Uploads from Chris Arnade

Working Woman: Hunts Point, Bronx

nobody@flickr.com (Chris Arnade) — Sat, 18 May 2013 15:44:58 -0700

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.”

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Takeesha and Carmela: Hunts Point, Bronx

nobody@flickr.com (Chris Arnade) — Fri, 17 May 2013 06:59:42 -0700

Chris Arnade posted a photo:

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?”

Samantha: Hunts Point, Bronx

nobody@flickr.com (Chris Arnade) — Wed, 15 May 2013 10:46:05 -0700

Chris Arnade posted a photo:

Samantha, 33, was raped early and often. “It started when I was eight or so. My foster mom was away working and an older foster brother messed with me. I told her but she said I was just lying.”

She ran away and turned to heroin and crack at fifteen. “Sex work? How long I been taking men to the tracks you mean? Well, since I ran away.”

“Men all want to pay me for all sorts of things. They want to cum twice. They mostly over fifty so how you think that goes for them?”

“Look. Here is the thing. I got no respect for men, and so I manipulate them and utilize them.”

“My dream? I want to be normal. That boring life everyone on TV has. You know, 9 to 5 job I dream of retiring from. Boyfriend I hate after five years. Two kids I can be annoyed with. Be able to have a glass of wine without it turning into a bottle.”

“You know what they have that I don’t though? Respect.”

Sonya: Hunts Point, Bronx

nobody@flickr.com (Chris Arnade) — Mon, 13 May 2013 06:03:31 -0700

Chris Arnade posted a photo:

Sonya is alone for the first time in eight years. Erik is in jail and facing charges of nine months for selling.

She is scared.

Shots have been fired on her street and the police have twice raided the abandoned building she and others call home. Neither time was she home.

“I need to get myself into rehab and out of here but I can’t just leave. I got cats and an aquarium.”

“I ain’t naïve. I am a girl alone who panhandles. If I have to I will just accept the beating. At least it will finally prove to them I ain’t a snitch.”

A car pulled up to the light and a man rolled down the window and yelled at her while making a crude gesture.

“Look what I got myself into. My addiction has brought me here to deal with this shit.”

Carmela again: Hunts Point, Bronx

nobody@flickr.com (Chris Arnade) — Thu, 09 May 2013 07:34:44 -0700

Chris Arnade posted a photo:

I saw Carmela yesterday to show her the prior picture and write-up. We spoke for an hour.

“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 where 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.

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Tiffany: Hunts Point, Bronx

nobody@flickr.com (Chris Arnade) — Mon, 06 May 2013 07:08:03 -0700

Chris Arnade posted a photo:

Tiffany asked me for a cigarette. I paused. She was eight months pregnant.

She was leaning against the monastery wall waiting for johns to pay her for sex so she could buy more crack.

The need for crack, methadone, and cigarettes was everything.

I declined, “I only got white boy cigarettes, you know, Marlboro.”

She smiled and in her strong southern voice said, “That’s ok. Its better I don’t.”

Since I last saw Tiffany a week ago, prostituting at 2:00 am with her belly filled with baby, I have not stopped thinking.

I know her story: Sex work starting at 12, Crack and heroin at 14, HIV at 19, a father who beat her mother, both parents drug addicts.

I continually see female addicts abuse their body while pregnant and male addicts run from being fathers to children.

Addiction truly trumps all.

Last picture of Millie

nobody@flickr.com (Chris Arnade) — Mon, 29 Apr 2013 10:34:27 -0700

Chris Arnade posted a photo:

Millie died January 6th.

Please read this: Death of Yafna Garcia

Jose flying: Hunts Point, Bronx

nobody@flickr.com (Chris Arnade) — Fri, 26 Apr 2013 12:22:30 -0700

Chris Arnade posted a photo:

Jose: "Dude, I want to do another bridge jump."
Me: "Cool, what about being a bit more family friendly this time."
Jose: "You mean, no flippin the camera?"
Me: "Yes, how about, you know, something positive."

More of Jose here: Jose the amazing

Brenda: Hunts Point, Bronx

nobody@flickr.com (Chris Arnade) — Thu, 25 Apr 2013 05:57:04 -0700

Chris Arnade posted a photo:

Brenda screamed as Michael jammed in the needle.

Heroin this way was new to her. For thirty years she has smoked or sniffed or swallowed her drugs, never injected them.

She was proud of this. It is what made her different, “My addiction is bad but I ain’t a shooter.”

She has always been the voice of reason amidst the chaos. She holds things together enough to cook meals and wash clothes. She doesn’t let shit happen to her. It’s why she stabbed an abusive husband.

Two weeks ago she was convinced to shoot heroin. She loved the immediate rush. She now spends all her time at Michael’s house. She is back to working the streets. She hasn’t cooked since.

She still can’t jam a needle into herself. Michael does that. Five seconds later she is unable to speak, hardly able to move, head frozen.

She tries to smoke crack but can’t. The movements are too hard.

Michael looks at her, “Brenda. We got to get out of this. We got to go to rehab.”

Brenda stares ahead unhearing and unmoving.

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Chelsea (Juliet) and Brandon (Romeo): Hunts Point, Bronx

nobody@flickr.com (Chris Arnade) — Tue, 23 Apr 2013 18:50:24 -0700

Chris Arnade posted a photo:

Hunts Point Children’s Shakespeare Ensemble, spend all year preparing one play. This year it is Romeo & Juliet.

The kids start in fourth grade and carry on till sixth. Older students, who complete the program, then write and perform their own plays with The Storefront Ensemble.

The program is run by Hunts Point Alliance for Children (HPAC) and The Shakespeare Society.

For many of the children this is the first time they are respected enough to be challenged. Most local middle schools don’t have the resources to offer such extra curricular activities.

For tickets, donations, and just to find out more about The Hunts Point Children's Shakespeare Ensemble visits HPAC or Shakespeare Society.

Shooting up: Hunts Point, Bronx

nobody@flickr.com (Chris Arnade) — Mon, 22 Apr 2013 17:14:32 -0700

Chris Arnade posted a photo:

Michael injecting Brenda.

Story here: I aint a shooter

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Jackie: Hunts Point, Bronx

nobody@flickr.com (Chris Arnade) — Mon, 22 Apr 2013 11:12:57 -0700

Chris Arnade posted a photo:

A year ago a group of women clustered in front of the 24 hr bodega, gossiping.

“Have you seen Jackie? Her face is a mess. She shot up some real bad shit. Fucked her up.”

I had met Jackie a week before and was struck by her beauty and story, "You live on the streets as a girl, you get raped. It just is."

I found her down the hill, alone in the dark, waving at the rare car.

Jackie jumped into my car. In the light I could see her face was transformed, now covered in a red rash, “I got lupus. It is acting up.” I drove her back up the hill.

Others later told me she was planning to get her pimp to rob me. I asked her not to. Then she disappeared, until yesterday.

“I went back to Boston, tried to get straight for my kids. It has been an awful year. My lupus is still making me a mess.”

In the next room, in front of Cassie Rodenberg, Jackie lowered her own pants, her fingernails still wet from polish, and had Brenda remove a crack-pipe.

The friends smoked.

Crack House: Hunts Point, Bronx

nobody@flickr.com (Chris Arnade) — Sun, 21 Apr 2013 00:12:04 -0700

Chris Arnade posted a photo:

The cats and addicts stay.

They stay despite an eviction notice following an upstairs fire, despite daily eviction notices for non-payment from the landlord, despite the loss of hot water and electricity. The back windows are gone and covered with plastic, to keep the cats in. Nobody remembers who once lived here before Michael found his way in.

They have stayed because of dysfunction and ingenuity. The threatening landlord was picked up in a sting operation: Trafficking drugs. Extension cords snake from far away and large pots of water boil on the stove.

A father and son, drug dealers who have a taste for their own product, seem to never wake or dress. They lay on couches staring at the TV, its antenna dangling out the front window.

The son was mad at me, convinced I was a detective. He told his father he was going to shoot me. I brought him Frosted Flakes. Real ones, not the cheap shit. We fist bumped, “We all good.”

Johns wander in. An older man with the apt name of Gordo waited in the bathroom for Takeesha. He was nude except for a tiny pink g-string.

Michael cleans or bakes trays of cookies stolen from a truck bound for high-end bakeries in Manhattan.

The cats, maybe eight, crawl inside the couch when scarred. Otherwise they lounge everywhere. Well-fed and loved.

Small flames pierce the dark: Crack pipes being smoked or menthol cigarettes being lit.

The landlord continues to fight from prison.

Next to be cut is the water and gas.

Pam again: Hunts Point, Bronx

nobody@flickr.com (Chris Arnade) — Fri, 19 Apr 2013 11:25:29 -0700

Chris Arnade posted a photo:

Pam was everywhere, walking Tiffany Street until the dawn, and then she disappeared.

She had gone to Delaware to care for a son shot in the stomach. Back to Delaware where she was raped at 11. Where she started shooting up at 12.

She returned to Hunts Point a few months ago. “I can’t stay away from here. Its got drugs and I can make money.”

A recent fire had scarred her arm, which she covered in bandages. Burned by her drugs. Her body was numb, her head lolling.

I reminded her of the poem she had written. She softly recited the first stanza before a siren interrupted her, shifting her focus.

She walked away towards Tiffany Street.

Tiffany again: Hunts Point, Bronx

nobody@flickr.com (Chris Arnade) — Thu, 18 Apr 2013 05:34:48 -0700

Chris Arnade posted a photo:

Tiffany was barely visible, hidden amongst the parked semi-trucks.

I had not seen her since the summer.

Michael offered up his judgment, “can you believe it. That crack head. Out here sucking dick and fucking while pregnant. She don’t even know the father, probably some trick.”

Tiffany emerged into the headlights. She spoke, her voice giving away her southern roots, “I been away, mostly in jail. I will have my child in two months and take up the court mandate to enter rehab.”

“This will be the third child taken from me. I understand, but I can’t quit. I cry every night.”

“My momma lost us to drugs and the beatings my father gave her. I guess the apple don’t fall far from the tree.”

More on Addiction: Faces of Addiction

Rachel: Hunts Point, Bronx

nobody@flickr.com (Chris Arnade) — Sun, 14 Apr 2013 06:04:19 -0700

Chris Arnade posted a photo:

The room was designed for a child that never came. Now it is used to smoke crack.

Rachel, 41, was scrunched in a small plastic chair, twisting, her body throbbing with crack and heroin. She wanted to tell her story, but she had to know, “People are going to read it right? They going to know not to do what I did? They going to know it’s not fun.”

Her story was told in spurts, punctuated by gaps of silence, as she wiped away tears.

“I was 14 when I got a habit, attracted to a boy who was a dealer. I was prostituting here in Hunts Point by 19. My mom is a real good women. My papa, he died of AIDs and heroin.”

“Hunts Point is a devil’s pit, you try to get out and you can’t and every time you come back it’s worse and worse and worse.”

“How do I want to be described? As a mother. I got four kids. I have tried my best for them. I just keep getting dragged into the pit.”

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Jennifer: Hunts Point, Bronx

nobody@flickr.com (Chris Arnade) — Fri, 12 Apr 2013 14:44:36 -0700

Chris Arnade posted a photo:

We only saw Jennifer once.

She still behaved as a child. Soft-spoken and with tears, her body crunched in on itself.

Her words defied her years, “I'm homeless. I have nothing. I grew up in a fucked up situation. Because of my father and brother raping me, I'm screwed up in the brain right now. I'm not scared to say what I am and what I do. I suck dick for money.”

For the camera she unfurled her body, losing her shyness. “I did many years of ballet.”

On a grimy industrial street her pose offered a view into her past: A young girl who dreamed of dancing as a way out of her personal hell.

Reflection driving into Hunts Point

nobody@flickr.com (Chris Arnade) — Wed, 10 Apr 2013 10:05:52 -0700

Chris Arnade posted a photo:

That is my car in reflection. If you look hard enough you can see me driving while taking a picture. I think I am also texting at the same time...

Beauty one year later: Hunts Point, Bronx

nobody@flickr.com (Chris Arnade) — Mon, 08 Apr 2013 08:26:49 -0700

Chris Arnade posted a photo:

Almost one year ago I met Beauty, taking her picture on the same street I photographed her yesterday.

In that time she has lived on the streets or been in jail.

She has had five pimps and two girlfriends (in jail).

She has had about 35 tickets.

She continues to smoke K2, as much as she can.

She continues to dreams of a stable life: A job with a boss who respects her or a boyfriend she can take home to Oklahoma.

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Roland: Hunts Point, Bronx

nobody@flickr.com (Chris Arnade) — Fri, 05 Apr 2013 06:41:54 -0700

Chris Arnade posted a photo:

Roland was arrested three months ago, his first serious drug charge. He was sentenced to a year long rehab facility in Brooklyn.

Two days ago he fled the program, heading back to Hunts Point and heroin.

Yesterday he was again picked up by the police.

The court may not be so kind to him this time.

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