laptop, shaking, with droplets of sweat dripping from his forehead. Every so often, he peered over his shoulder, just in case someone was still awake and could come into his room. “I did it again,” he typed to the members of a private Facebook group. “I lost control of myself. May Allah, the greatest, the most kind, the most merciful, forgive me.”

Mamood, 27, lives in Birmingham, one of Britain’s largest cities and home to the country’s largest Muslim population outside of London. He’s a practicing Muslim who prays five times a day and teaches children in madrassa (Islamic school). He lives in a neighborhood almost entirely filled with Muslim families, all of whom know each other, attend the same social events and congregate at the same mosque.

This makes what he calls an “addiction” to masturbation even harder to talk about. Calling me from a cafe in central Birmingham, far away from his home, he says that he started masturbating in his late teens “without really knowing what I was doing.”

“It started, like most boys, with wet dreams. I thought I was wetting the bed. And it really developed from there. Later, I looked at pornographic images. Not because of a sinful sexual attraction. I wanted to figure out what was happening to my body.”

Mamood tells me that as he grew older — and with Islamic marriage on his mind — he attempted to become a more devout Muslim. As he was doing so, however, he continued looking at pornography. “I knew what I was doing was wrong… I’ve always known that. But we live in a society where pornography is widespread, so even when I wasn’t looking for porn, it was just there.”

Like many Muslim men in Mamood’s situation — i.e., finding themselves unable to talk about sex, masturbation or porn in deeply religious communities, where such things are considered taboo — he turned to the internet for help. In addition to private groups on Facebook (Mamood’s has more than two hundred members) and WhatsApp, the biggest support network is on Reddit, where the MuslimNoFap subreddit has about two thousand followers.

On the surface, it might seem like the normal Reddit No Fap community, a group of men whose choice of abstinence is largely driven by a desire for self-improvement. But according to members of MuslimNoFap, who all wished to remain anonymous, their community is much different. As one told me, “The main NoFap community is largely aiming to somehow assert their masculinity through control of themselves, with the hope of sleeping with women outside of marriage.” Conversely, the MuslimNoFap community is designed to uphold the sanctity of Nikah (marriage), which also means that “any form of sexual activity is prohibited until made permissible by Allah.”

“All we’re trying to do is serve Allah, and to do what he commanded us to do,” the MuslimNoFapper adds.

While the men I spoke to had joined the group for different reasons — some wanted to stop watching porn; others used to the group to manage depression and anxiety — nearly all of them wanted to get married in a halal (Islamically permissible) way, and were worried that their affinity for porn and masturbation would nullify their marriages in the eyes of God. It also was clear that despite thinking about marriage for much of their lives, none of these men had been prepared for what would happen on their wedding nights.

“There’s no way we can talk about sex, or anything to do with sex inside a mosque. It’s impossible,” a Canadian man by the username Abu Khadeer says. “Most of the people in these groups had a strict Islamic upbringing. They didn’t learn about sex education in the madrassa, where they were prohibited from having girlfriends. Some date and have sex outside of marriage, but [most] other men are truly devoted to their religion. They end up giving into temptation … usually because they’re afraid they won’t be competent when they finally get married.”

“Most mentions of sex in the [mosque] are usually associated with sin,” he adds. The attitude that the imams take is that any sort of deliberate extramarital sex is a severe sin — one that results in punishment in the akhira [afterlife].”

Islamic scholars differ in their opinions of this interpretation. The mainstream view among some world-famous preachers, including Zakir Naik, is that anyone engaging in extramarital sexual activities without repentance (in the form of fasting and prayer) will be sent to hell on Judgment Day. Others say that because the Qu’ran doesn’t specifically call masturbation zina (a major sin), severe punishments don’t apply.

Still, most devout Muslim men grow up being told to stay away from any type of sexual activity until marriage. As Abu Khadeer says, “A lot of us are told to be celibate up to the point of marriage. And then when we get married, we’re just expected to know what to do. One of the guys on the forum had to divorce his wife because he couldn’t consummate his marriage. He literally didn’t know how to have sex with her on his wedding night.”

It’s difficult to quantify the problem, but most of the imams I spoke to recognized that this is an issue that is often kept secret. Imams from progressive Imams Online network say Islamic leaders hadn’t really dealt with situations involving men and sex education, beyond very extreme situations — ones where the men believed they’d been possessed by evil spirits, in which case, the imams recommend long periods of praying and fasting, or sometimes ruqyah, an Islamic exorcism ritual.

“Things like sexual etiquette aren’t taught in Islamic schools, because there’s an aversion by teachers who believe it’s a parent’s duty to teach their children about sex, but many parents don’t feel confident talking to their sons about sex either,” says London-based imam Muhammad Jafer. “As a result, you have young men who reach their 20s knowing next to nothing about intimacy, or worse, they’ve learned about it by looking at sinful websites or talking to people about sex in haram [forbidden] environments.”

Plus, as Mamood points out, “Most [imams] are older men, who grew up at a time when getting married young was something everyone did, so they don’t understand the world we’re in now. [They] don’t understand how much our society is sexualized now. To say that we should abstain from pornography is impossible.”

“The problem begins when you say abstinence is the only option,” adds Imtiaz Ayub, a social worker based in Derby, a small city in the north of England. Ayub isn’t an imam, but much of his work involves working with Muslim teenagers, including getting them to open up about sex. “There’s a wider problem here — one where in Muslim communities this idea of a very macho masculinity is imposed,” he explains. “More and more young Muslim men are obsessed with how they look, how muscular they are, as a way to prove they’re manly. But at the same time, they’re not encouraged to talk about their own sexuality. That can be very confusing for [them].”

In Ayub’s opinion, communities that have told young men to disregard their sexuality are “basically waiting for a volcano to erupt.”

“Muslim boys aren’t different to any other type of male — they’re going to be sexually curious when they reach a certain age, and if communities care about them, they need to provide spaces where they can openly talk about sex without the taboos. You can’t expect young Muslim boys to grow up and become men unless they’re able to manage the period when they grow up to become men.”

His attitude is shared by others who are trying to offer better resources for Muslim men to talk about sex. In the U.S., a website called “Purify Your Gaze” provides interactive sessions via Skype — usually involving a mentor — and other specially designed programs, consisting of physical activities and Islamic prayers, to aid men throughout their “healing” processes from porn and masturbation. Others, like U.K. imam Alyas Karmani, take a more modern approach — one that disregards notions of personal sexual gratification as a major sin, earning him the title of the “Muslim Sex Doctor.” Same for Mufti Abu Layth, another British imam who caused controversy when he used his weekly advice session on Facebook Live to say that masturbation wasn’t prohibited in Islam at all. Instead, he believes past Muslim scholars had suggested that masturbation could be used to safely manage one’s sexual desires.

To Ayub, Mufti Abu Layth’s statements were a positive first step. “The Mufti has a big public platform, and it was important for him to say that. Even if there are Muslim men who want to be celibate, who want to abstain until marriage, it’s still important for them to understand that masturbation is a natural human thing.”

A few days ago, I spoke to Mamood again. He was in better spirits. He’d put blocks on the porn sites he’d visited, and following the advice and encouragement of the other members of his anti-masturbation support group on Facebook, he’s trying to combat his sexual urges through studying Islamic books. That said: “I’m fine during the day, when I can control my temptations. It’s moments at night when I’m alone…,” he admits.

He takes a long pause, and then mutters a short prayer in Arabic asking for God’s forgiveness. “Those are the times I’m worried about. It’s at night time, when the devil likes to tempt us, especially on the internet.”

 

 

This “Old Guy With a Sign” Protests Trump Every Single Day

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Gale McCray has never been politically active, but since the election he’s become a fixture at a Fort Worth, Texas, intersection.

Most days, 74-year-old Gale McCray putters around Fort Worth, Texas, doing odd jobs and errands – like delivering cookie bouquets – for extra cash. He also spends his time standing at a busy intersection with a homemade anti-Trump sign that simply says, “Trump, that boy don’t act right.”

For 21 years, McCray worked as a mailman for the United States Post Office. He admits he was just as the stereotype suggests: disgruntled. Unhappy and unfulfilled for the better part of his career, he finally quit and took out his entire retirement fund. After blowing through the money over a period of two years on marijuana and “craziness,” McCray was left with $500 to his name. It was then he realized he had a “problem” and he wanted to address it.

“The best thing about America is that you get multiple chances at life,” McCray chuckles. “So, I took another chance.”

McCray went back to school and got a degree at the age of 43, then worked for ten years as a recreation therapist, working with alcoholics and addicts – something he felt called to do. He would teach leisure education classes for patients in treatment centers, and talk to them about participating in activities and how to be out in the world, such as going to a movie or engaging in swimming exercises. Then he drove a school bus for six years before officially retiring in 2008. Over the past nine years, McCray has become more vocal about his political views though he says they aren’t based on politics, per se, but on common sense, human decency, and kindness.

Gale McCray poses with his sign.

Now, the sign he holds for at least two hours per day in front of passing cars and curious eyes is the result of a tipping point. One that McCray didn’t even know was coming. The downhome, country phrase written in big, black letters on the sign just popped into his head, McCray says. He heard it often while growing up in a working-class household in Oklahoma during the forties and fifties.

“It’s country talk, that’s all it is. The full phrase is, ‘That boy just don’t act right. God bless him,’” McCray explains. “Like, I’m a big baseball fan so I’d say this about a player: ‘That right there is a really good ball player, but the fact is that boy just don’t act right. God bless him.’”

Once he found a piece of cardboard large enough to fit his message, McCray focused on the destination. He says he didn’t put a whole lot of thought into it, but ideally had two specific requirements: within walking distance of his home, and a lot of traffic. So, he chose an intersection that fit the bill, with a four-way stop and an island off to the side for him to stand on.

“A few years ago, I made a different sign,” McCray says. “It said, ‘Help, I watch too much Fox News. Can’t tell truth from lies. Need therapy.’ But I was just being silly. This right here is different.”

When asked why it was different, McCray pauses. He speaks in a heavier and much more somber tone than the lighthearted, jovial one he’s been using.

“After the election I was just amazed, I couldn’t believe [Donald Trump] got elected,” he says. “I remembered seeing a guy with a sign once shortly after Bush took us into Iraq. And he was a Middle Eastern guy. He had such resolve on his face, like he knew he wasn’t going to change anything but that he had to get out there and do something. And that’s kind of how I felt.”

McCray stands with his sign at his preferred intersection in Fort Worth.

McCray maintains that he isn’t political. He isn’t angry and he isn’t trying to make a grandiose statement. He’s just “an old guy with a sign.” But the motivation seems deeper than that. After the recent election, McCray became politically active for the first time. He called Congresswoman Kay Grange, visited her office and spoke with one of her representatives about the travel ban. But it just didn’t feel like enough. Then protests broke out all over the country, including the Dallas Fort Worth Airport. And it affected him deeply.

“I saw mothers and grandparents on the news getting separated from their families and I got kind of emotional thinking about it and thinking about my own family,” he says. “There just wasn’t any compassion as to how it was implemented. So, I don’t know. It was all of that, really. I mean, this isn’t the America that I know.”

While standing alone on the cement-lined, grassy island, McCray has heard it all – boos, car horns, cheers and, of course, his fair share of ‘fuck you.’” According to the New York Times, 51.7 percent of Forth Worth residents voted for Donald Trump, which isn’t an overwhelming number, but enough to garner some unpleasant reactions to his sign.

Some people have called the cops on him, others hold up the peace sign. One person shouted at him to “get a job” while another asked, “Who’s paying you to do that?” An older woman even slowed down traffic just enough to roll down her window and tell McCray with all sincerity, “You’re stupid.”

“What I notice the most is how a lot of the people are just so angry,” he says. “It makes me sad to see them get so angry at me. I don’t feel anger towards them. And they look like they’re going to have a heart attack over this. You can’t take it so seriously. If I took what people said seriously, I wouldn’t be able to do this.”

McCray waves at passersby.

McCray says he often thinks back to that Middle Eastern man that he saw with a sign all those years ago. No one beeped at him. No one slowed down. They just saw him standing there and wondered what he was doing out there with that sign.

“That man had a big effect on me,” McCray says. “I made up my own story about him, about who he was and why he was doing what he was doing, and how he had to get out there and just do something – anything. It has stuck with me. I imagine people are doing the same with me. And maybe it will stick with them.”

McCray has since started taking the sign with him on his travels. He’s recently been to Oklahoma, Florida and South Carolina. A musician he met in Oklahoma even wrote a song based on the sign’s catchphrase. It’s called, you guessed it: “That Boy Don’t Act Right.” And on more than a few occasions, McCray has struck up conversations with people just to hear their thoughts and views no matter who they voted for. He’s not trying to change anyone’s mind, he says, or convert political beliefs. But he hopes that some people will feel motivated to go out and do something – anything – to make them feel as if they are doing their part. Maybe they’ll see the sign and think about voting or taking their own course of action. In the end, that’s really what McCray says he’s trying to do – inspire action.

“I still don’t feel like I’m doing enough,” he says. “Like I said, I’m just an old man with a sign. But at least, for me, it’s something. At least I’m doing something.”

The Day My Therapist Dared Me to Have Sex With Her

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My analyst and I grew more intimately connected each week of treatment...but I never saw this indecent proposal coming.

It’s the waning moments of my fourth session with a new therapist. I’m holding back — and she knows it. My entire body feels tense, not ideal for the setting. I try to relax, but the plush leather couch crumples under me when I shift, making the movements extraordinary. I’ve barely looked into my therapist’s blue eyes at all, and yet I think the hour has gone very well. Of course it has. On the surface, when the patient has been highly selective of the discussion topics, therapy always resembles a friendly get-together.

“Well,” my therapist, Lori, says, the millisecond after I become certain our time is up and I might be in the clear. “I don’t think I should let you go until we’ve at least touched on what was put out there at the end of last week’s session.”

I so supremely wanted this not to come up. My eyelids tighten, my mouth puckers to the left, and my head tilts, as though I’m asking her to clarify.

“When you said you’re attracted to me,” she continues.

“Oh, yeah,” I say. “That.”

Back in session three Lori was trying to build my self-esteem, the lack of which is one of the reasons I’m in treatment. Within the confines of my family, I’ve always been the biggest target of ridicule. We all throw verbal darts around as though we’re engaged in a massive, drunken tournament at a bar, but the most poisonous ones seem to hit me the most often, admittedly somewhat a consequence of my own sensitivity. I’ve been told it was historically all part of an effort to toughen me up, but instead I was filled with towering doubts about my own worth. And since 2012, when I gave up a stable, tenured teaching career for the wildly inconsistent life of a freelance writer, I’ve had great difficulty trusting my own instincts and capabilities. I told Lori that I wish I was better at dealing with life’s daily struggles instead of constantly wondering if I’ll be able to wade through the thick.

She quickly and convincingly pointed out that I work rather hard and am, ultimately, paying my bills on time, that I have friends, an appreciation for arts and culture, and so on. In short, I am, in fact, strong, responsible and “pretty good at life.”

Then Lori heightened the discussion a bit. “I also feel that it is your sensitivity that makes you a great catch out there in the dating world,” she said, to which I involuntarily smiled, blushed and quickly buried my chin in my chest. I was too insecure and too single to handle such a compliment from a beautiful woman.

“Why are you reacting that way?” Lori asked.

I shrugged my shoulders, only half looking up.

“Is it because you’re attracted to me?”

I laughed a little, uncomfortably. “How did you know?”

She gently explained she could tell the day I walked into her office for the first time, after I flashed a bright smile and casually asked where she was from.

Now, a week after dropping that bomb, Lori asks, “So, why haven’t we talked about it?”

“I was hoping to avoid it, I suppose.” I tell her the whole notion of having the hots for a therapist is such a sizable cliché that I was embarrassed to admit it. “For Christ’s sake,” I say, throwing my hands up, “Tony Soprano even fell in love with his therapist.”

Lori snorts, rolls her eyes. “I knew you were going to say that.”

I smile, shake my head and look around the room, denying acceptance of my own ridiculous reality.

“It’s OK,” Lori says, grinning. “We can talk about this in here.”

I look again at her stark blue eyes, prevalent under dark brown bangs, the rest of her hair reaching the top of her chest, which is hugged nicely by a fitted white tee under an open button-down. She jogs often, I’d come to find out, which explains her petite figure and ability to probably pull off just about any outfit of her choosing.

I still can’t speak, so she takes over.

“Do you think you’re the first client that’s been attracted to their therapist?” she asks rhetorically. “I’ve had other clients openly discuss their feelings, even their sexual fantasies involving me.”

“What?” I cackle, beginning to feel as though I’ve moseyed onto the set of a porno.

“It’s true,” she says, acknowledging her desk. “What’s yours? Do you bend me over and take me from behind?”

Nailed it.

“If that’s what you’re thinking, it’s OK,” she goes on, earnestly, explaining that she’s discussed sexual scenarios with her clients before so as to “normalize” the behavior and not have them feel their own thoughts are unnatural. By showing the patient a level of acceptance, she hopes to facilitate a more comfortable atmosphere for “the work” — her painfully accurate pseudonym for psychotherapy.

I take a second to let the red flow out of my face, and ponder what she said. I’m a little unsure about this whole technique, but the more I think about it, the more it makes sense. So I go home, incredibly turned on and completely unashamed.

* * *

One of the great breakthroughs I’ve had in the thirteen months since I began seeing Lori (who agreed to participate in this article, but requested that her full name not be published) is a new ability to accept the existence of dualities in life. For instance, I’ve always had a tremendous sense of pride that, if it doesn’t straddle the line of arrogance, certainly dives into that hemisphere from time to time. I’m great at seeing flaws in others and propping myself up above them by smugly observing my character strengths. I’ve never liked that about myself, but the harder concept to grasp is the fact that I can be so egotistical while also stricken with such vast quantities of insecurity.

In treatment I came to realize that all people have contradictions to their personalities. There’s the insanely smart guy who can’t remotely begin to navigate a common social situation, the charitable girl who devotes all her time to helping strangers, but won’t confront issues in her own personal relationships. In my case, my extreme sensitivity can make me feel fabulous about the aspects of myself that I somehow know are good (my artistic tastes) and cause deep hatred of those traits I happen to loathe (the thirty pounds I could stand to lose).

My next session with Lori is productive. We speak about relationships I’ve formed with friends and lovers, and how my family may have informed those interactions. One constant is that I put crudely high expectations on others, mirroring those thrown upon me as a kid. I’m angered when people don’t meet those expectations, and absolutely devastated when I don’t reach them. Lori points out that it must be “exhausting trying to be so perfect all the time.” I am much more comfortable than I was the week prior, and can feel myself being more candid. I’m relieved that the whole being-attracted-to-my-therapist thing doesn’t come up.

Then, a week later, Lori mentions it, and I become tense again.

“I thought I’d be able to move past it,” I say, adding, “We aired it out, and it’s fine.”

As definitive as I’m trying to sound, Lori is just as defiant.

“I’m glad you feel that way,” she begins, “but I think you owe yourself some kudos. This kind of therapy,” she shares, “isn’t something just anyone can take on.” Such honest discussion doesn’t simply happen, it takes tremendous guts, and Lori can see that I am dealing with it relatively well, so I should praise my own efforts.

“Shit, we both should be proud of ourselves,” she says. “It’s not easy on the therapist either, you know.”

“Why not?”

“Because talking openly about sex is risky at any time, much less with a client.” She explains that therapists are warned any semblance of intimacy can be easily misconstrued. “We learn in our training to not personally disclose, for example,” she says, but adds that, occasionally, transparency can be helpful.

“Still, with you,” she continues, “until I raised the question, I didn’t know for sure that you would go with it; for all I knew you’d run out of here and never come back to risk being so uncomfortable again.”

She’s building my confidence more, and I’m learning that I play a much bigger role in how my life is conducted than I often realize. My treatment wouldn’t be happening if I weren’t enabling it.

Then she says, “And don’t think it’s not nice for me to hear that a guy like you thinks I’m beautiful.”

Crippled by the eroticism of the moment, and combined with the prevailing notion that no woman this stunning could ever be romantically interested in me, I flounder through words that resemble, “Wait…what?”

“If we were somehow at a bar together, and you came over and talked to me,” she says, then flips her palms up innocently, “who knows?”

I laugh again and tell her there’d be almost no chance of me approaching her because I’d never feel like I had a shot in hell.

“Well, that’s not the circumstances we’re in,” she says. “But you might. Who knows?”

I’m confused — Is she really attracted to me or is this some psychotherapeutic ruse? I’m frustrated — I told her I didn’t really want to talk about it. Shouldn’t she be more sensitive to my wants here? I’m angry — Is she getting an ego boost out of this? Most of all, I don’t know what the next step is — Am I about to experience the hottest thing that’s ever happened to a straight male since the vagina was invented?

There were two ways to find out:

1) Discontinue the therapy, wait for her outside her office every day, follow her to a hypothetical happy hour and ask her out, or

2) Keep going to therapy.

* * *

A week later, I’m physically in the meeting room with Lori, but mentally I haven’t left the recesses of my mind.

“Where are you today?” she asks, probably noticing my eyes roving around the room.

“I don’t know.”

“Are you still grappling with the sexual tension between us?”

Here we go again.

“Yes,” I say, with a bit of an edge in my voice, “and I don’t know what to do about it.”

Lori, ever intently, peers into my eyes, wrinkles her mouth and slightly shakes her head.

“Do you want to have sex with me?” she asks.

We both know the answer to that question. All I can do is stare back.

“Let’s have sex,” she announces. “Right here, right now.”

“What?” I respond, flustered.

“Let’s go!” she says a little louder, opening up her arms and looking around as if to say the office is now our playground, and, oh, the rollicking fun we’d have mixing bodily fluids.

“No,” I tell her, “You don’t mean that.”

“What if I do?” she shoots back. “Would you have sex with me, now, in this office?”

“Of course not.”

“Why ‘of course not’? How do I know for sure that you won’t take me if I offer myself to you?”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“That’s what I thought,” she says, and tension in the room decomposes. “Mike, I don’t feel that you would do something that you think is truly not in our best interest, which is exactly why I just gave you the choice.”

Her offer was a lesson in empowerment, helping me prove that I have an innate ability to make the right choices, even if I’d so desperately prefer to make the wrong one.

I see what she means. I’m awfully proud of myself, and it’s OK to be in this instance. I’m gaining trust in myself, and confidence to boot. But, as the dualities of life dictate, I’m successfully doing “the work” with a daring therapist, while at the same time not entirely convinced she isn’t in need of an ethical scrubbing.

* * *

I don’t have another session with Lori for nearly three months, because she took a personal leave from her place of employment. When our sessions finally resumed, I could not wait to tell her about my budding relationship with Shauna.

Ten minutes into my first date with Shauna — right about the time she got up from her bar stool and said she was “going to the can” — I knew she would, at the very least, be someone I was going to invest significant time in. She was as easy to talk to as any girl I’d ever been with, and I found myself at ease. Plans happened magically without anxiety-inducing, twenty-four-hour waits between texts. Her quick wit kept me entertained, and I could tell by the way she so seriously spoke about dancing, her chosen profession, that she is passionate about the art form and mighty talented too. Shauna is beautiful, with flawless hazel eyes and straight dark hair, spunky bangs and a bob that matches her always-upbeat character. She is a snazzy dresser and enjoys a glass of whiskey with a side of fried pickles and good conversation as much as I do.

Things escalated quickly, but very comfortably, and since we’d both been in our fair share of relationships, we knew the true power of honesty and openness. So upon the precipice of my return to therapy I told Shauna about Lori, and admitted to having mixed feelings about what I was getting back into. I told her I was at least moderately uncertain if my mental health was Lori’s number-one concern since she always seemed to find the time to mention my attraction to her.

The first two sessions of my therapeutic reboot had gone great. Lori appeared genuinely thrilled that I was dating Shauna and could see how happy I was. I wasn’t overwhelmed with sexual tension in the new meeting room, though it wasn’t actually spoken about, and in the back of my mind I knew it was just a matter of time before it would start to affect my ability to disclose my thoughts to Lori again.

Then, while attempting to ingratiate myself with my new girlfriend’s cat by spooning food onto his tiny dish on the kitchen floor, I hear my phone ding from inside the living room.

“You got a text, babe,” Shauna says. “It’s from Lori.”

“‘I’m so impressed with you and the work you’re doing…’” Shauna reads off my phone from inside the living room, inquisitively, and not happily. I stuff the cat food back into the Tupperware and toss it into the refrigerator. I make my way into the living room, angry at myself for not changing the settings on my new iPhone to disallow text previews on the locked screen. Shauna’s walking too, and we meet near the kitchen door. “What’s this?” she says, holding up the phone. “Your therapist texts you?”

I take the phone from Shauna and say the most obvious, cliché-sounding thing: “It’s not what it seems.”

As I text back a curt “thanks,” Shauna tells me she’s going to ask her sister, a therapist herself, if it’s OK to text patients.

“Don’t do that.” I say, a little more emphatically. “I promise, this is nothing to be worried about. We’re not doing anything wrong.” I explain that Lori’s just trying to build my self-esteem.

“The only reason I’m even bringing this up is because you said you weren’t sure about her in the first place,” Shauna reminds me. I can tell she regrets looking at my phone without my permission, but I completely understand her feelings.

At my next session I tell Lori that Shauna saw her text and wasn’t thrilled about it.

“She probably feels cheated on to some degree,” Lori says. “A relationship between a therapist and a patient can oftentimes seem much more intimate than the one between a romantic couple.”

Lori goes on to point out that the reason she feels we can exchange texts, blurring the lines between patient/doctor boundaries — a hot topic in the psychotherapy world these days — is because she trusts that I’ll respect her space and privacy. “You’ve proven that much to me,” she says.

On my walk home, instead of being angry at Lori, I understand her thinking behind the text. But I’m also nervous about how Lori and Shauna can ever coexist in my life.

Isn’t therapy supposed to ameliorate my anxiety?

* * *

A week later, Lori begins our session by handing me a printout explaining the psychotherapeutic term “erotic transference” written by Raymond Lloyd Richmond, PhD. It says that erotic transference is the patient’s sense that love is being exchanged between him or herself and the therapist — the exact sensation I was experiencing with Lori, of which she was astutely aware.

According to Richmond, one of the primary reasons people seek therapy is because “something was lacking in their childhood family life,” perhaps “unconditional nurturing guidance and protection.” Upon feeling “noticed” and “understood” by a qualified therapist, sometimes a patient can be “intoxicated” by their therapist’s approval of them. A patient may in turn contemplate that a love is blossoming between them, and, in fact, it sort of is.

From an ethical standpoint, Richmond argues all therapists are “bound” to love their patients, for therapists are committed to willing “the good of all clients by ensuring that all actions within psychotherapy serve the client’s need to overcome the symptoms” which brought them into treatment. This takes genuine care and acceptance on their part. However, a patient can easily confuse the love they feel with simple “desire.” They’re not quite in love with their therapist, so much as they yearn for acceptance from someone, and in those sessions they just happen to be receiving it from their doctor.

Lori tells me that, all along, she has been “working with what I gave her” and that because I flirted with her a bit, she used that to her advantage in the treatment. In employing countertransference — indicating that she had feelings for me — she was keeping me from feeling rejected and despising my own thoughts and urges.

“There’s two people alone in a room together, and if they’re two attractive people, why wouldn’t they be attracted to each other?” says Dr. Galit Atlas. A psychoanalyst who’s had her own private practice for fifteen years, Dr. Atlas has an upcoming book titled The Enigma of Desire: Sex, Longing and Belonging in Psychoanalysis, and I sought her as an independent source for this essay to help me understand Lori’s therapeutic strategies.

Dr. Atlas explains that there are certain boundaries that cannot be crossed between therapist and patient under any circumstances — like having sex with them, obviously. But many other relationship borders can be mapped out depending on the comfort level of the therapist, as long as they stay within the scope of the profession’s ethics, which complicates the discussion surrounding erotic transference.

“As a therapist, I have a role,” Dr. Atlas says. “My role is to protect you.” She says it is incumbent on the therapist to not exploit the patient for the therapist’s own good, but admits that the presence of erotic transference in therapy brings about many challenges. “[Attraction] is part of the human condition,” she observes. In therapy, “the question then is: What do you do with that? Do you deny it? Do you talk about it? How do you talk about it without seducing the patient and with keeping your professional ability to think and to reflect?”

I ask her about the benefits of exploring intimacy in therapy, and Dr. Atlas quickly points out that emotional intimacy — though not necessarily that of the sexual brand — is almost inevitable and required. “An intimate relationship with a therapist can [be] a reparative experience — repairing childhood wounds — but mostly it’s about helping the patient to experience and tolerate emotional intimacy, analyzing the client’s anxieties about being vulnerable and every mechanism one uses in order to avoid being exposed.”

Dr. Atlas says this topic speaks to every facet of the therapeutic relationship, regardless of gender or even sexual orientation, because intimacy reveals emotional baggage that both the patient and therapist carry with them into the session. But this isn’t a symmetrical relationship, and the therapist is the one who holds the responsibility.

“Freud said that a healthy person should be able to work and to love,” she says. “In some ways therapy practices both, and in order to change the patient will have to be known by the therapist. That is intimacy. In order to be able to be vulnerable, both parties have to feel safe.”

After I briefly explain all that has gone on between me and Lori, Dr. Atlas steadfastly says she does not want to judge too harshly why and how everything came to pass in my therapy. “I don’t know your therapist, and I don’t know your history,” she says. But she offers that I should “explore the possibility” that I might have created and admitted my sexual adoration of Lori because one of my fears is to be ignored, not noticed.

Then I offer: “Maybe this essay is being written for the same reason.”

“Exactly.”

Maybe I wanted to interview Lori about erotic transference in my therapy sessions for that same reason as well…to stand out as the most amazingly understanding patient ever.

* * *

“I want to be very clear that this was never about feeding my own ego,” Lori says about her approach to my treatment. “We were always doing this in your best interest.”

I’m in Lori’s office, a tape recorder rolling and a pad and pen in my hands.

“I felt I was doing a disservice to you if I didn’t ‘out’ what I felt was weighing on us, which, honestly, felt like a heavy secret,” she says, pointing out that she discussed my therapeutic process for many hours in her required supervision meetings.

In order for Lori to advance in her field as a social worker, she has to attend 3,000 conference hours with another professional to go over casework — kind of like therapy quality control.

We talk about all of this during one of my scheduled sessions, for the entire hour — and go over by a few minutes, too.

Lori says that when she began her career as a social worker, she decided she wasn’t going to shy away from any subjects. “It’s typical for a client to [have] a habitual desire to sweep things under the rug,” she observes, especially about taboo topics. It can become a cycle of behavior that Lori seeks to break.

I refer back to the time when, unprovoked, she brought up my attraction to her.

She says she mentioned it to avoid what therapists call “door-knobbing,” which is when a patient will purposely mention some huge reveal right at the end of a session so as to sidestep a lengthy conversation about it.

“My only question for you is, was I wrong for bringing it up?” she asks. “Only you can answer that.”

Lori’s great at forcing me to reflect.

“I guess when I said I was over it and could move on, that was an example of my strict black-and-white thinking,” I say, throwing back some language she’s used often to describe my challenge in accepting dualities. In my mind, I was either attracted to her and shouldn’t see her anymore, or I wasn’t attracted to her and could still have her be my therapist. There was no in between.

I realize now that she wasn’t wrong for mentioning my feelings for her, even when I didn’t want her to. Lori noticed that I was frustrated with myself and wanted me to know that an attraction to a therapist is so normal and happens so frequently that there are technical terms for it.

I turn my attention towards the presence of countertransference in our session. I’m trying to come up with an actual question here, but, really, I just want her to confirm her feelings for me are real. So I say, referring to her feelings, with a great degree of difficulty, “It’s funny that they seem genuine to this day.”

“They are genuine,” Lori says, adding a moment later: “I think it might be a good idea if we explore why our discussing it suggests a lack of authenticity.”

“It doesn’t, necessarily,” I begin, then stammer through a few sentences, worried I might offend her by implying she’s been dishonest. I finally settle on, “I guess it comes back to my self-esteem issues. Why would a beautiful woman think I’m attractive?”

Lying in bed with Shauna a few months into our relationship, I ask her what she thought about me the moment she first saw me. I’m fishing for a compliment. But we met on Tinder and I just hope that seeing me in person wasn’t some kind of letdown for her after swiping right on my hand-picked glamour shots. Obviously she isn’t going to say something so awful after having committed to me for so long. It’s a slam-dunk ego boost.

She says she liked the fact that I was wearing a blazer and a tie on a first date. She adds that I was a little shorter than she anticipated, but was content with the two of us at least being the same exact height.

“What did you think when you first saw me?” she asks, turning it around, naturally.

Staying committed to my honesty-at-all-costs policy, I say, “I thought you were really beautiful, but not to the point where I was intimidated by you, which was very important because if I was, you would have gotten a very unconfident version of me, and we probably wouldn’t have hit it off as well as we did.”

Shauna thinks about that for a second, and eventually nods “OK.”

I explain that my insecurity could often get the better of me in dating situations. It was easy to convince myself that I’d be rejected by the girl I was with, especially if I thought she was out of my league. I would then slip into a nervous and reserved state that isn’t at all reflective of my true self.

I’m essentially saying that I was so thrilled to not find Shauna so extraordinarily pretty that I couldn’t accept her being on a date with me. That thought made so much sense at the time I said it, but I’ve since come to realize it is as ridiculous as it is insulting. After ten months of being with Shauna, I’m still completely floored by her, on every level, including a physical one. It gives me great pride to walk into a room with her, and I don’t imagine that changing. Therefore, she actually did meet a confident “version of me.” The way people look doesn’t drastically change in ten months but a person’s perception of self can. It seems my emotional workouts in erotic transference were just beginning to produce results.

* * *

“People fuck up,” Lori informs me during one winter session. “Therapists have slept with clients before, just like politicians have had sex with their interns. But, so you have a full understanding of how this works, we can date.” She explains the parameters as outlined in the social worker’s code of ethics. One of the many stipulations is that we wouldn’t be able to see each other, under any circumstances, for at least two years before dating. She tells me she loves her job, and there’s no way she would ever sacrifice my safety or her career for anything, so she would strictly follow all the dictated rules. “If you truly want to date me, there is the option. But it’s ultimately up to you.”

I know what she’s doing here — putting the onus on me, just like last year when she said we could have sex. The difference this time is the answer I want to give is on par with all of my involuntary urges.

“I don’t want to stop the work we’re doing,” I say. “At this point, it’s far too valuable to me, and, really, I know very little about you.” She’s beautiful, exercises, is smart, funny, professional, enjoys good TV…and that’s about it. Aside from whether or not we’d even both be single in two years, and if we’d be in the correct mind frame to explore a relationship, there are several other things I’m considering here: Would Lori and I really be compatible in every way? Would she ever see me as a lover, a partner, an equal, and not a patient? Could I ever reveal a detail about myself, or even just a shitty day of work, without wondering if she was picking it apart and analyzing it?

Frankly, all those questions could be answered in the positive. But, even if I wasn’t in a happy relationship — Shauna makes this choice much easier, for sure — I wouldn’t go that route. I’d be out a therapist.

* * *

It’s a beautiful spring night in New York and only sidewalk seating will do. Shauna and I are out to dinner at a restaurant near her Queens apartment, and we’re both in good spirits. The weather and the alcohol consumption are partly to blame for that, but, on cue with the season’s change, I feel I’ve turned an emotional corner. Work payments that were past due are finally finding their way into my bank account. As it turns out, my short-term money troubles were not an indication that I had no business being a writer, or that my life changeup was as irresponsible as unprotected sex at fourteen years old.

I’d told Lori as much that afternoon. I took a mental step back from my current situation and realized that in spite of my recent hardships, I was succeeding. I summarize my session for Shauna, who nods in agreement, lovingly pointing out that she’s had the same challenging freelancer experiences as a dancer.

“You’re doing great, babe,” she says matter-of-factly.

“Thank you. That means a lot,” I respond. “I guess if I’m going to be a writer I just have to accept all this and have faith in myself. The way Lori put it was, ‘You just have to go all-in.’”

“Good,” Shauna says. “You should listen to the women in your life.”

* * *

Liked this story? Our editors did too, voting it one of our 20 best untold tales!

See the complete list of Editors’ Picks here. 

* *

Michael Stahl is a freelance writer, journalist and editor living in Astoria, New York. He serves as a Narratively features editor as well. Follow him on Twitter @MichaelRStahl.

Casey Roonan is a cartoonist and cat person from Connecticut. Follow Casey on Instagram: @caseyroonan

 

 

A Super Strange True Love Story: My Disappearing Fiancé

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After years of avoiding love, I found a match that seemed almost too perfect. We were practically walking down the aisle before I realized it really was too good to be true.

“So let me get this right. You’re Italian but you’re a resident of India.”

“Yes.”

“And your fiancé is Canadian. Resident of Canada.”

“Yes, but he lives in India.”

“And you’re having a Catholic wedding.”

“Yes.”

“In Italy.”

“Yes. But he’s Jewish.”

“That doesn’t matter to us. It’s a parish matter, they take care of the paperwork. Did you discuss it with your Italian priest?”

“My parish is in Delhi because I am a resident here. Anyway yes, we have permission to have the ceremony in Italy. We still need the bishop’s permission for the mixed religion marriage, but that should arrive soon.”

“So all we need is a certificate that says your fiancé has never been married before. A nulla osta. And then we can process the documents.”

“See, that’s why I called. Canada doesn’t really have that certificate.”

“Did you check with the Canadian embassy in Rome?”

“Yeah. They say they have nothing to do with this.”

“Mmmh…I actually have no idea then.”

The lady at the Italian embassy in Delhi wasn’t able to help. She’d never seen this before. Our wedding was just like us: Unique, unconventional, and a little all over the place. It looked impossible. Four months from the day and nothing was confirmed.

“It’s not going to work. Nothing’s ready.” I called him in a panic as soon as he woke up, in Canada. In India, it was evening already.

Amore mio, that’s not true,” he replied. “Everything’s set. We’ll get the paperwork done.”

He was right. We had a venue, a fairytale-like villa on the Amalfi Coast. I had a dress — an expensive affair that looked just understated enough: When I tried it on I teared up immediately, surprising my cynical self at the belief that it was “the one.” The invites, designed by a talented friend, were about to be printed. Save the dates were sent — all our favorite people couldn’t wait to be there.

We had even received our certificate from the church after a two-day intensive course instructing us on how to start a good Catholic family. Not that we were going to be a Catholic family, but the course was compulsory to get married in a church —which I wanted, not for religious reasons but because I liked the tradition — and he had accepted to do, to please me. The course was on the outskirts of Delhi, and for two days we stayed in a nunnery with other couples, sleeping on different floors (the men upstairs, the women below) and attending classes on family values and conjugal duties. A foreign couple wasn’t the norm, and we were the center of attention — particularly when questions about sex came up and everyone assumed, despite our amused protesting, that we knew more about it than the teachers.

“So, where does sperm come from? Maybe you know?” I was asked.

“Nope. No idea.” I’d reply as the class burst in laughter. “Maybe he does?”

He looked at me smiling, shaking his head. “Why would I know? I don’t know!”

We were warned that the Holy Spirit was not going to attend the ceremony since we weren’t both Catholic, but then his being Jewish — as opposed to Muslim or Hindu, which was the case for other mixed-religion couples there — gained the staff’s sympathies. He was labeled “almost Christian.” We joked that we didn’t have money to feed the Holy Spirit anyway.

I needed to calm down. It was all working out.

But we did need the papers. And we didn’t know how to get them.

“Maybe it’s a sign? Maybe this wedding thing is a bad idea?” I whined. I was tired, and insufferable.

He laughed. “Aaaamore,” he started, in a sing-songy way. His funny accent on the few Italian words he knew would lighten up the darkest rooms of my soul. “Listen. Getting married is the best idea we’ve ever had and we’re going to do it. It’s all going to work out. I promise.”

* * *

He was so certain about us. He had been unfailingly so since our engagement, which caught me by total surprise. We had been living together for a couple of years in India — where I had followed him looking to start a career, and finally be with the man I loved — when he proposed.

Before moving in together, ours was the erratic, long-distance relationship of two people who never seemed to be in the same place. We met in Italy, fell in love and spent the summer of our lives on intense weeks together and long stretches apart: He worked on a photography project that took him to Alaska, Japan, Congo; I went to Kosovo, volunteering and looking for stories, then moved to Paris to complete a master’s. His work took him there, too, and we spent a couple blissful months together. For the first time since I could remember, I felt beautiful; I was loved and desired. We’d dress up and walk out in the middle of the night to have French onion soup in 24-hour restaurants. We shared a studio that was too small for one, let alone two plus too many cameras.

Before I’d met him I kept joking that “love is overrated.” But it wasn’t; It was perfect. When he had to go back to India, where he’d been living for years before moving to Italy, I worried it’d be the end.

It wasn’t. We spoke whenever we had a free minute. It was never enough. We were so different that our attachment was a mystery to both of us: I loved studying, he had hardly finished high school; I was all about manners and rules, he recognized none; I worried about everything, he never did. At times, our love for each other seemed to be the only thing we had in common.

And it was all we needed.

On spring break I went to see him in India. I landed, terrified and drenched in mosquito repellent, in the fog of Delhi’s February nights. In the arrival hall, he was waiting for me in the neon light, holding a sign, just like the hotel chauffeurs. It read: Amore Mio. My love.

Everything in India frightened me. The smell. The noises. The light, so different from anything I had seen before. Even the peacocks, flying on the rooftop terrace from the park nearby, were wonderful but so foreign. I followed him to Calcutta on assignment. In the teeming backstreets, electrifying and overwhelming, I looked upon poverty and dirt, equally horrified. Once I cried a whole night about not being able to afford anything better than a filthy guesthouse. I returned to Paris relieved.

We managed to meet wherever and whenever possible. In Paris, London, Italy. In New York — where we both thought we’d eventually end up. We spent Christmas together, my family now his. He had been estranged from his parents for many years, and while on my insistence he had resumed contact with them, it didn’t look like there was real hope of saving their relationship. They had been demanding and cruel to him in his teens, kicking him out of home before the end of high school, and still refused to acknowledge it, let alone apologize for it. As someone who counted on her family for anything, it was impossible to even imagine how hard that must have been, so it filled my heart with joy hearing him call my mother “mamma.”

A year after my first visit, I moved to Delhi. I planned to stay a few months, but I began the adventure of a lifetime.

We got an apartment and decorated it with colorful fabrics. I struggled to keep the dust out of the house, struggled with everything that didn’t work, struggled with the scorching summer heat, struggled to get work. I struggled, struggled, struggled. I packed my bags at least twice, shouting at him that I was going back home. He’d been in India so long he could no longer remember the hardship of the beginning, and he was traveling so much for work that I was often on my own. I got mad at him — now that we could be together he was off to Africa or China or wherever, prey to a wanderlust I failed to understand.

All I wanted was for him to be around for me, because when he was, things were pretty wonderful. We had so much hunger for time together that nothing seemed trivial: We’d explore the city on his motorcycle, go on holidays to remote places, turn any and every bit of daily life into an adventure.

But a couple of weeks here and there were not enough. I felt like all I did was wait for him. Finally, shortly after he came back from a long trip to visit a dear, sick uncle, I broke down. I felt horrible — this trip was not for fun, how could I get mad about it? — but I just couldn’t help it. I told him we’d better split up, that he had no space for me in his life. I screamed, he screamed more, the neighbors came to check if I was O.K. In a country where women are common victims of domestic abuse, it was hard to believe that it was me who always raised her voice first. We resolved that we should part.

* * *

I was on my way to work, late and unspeakably sad, when I realized I did not want to leave him. I wanted to stay. I loved him, and our life.

I went back to our apartment. He was sitting on the couch, exhausted as I was from so much fighting. I hugged him, sat on his lap.

“I’m sorry. This was terrible,” I apologized. “I don’t want to go away. Never.”

“I don’t want you to go away either. I want to be with you forever.”

“Yes. Forever,” I said, and I meant it. Yet I was shocked when I saw in his eyes the resolution of a question I didn’t know he had in him, and I wasn’t ever expecting him to ask.

“Then… Will you… will you marry me?”

“What… You don’t… You don’t have to — I’m not going anywhere. You need to think this through.”

“But I have! I have. Look—” he reached for his backpack, me still sitting on his lap, and took out a small box. “I even have a ring! I’ve been waiting for the right moment.”

“Well this is pretty right,” I joked. “So how did he propose? Well, we had a massive fight and nearly broke up, but got engaged instead.”

“So. Will you marry me, amore mio?” He was serious.

He was ready.

It was a gorgeous ring, an Art Deco family heirloom — Canadian, as guilt-free as diamonds can come — and hard not to notice. People did notice: the excitement about our engagement was so genuine and overwhelming, everyone pointing to what a romantic story we had.

It was, indeed, the most romantic story I had ever heard.

* * *

It was all unbelievably sweet, yet I couldn’t shake the looming sensation that something was going to go wrong. It came out in my dreams. The fear of losing everything would turn into nightmares, and cropped up at every big step we took.

I loved him, and the unexpected certainty that he, too, truly loved me gave me a happiness so enormous it frightened me. My father had died too early for me to believe happy endings were possible, let alone feeling that I was destined for one.

I looked everywhere for signs of an impending disappointment. We had to leave our apartment, and our landlady insisted we owed her several months of rent. He was in charge of making the deposit but couldn’t find the receipts to show we had paid — that was enough to infuriate me. He was irresponsible, I said – how could he be ready to be a husband? We should call the whole thing off.

We looked for a new place, and I cried like a spoiled child when faced with the reality that his priorities were different from mine — he wanted to save money on rent, and on everything really, to be able to invest in his work. I saw myself as shallow and materialistic for wanting a place that was nice and comfortable. Again told him, “See? This is why we should not do it.”

I would cast doubts over us and our future, which I so wanted and so feared.

But for all my questions, he had answers. “It’s us, amore,” he’d tell me, his voice always so calm and kind. “I’m not letting you get out of this.” His certainty seemed to grow as mine withered, and the way he dealt with my actions, minimizing my fears, showed me time and again the depth of his love.

We finally found a place that worked and bought new furniture. We didn’t have much money — I worked as the editor of a small online publication and had been supporting both of us on my Indian salary while his work was slow. He had a few personal projects to pursue, and I was determined to help him see them through. His assignments had always been sporadic, but a day of his work often paid ten of mine, and something always came through when our funds were nearly gone.

But this time seemed different — I was worried we wouldn’t be able to afford the fairytale wedding that I, who had never actually thought I’d get married, discovered I wanted. My mother was covering most of the costs, but I insisted we at least pay for a few things: The flowers, the invites, the favors. As the weeks, then the months, went by, I grew worried we wouldn’t have enough.

One thought, in particular, made me panic. If he didn’t get any work soon, I’d even have to pay for his suit and his ticket to Italy for the wedding. I’d have to pay for my own bouquet. Something about the image of me buying myself my own wedding flowers was unbearable to me: Was this the life I was signing up for? What if he never actually had a breakthrough? I looked up what would happen if we divorced, if I had to pay him alimony.

I was disgusted by my own thoughts.

I hesitantly suggested he look for assignments from publications less prestigious than the ones he usually worked for. He was hurt, and saw that as a lack of belief in him, pointing out that he could have gotten work in Africa had he been free to move there, but I didn’t want to leave my job to follow him around — that had its costs.

But my faith in his talent was blind — it was destiny I didn’t trust.

* * *

We were over the rough patches, though, when the issue with the papers came up. It appeared we were in a bureaucratic loophole and none of the puzzled officials I contacted were able to figure our situation out.

“That’s why we’re so special,” he said. It was a fact.

He had gone to Canada to renew his visa — his trip home drained my account, but some work had finally come through for him and he was going to be paid soon. We were back on our early-days routine of long-distance phone calls. For the first time in our many goodbyes, I hadn’t cried when he left. As he told me that he’d be right back, his happiness was so visible it gave me goose bumps, and a newfound feeling of safety.

But then, when I tried to reach him the day he was meant to go see about our documents, I couldn’t get through to him. He would not pick up his phone. He was not online — which he almost obsessively always was. I emailed him. No reply.

Something was wrong.

Whether it was some sort of sixth sense or just my constant fear of the worst, I started to worry. I called the friend he usually stayed with, trying not to sound paranoid; after all, it had only been a few hours since I had heard from him. He was not home. As the night became morning in India, a day was passing in Canada. I called, and called, and laid awake waiting. Sleeping was out of the question.

Finally, I got a two-line email. He said he loved me. And that he needed space.

I was paralyzed.

The following days were a game of waiting. I checked my phone and my email compulsively. I stared at the screen to see if he was logging onto Skype. No sign of him. I told myself I should not try to contact him, that he needed to be left alone, though I did write to him that we could postpone the wedding if he wanted to, and that whatever problem there was we were going to work it through. I knew we could.

I blamed myself for having so many doubts. Had I ruined everything? I kept going to work to be around people, but I was numb.

As the date of his return trip approached, I tried to be calm and focus on the fact that I was about to see him again. We had never been out of contact this long, and I missed him terribly. I tried to be patient, but when I saw his name go online on Skype in the middle of another sleepless night, I couldn’t resist.

Amore mio,” I typed. “I am so happy you are coming back next week. We’ll make things right, I promise.”

“Yes,” he replied. “We have a lot of work to do but we can make things right. Things will be right.”

But he was not coming back. Not yet anyway. His birthday was coming up, and he didn’t want to spend it with me.

“I don’t want to resent you,” he typed.

He wasn’t going to discuss it further, but I convinced him that he owed me an explanation. He promised to get back online soon, and he did.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, sweetly, when I answered the video call. “I missed you.”

He looked beautiful, too, in his light blue collared shirt, rolled-up sleeves and messy hair.

He started explaining what was going through his head: He needed to be free to travel and work, and I wanted security — we were just too different, there’s no way it was going to work.

As he was speaking, gently, his words started losing meaning to me — it all became white noise, and I interrupted him.

“Oh my god,” I said. “You cheated on me.”

Something in his gaze hardened. “Yes,” he replied.

“No, not again,” I begged. I knew it was true, again.

I hadn’t thought about it for years — the memory of betrayal buried deep under the illusion of the most wonderful story that had ever happened to me. I had found out about his infidelities before I moved to India, when we lived apart. Infidelities and lies: a girlfriend hidden from me when we first got together, who he moved back in with after he left Paris; an older woman he had even thought he was in love with; adventures around the world as he traveled for work.

But we had worked through it all. He had begged me to stay with him when I found out, told me I was the love of his life and the last chance he had of having a happy life, of changing. He had blamed distance and so had I, and it had worked for years — so well, too well. I had worked so hard to get past his infidelities that I had actually forgotten about them — the truth, of the past and the present, felt heavy on my burning sternum.

“Yes, again,” he said, suddenly cold. There was something in him, something in his voice I could not recognize. He was a stranger.

“But this time it’s different,” he continued. “I found her.”

I swear I heard my heart break.

He told me he’d just met her. A few days had been enough to know. He had given up thinking he could find the one. But there she was. They were going to travel together, see the world and be nomads, as he wanted. And she wanted. And I never did.

“I bet she dresses terribly,” I said, heart yolk leaking from my smashed chest, making an ugly mess already.

I became a monster; I could barely speak, filled with anger as I told him, shocking myself with the violence of my own words, hissing at him, shaking, that it was not true that he felt sorry — that he felt good and not sorry, that while fucking this woman he didn’t know, in and out and in and out of her, he did not think of me.

“You want to make me feel guilty because I am in love.”

He was moving in with her.

“Are you going to marry her?” I was crazy. It was crazy.

“We’re not planning to get married at the moment.” He was crazy, too.

The conversation lasted through the night, through bouts of anger, tears, words of love. At the end, I asked him if this was the first time that he’d be unfaithful since we’d been living together.

“No.”

“Is it because I was not enough?” Isn’t that what every rejected lover dreads?

“Yeah. I was always looking for something better.”

“Something or someone?” I couldn’t stop digging.

“Something, someone, I didn’t know. I thought it was as good as it got, with you. Now I know it wasn’t true.”

“What do you mean?”

“I am not in love with you. I don’t think I ever was.”

Outside, it was dawn. The sounds of India waking up were a loud sign the conversation had to end. We — “us” — had to end.

“I will miss you so much,” I muttered before I hung up. I wanted him desperately. But he was unrecognizable, someone else. Happiness and love were a dark force in his gaze. They were pulling him away from me, taking him some place frightening and far, a place my arms couldn’t stretch to.

I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t feel anything other than terror. Who was he?

* * *

When I landed in Milan I was a ghost. I hadn’t eaten in days; I had no feelings other than sorrow. My sister picked me up from the airport, and as she hugged me, without saying a word, I cried. I cried when I saw my mother. My grandma was visiting — usually the simple sight of her would be enough to put me in a good mood, but I just kept crying, incapable of anything else.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” It was all I could say, whisper really. I was sorry I had trusted him, that I had followed him, that I had brought him home. I was sorry I was so embarrassingly heartbroken. I was sorry I messed up, sorry I failed, sorry about the embarrassment of a wedding to cancel. That he had not only lied to me, but to my family, caused me unbearable pain. I blamed it on myself — all of it.

I was infinitely sorry. And so sore.

I walked straight into my mother’s bed and laid there crying for days, getting up only to check my emails for signs of him, and sit at the table for lunch and dinner, unable to touch my food.

As I stared into my plate, the Italian mothers of my life — my own, and my mother’s — discussed me, and him, as if I weren’t there.

“She isn’t eating.”
“I can see that.”
“What are we going to do about this one?”
“I don’t know, I can’t force her.”
“Look at that. Not one bite.”
“I know, Ma. She doesn’t feel like it.”

My belligerent grandma had been through a lot — her father dying as a kid, the war as a teenager, her husband leaving her a widow in her early thirties, an earthquake destroying her home and her town in her late forties — far too much to concede to a romantic heartbreak.

“That guy had always been a bit strange,” she offered. “Remember how he stopped eating meat?” She had always treated his vegetarianism as an exotic disease.

When I finally had the strength to leave my bed, I started trying to put together the pieces. I was obsessed with understanding, and the more I obsessed, the more it all seemed terrifying.

I went back to Delhi, leaving behind a family worried sick about me, determined to save the salvageable: A job I loved in a country that was going to save my life.

My pain was enormous, kept alive and stinging by a succession of small new wounds.

I had to cancel the wedding, let all the guests know on my own, as he was far too busy with his new life to even tell his own family — who called me seeking explanations, unable to track him down.

* * *

In all of this, and despite my rational self, I still madly loved him. I hoped he would come back. Once I woke up convinced I heard him ring the bell in the middle of the night. It was a dream.

A recovering patient, I put one day in front of the other, waiting for my love to go away. Like a famous Italian poem says, it was like quitting a vice. Come smettere un vizio. It was a daily exercise in abstinence — from calling him, wanting him, loving him.

Before I knew it, it had been a month since I had last seen his face, on a computer screen. Then two, then a whole summer.

On August 26, when our wedding was meant to be, the sun was shining over the Amalfi Coast, but I spent the day in rainy Kathmandu, Nepal, on my own, hanging out with the monkeys at Pashupatinath Temple — the Temple of Shiva.

I was glad there was a god I could thank for destruction.

For a long time afterward, I was obsessed with this story. Obsessed with his lies. I uncovered countless more: about his family, his past, our relationship. The more I found out, the more the hurt gave way to relief.

I wrote to the woman he had left for me way back when — to let her know it didn’t work out with us. Somehow, I felt it was right for her to know, that I would have wanted to know, if I were her. She was understanding, forgiving, and helpful — knowing far too well what I was going through, she repeated to me countless times I had not lost someone worth keeping.

Years later, that’s what I told his wife, when it was she who wrote to me.

Read the Sequel: A Second Super Strange Love Story: I Was the Other Woman

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Annalisa Merelli is an Italian writer living in New York. She is a reporter with Quartz and tweets at @missanabeem.

Ayun Halliday is the Chief Primatologist of the award-winning East Village Inky and author of seven books, including “Peanut” and “No Touch Monkey! And Other Lessons Learned Too Late.” Follow her @AyunHalliday.