Chris Arnade Photography

The Trap

They call it the trap.

“It’s a place to do drugs. Once you up here you’re trapped. You only coming out in a body bag or a police van.”

Takeesha calls it the dungeon. “Cause that’s what it is. On warm days it’s hotter than a devil’s toenail. On cold days it’s colder than a witch’s tit.”

Four people have beds here. Many more come and go. Up to ten at a time, sleeping on couches, other people’s beds, or floors.

Johns creep in. One is slumped against the wall, a finished bottle of brandy clutched in his hand. Another wanders out of a room. Michael yells at him, “Get back in there. You ain’t allowed to explore.”

Sue came three days ago. She had no money. She crashed in Pepsi’s room for two days. When she awoke, ‘sicker than my dead grandmother,’ she tried to go outside to earn money. Michael and Pepsi stopped her, “You ain’t right. Lay down. Take a few free hits. Get better. It’s hot (police) out there. You still got a fever.”

Pat is curled up near the TV. She has been sleeping for longer than Sue. Her body broke out in sores a few days ago. She couldn’t earn and sickness overwhelmed her. She collapsed in the corner and has been sleeping since.

Pepsi cooked silver pancakes nude while taking swigs from a Pepsi bottle

Carmela rests in the hallway after a long day walking Tiffany Street. A sliver of light, power stolen from another building, slants on her.

Takeesha smokes, alternating between crack and menthols. She holds a paper from an upstate rehab center that promises to pick her up Tuesday, “I am sick of this dungeon.”

One cat remains. It jumps off the windowsill to the awning of the store below. It looks back before escaping to the sidewalk.

Hookers and dope fiends are real people

“Hooker and dope fiend pix make for great cocktail party chatter. In the Bronx, it’s offensive.”

“If your intent is to give voice to the – ahem – “voiceless” I suggest the “voiceless” walk away. Fast.” – David Gonzalez via Twitter on April 11^th 2012.

 

I first discovered David Gonzalez when he let loose a series of tweets referencing a blog post Cassie Rodenberg had written for Scientific American on spending a few nights with me in Hunts Point.

The tweets were not nice.

I wrote to him a few times trying to get a chance to discuss his concerns.  He was after all a correspondent for the New York Times and has been the Bronx borough chief. He also grew up in Hunts Point before attending private schools.

He wrote back in terse language about being too busy and dealing with an impending medical condition.

I wrote back a few weeks later seeing if maybe his schedule and situation had changed. I mentioned I was frustrated that a journalist would put out public criticisms and then not address them. I really wanted to know what was the source of the anger and if I could address it in my project.

He declined again, noting time and serious medical issues, eventually ending with, “I will not discuss this further.”

Last Sunday he wrote a short column about a bakery in Hunts Point and the women who worked inside. He tweeted a link to the story, “Sugary, but real” with the following headline: “The real working women of #HuntsPoint.” 

Inside the article he included the oddly placed sentence, “Granted, some photographers walk the same streets and persist in portraying areas like Hunts Point as grim landscapes of addicts and prostitutes.”

Perhaps I am a bit arrogant but it does seem a reference to my work and others like me. You know, the ones who try to treat addicts and prostitutes like “real people.”

It all is a bit petty I realize. Move on. Ignore this stuff. I agree at one level.

Here is what bothers me though. Implicit in the criticism is that addicts and prostitutes are not “real people” worthy of being seen, of being heard, and something Hunts Point and Bronx should be embarrassed of.

That cuts to the very reason I am doing my project. I am trying, in a very small way, to change the narrative about addiction and prostitution. I may not be succeeding. I may be unintentionally letting my views swamp the project. That is criticism I am happy to talk about and happy to listen to.

What is unfortunate to hear, and especially sad because it comes from a senior New York Times correspondent, is that addiction shouldn’t be talked about by outsiders.

I am curious to hear from David Gonzalez. He has far more experience with the Bronx and addiction than I do. I suspect that he would say, “Let them tell their own stories. Get out of the way. Empower them.”

That is a good idea. I hope to be able to do that.

Or, “The Bronx is far more than just addicts. It is a wonderful neighborhood filled with one of the most vibrant cultures in all of NYC.”

Well I completely agree. That however does not mean one should paper over the huge problems of addiction or treat addicts as anything to be embarrassed of.

Still I am not certain that is what he would say. He won’t talk to me. He will just toss little grenades that are intended to hit me but instead hit the addicts.

 

Three Princesses

The central table held a crack pipe, scissors for cutting the Brillo, the guts of a pen for jamming it in, various cell phones, cigarettes, and old drinks.

Takeesha, Maria, and Pat clustered around a child’s table. All were lost to heroin. 

Takeesha was on all fours, her face jammed to the floor. She would raise to kneeling to pull in a hit of crack.

Pat was asleep. Her arms, covered in sores, nestled under her chin. One hand clutched a pack of Newports.

Maria was lolling. She caught herself before she fell to the floor.

One of the phones rang. Takeesha grabbed it and made plans. Ten minutes later, three locks undone, two men entered. 

One was tall and thin, the other short and round. A blaxploitation version of Laurel and Hardy.

Takeesha sent them to the back room as she fixed their drugs on the table. She looked at the worn image printed on the table. “Ha. That is us. The three princesses.”

Pepsi and Pork Chops

I have known Pepsi for close to two years during which I have taken and posted many pictures of her. While on a trip upstate with Michael I took one of her smoking crack. A month ago she asked me to remove it. I forgot.

————————————————————————————————————————

The only light comes from a tiny flashlight accidentally left on. Pepsi is slumped over on a bed nodding from the three bags of heroin in her.

I call her but she does not respond. I call again. Nothing. I hold my camera against the doorframe to steady it. A one second shot. The snap of the camera awakens her.

“Stop! Did I give you permission? Who do you think you are? I am so so FUCKING MAD AT YOU! I told you to take that last picture of me off the web. You told me you would and you never did. MY KIDS SAW IT!”

I apologize.

She screams more. “You think you are better than us. Well, you are not!”

Michael comes over, “She is having a really rough time. Everything has been going wrong. Everyone seems to be beating up on her. Give her some time.”

Fifteen minutes later she is in the outside doorway, sobbing and smoking.  “I got three kids. One is nineteen. They won’t see me. They say to me, ‘Mom you do so many drugs. You have to get clean.’ Then they see the picture and say, ‘See mom.’ I tell them I am trying. Trying to get clean. That it is hard. Do you know what it is like to not have children talk to you? It hurts so much?”

She pauses and smokes in silence. “All I want to do is cook pork chops. I used to make that for them.”

She looks at the picture from the bedroom, “I like it. Can we make pork chops?”

Michael goes to the store with her list: Pork Chops, garlic powder, vienna sausages, and a big bottle of Pepsi.

In a kitchen with no light Pepsi cooked a meal of pork chops, rice with sausages, and of course Pepsi.

Working Women

Twenty straight hours of walking the track for the men to see.

Twenty straight hours of dodging the police, jumping in garbage dumpsters if need be. “I stayed in there once for like two hours.”

Twenty hours and seven dates. “I made close to $300. First guy paid mad money, almost $100. Hotel date.”

Two guys wanted to go to the dumpsters. “Since the rains it’s muddy back there. I had to take off my heels and carry them.”

“I passed on like ten cars. If it don’t feel right I don’t do it. I been beat enough already.”

Twenty hours later, a rest.

A rest that includes two hits of crack and a few bags of heroin. “I don’t do drugs while working. If I make a bad decision on the streets it ends in death.”

Together

Both were raped by family members before they were ten.

Both escaped to the Bronx streets: Takeesha at eleven and Carmela at twelve.

Both started prostituting by thirteen. Carmela found men gave her things in exchange for her body. Takeesha’s mother sold her.

Both started injecting heroin into their bodies soon after.

Both have fought with addiction, the police, and men since.  

Both now have a habit that is close to $200 a day: Heroin to kill the sickness and crack to get a “little something.”

Takeesha still believes in love. “I did love Steve. He got an anger problem but I can be a crazy bitch.”

Carmela does not. “Love? There is no love out here. People only want what they can get from you.”

Both are now together.  “We stayed up the first night talking and talking. We both like, “wow this person really understands what I have been through, understands I ain’t just trash.’  We watch each other’s back. Right girl?”

More on addiction here: Faces of Addiction

Farewell Letter to Millie

Millie was buried in a 70’ x 20’ x 6’ trench on Hart Island in late May.

Used since the 1860’s as the city cemetery, the island contains the remains of close to one million people, none with markers or gravestones.

The island, run by the Department of Correction, can be visited on the third Thursday of each month after placing your name on a list.

After a short ferry ride from City Island, visitors are escorted to a small fenced plot with a ceremonial tombstone and three benches.

I visited this morning and brought a note Shelly (Michael) had given me to read on the island.

For you
For you I pray you are finally happy, at peace, and full of joy.
I know you are in a better place then here where we are stuck till our last day. I miss you my friend and love you always. I’m kind of jealous but mad you are gone. You will never be forgotten.
I love you Millie

Shelly

Read more about Millie’s death here: The Death of Yafna Garcia

More about Hart Island here: Hart Island Project

Perspective

The apartment was dark, loud, and filled with smoke. Pots of water boiling on the stove for a bath filled the back with steam.

A few women clustered around a crack pipe. Two men waited outside a bedroom for their turn with a girl inside. Other men lounged on the couch waiting for texts to tell them where to deliver next.

Various makeshift locks held the door to the hallway tight: A screwdriver as a bolt, a triangle of wood as a wedge, and an old dog leash as a chain.

Takeesha and Carmela came out of their room. Carmela was barely dressed with just an old dirty sheet to cover her body. Takeesha was dope sick and crying.

They both eyed me. Takeesha spoke, “You ok, Chris? You looked tired.”

“I am ok, just lots of stuff going on.”

Takeesha came over and hugged me. “Honey you know you can talk to us anytime. We here for you. Don’t be afraid, nothing is really ever that bad.”

More on addiction here: Faces of Addiction

Twenty minutes on a Tuesday afternoon

The police Mobile Command Center returned to Hunts Point Avenue Tuesday morning. The shooting early Monday evening, a teenager shot at five times and hit twice, was probably responsible.

Officers lounged around gossiping. One chomped on his cigar, “We could only get away for one day before bullets started flying.”

Four police cars were clustered around the Tub & Tumble: Somebody had kicked and broken the glass door.

Ten minutes later three police cars pulled onto the sidewalk at the corner deli. Two teens waiting outside were backed against the wall. “I ain’t do nothing. I just waiting for my sandwich. What you stopping me for?”

“We don’t have to give you a reason. Shooting is a reason enough.”

“I ain’t shoot nobody. Damn.”

Kids zoom by on their scooters. Pepsi, out to buy a cig, shakes her ass at the police.

The teen is trying to maintain his cool, “What you gonna charge me with?”

The young cop, hair spiked with gel, waves his finger an inch from the taller teen’s face, “What you want to be charged with. I can write you up for whatever.”

It is a beautiful spring day, a bit windy but the perfect temperature. I look around. I spot ten dealers and about twenty heavy crack users all watching.

The spiky-haired cop continues to argue with the taller teen. Both of their pants are slung low around their waists. One pulled lower by the weight of his belt the other by choice.

Takeesha looks over before jumping into a John’s car. They watch the argument while she pulls out a pipe. They smoke some crack, laugh, and drive away.

The officer relents, his hair further mussed from the fight. Delivery trucks waiting for parking replace the cop cars.

The teens grab their sandwiches inside,  “Fuck them. If I shoot somebody they will know. I won’t be leaving a living body for the ambulance. I will do it right.”

Carmela

Day one

Carmela was in bed nude and high. A john had just left.  Filled with heroin her eyes were lolling with her head.  Between nods she spoke.

“I ran away when I was 12. I was in five different homes, or maybe seven, I got tired of being molested. It started when I was six.”

“I started with heroin, alcohol, and weed.”

“When did I start prostituting? I always have. I mean I always thought you had to give up your body for food or to find a place to sleep. I never knew it had a fancy name like prostitution till I was like 16. I just knew it as the way a girl lived on the streets.”

“Men come here. They buy me drugs. I do as much as I can. Heroin cause I like to forget and crack to wake me up.”

“I was clean for about two years. I went looking for my birth parents. My mom died from drugs when I would of been ten. My dad. Nobody knows who that man was.”

She grabbed a crack pipe and pulled in the smoke.

I asked if I could take her picture. She nodded and positioned herself in a pornographic pose. I asked her if we could do a straight shot. “I got no shame in my game.”

Day two

Carmela was dressed with her hair freshly washed. She asked to see the pictures from yesterday.

On a tiny phone with a cracked screen we searched for my webpage. The search ended with a call from a John.

She shot heroin into her and sat on the bed. She wanted to speak.

“I am more than just a naked prostitute who smokes crack. I may seem comfortable being that but I am not.”

“I hate what I do. I feel guilty and embarrassed by being out here hustling. I get clean and somehow I keep coming back. It’s the only thing I know the only place I have power.”

“Just today I was walking down the street. This nine-year old boy kicking a ball started following me. I turned and he turned. He was following me because I was for sale. I felt awful. Would I want my boy following a prostitute around?”

“Then two hour later I was crossing streets with food from the bodega. These two elderly women were watching me. One said to the other, ‘She ought to be ashamed of herself.’ I was.”

“You know what I have always wanted to be? A square. That kid who did everything right and had parents who hugged them and told them how much they loved them.”

“Love? There is no love out here. People only want what they can get from you then they throw you away. I stopped trying to find love.”

“Here is a poem I wrote. Will you please post it?”

            Don’t worry.

            Don’t worry if you hear me cry,

            I am just letting out the frustration inside.

            Don’t worry if you hear me yell, “Go to hell”           

            I am just tired of him saying you better not tell.

            Don’t worry if I seem tired and weak,

            Its just my soles are worn from hustling in these streets.

            Don’t worry about me,

            Because I am a survivor,

            I’ll always eat.

 More on addiction here: Faces of addiction

 

An hour amongst addicts

“Sam is on the run. She stole $1,500 and a bundle from some dealers. They gave a local kid $500 to kill her. “

“We need you to try this shit. Just got it shipped in. I hear it is righteous.”

“Damn man he is FUUUUUUUUCKED UP. This shit is for real.”

“ You like my ass? I got the best booty in the Bronx.”

“She says she has leukemia. I think she just wants attention but her phone full of messages from hospital about treatment. Doesn’t matter either way. Crack is her treatment. “

“Keep the curtain closed, please. I can’t be seen. They can see up here you know. Now they got glasses that can even see through curtains. Google stuff.”

“I was clean for six years. Now I been here for two weeks. Smoking. I spent those six years thinking about this moment. Craving.”

“I got no good veins left. E used to shoot me in places I couldn’t reach but he is in jail. I got to shoot myself in my abscesses.”

“Peanut got thrown in jail. He was with his girl, Rosy. Deal went wrong. They jumped out of the second floor window. He hurt his knee. Police got him. She ran a few blocks. Dealers tracked her down and broke a cane over her head.”

“I got thrown out of the shelter because of my nephew. When I was gone he beat up some guy on the lower floor. I was gone and I got blamed.”

“Police gave all of us summons for open containers. Nice guy. White. He could of dragged us in but he knows us. Knows we harmless. It’s funny cause I don’t even drink or like beer. You know that. I am about the pipe and needle.”

“My son? He angry cause I told him his dad died of the virus. He can’t deal with that. His father never told him while he was alive. He was a good man. Just had the virus.”

“Greg is the king of Hunts Point. Eighty-six-year-old crack head.”

“She is lucky. She got the virus. That’s an apartment and a check.”

 

Addiction Trumps All