Bullied

I wrote this blog post 10 years ago, I thought since October marks the start of National Bullying Prevention Month, it would be a good time to reshare it.

I can still remember their names. Kenny, Peter, Louis, Dan and many others who weren’t even considered my ‘friends.’ As far as bullying is concerned, much has changed in the methods of bullying, but in the end nothing has changed when it comes to stopping or preventing this behavior. 35 years ago, I was a victim of this senseless, despicable behavior. I remember very clearly, a day in seventh grade English class, being picked up off my feet by two of my classmates. Through their laughs they said how funny it was going to see me fly as they carried me to an open second floor window, pushing me the sill as I was kicking my legs to no avail. I never once thought they would actually follow through with the ‘joke,’ but it was still no comfort after I was dropped onto the floor, quickly running into the coat room so none of my classmates would see me crying. My humiliation was compounded by a compassionate female friend who came in to ask if I was alright. After her kind act, the best thanks I could muster through my tears was, “just leave me alone.”
 
There were muggings by nameless, faceless creeps who traveled in packs almost on a daily basis. Their taking of our lunch money almost became a cliche. Hiding behind a giant delivery van at Stork’s Baby Wash on Delaware Avenue, we’d walk towards Hackett Junior High after being dropped off by the bus. Three or more would jump out and the biggest of the group would step up and say, “Got a dime?” This was our cue to empty our pockets. Growing up, with all the amazing lessons I learned from my loving mother and father, what reason would they have to think that self defense would be one of the lessons they should have taught me. Why would they. We were a good family in a good home, they had raised two good children.
 
Throughout my youth, I thought all kids were separated into two categories, the tough kids and the weaklings. I never thought to ask them what their motivations were. I just knew my role was the latter. I would head back to my good home after being spat on or thrown around by my winter jacket into a mailbox (at that same bus stop) feeling ashamed, trying my best not to let anyone know about my daily humiliations. I was skinny, innocent, red-headed and pimply faced, an easy target mainly because I only saw kindness in people. Violence and bad behavior was beyond my understanding. Through all the humiliation, I never found myself asking, “why me?”  

When I ‘came out’ to my mother after writing this piece, looking extremely distressed and crying, she asked the question so many parents ask, “Why didn’t you tell us?” My only response was that there was nothing anyone could do. Keeping some of the truth from her, in all honestly, it never would have occurred to me to share my experiences. Somehow trying to protect her from my pain. I thought and still think, how lucky I was, no matter how bad the humiliation, I would always come home to a loving home with two loving parents. A safe haven where I would always feel protected. Occasionally, I would get anonymous calls saying, “Your ass is grass at Hackett tomorrow.” The next morning, I would do what I always did, get up, go to school and deal with whatever was to come.
 
As a sophomore in high school, My dad, my Uncle Jay and I went out and bought a weight set which we assembled down my basement. As I became more involved in weight training, martial arts and boxing, I met a group of bodybuilders at the Jewish Community Center in Albany who took me under their wing and encouraged me to find my potential. In my damaged mind, I wanted to become a giant, a monster, at my towering 5′ 8″ tall I wanted to be an intimidating force, ready for the next bully to attack. I was never the kind of person who ever wanted to fight. But, there I was, waiting with perverted anticipation for the next bully who I was going to take great joy in making an example of, to make them pay for all the punishment and humiliation I was subjected to. But, in another lesson learned, at their very core, bullies are cowards, and no sooner than I was able to stand up and defend myself, they magically stopped showing interest in picking on me.
 
I overcame my past and found my retribution (if not vengeance) at a cafeteria lunch table. I was a senior a Albany High School where during lunch times, arm wrestling was the social networking of its time. Classmates would line up around tables one by one and take each other on. At the time, I was bench pressing close to 300 lbs, there were only a few in a school of 3000 that could beat me. One day there was a buzz in the cafeteria, there was a new kid at the tables. I recognized him immediately, it was Kenny, one of the two classmates that had lifted me off the ground and scared me into thinking I was going out a window. I took my place in line and waited my turn. One by one, he took down his opponents, laughing smugly just the way I remembered him laughing a me. The only difference was that he had changed very little in the five years since I’d last seen him. I had put on more than 25 lbs of muscle and had been waiting for a chance at retribution for much, much longer.

Finally, it was my turn, I stepped up, resting my elbow on the table, I looked into his eyes and saw a wave of recognition, then contempt. He sat back in his chair roaring with laughter. “YOU, I KNOW I CAN BEAT!!”  As we clasped hands, I took a a second to savor my moment. It was over very quickly. I soon as I heard “GO,” his hand was slammed backwards, making a loud SMACK onto the cheap Formica lunch table. I stared deeply into his eyes and saw as if in a mirror, my previous self, the insecurity, fear and humiliation I once harbored. It wasn’t just the shock in his eyes that changed the perception I had of myself, it was a metamorphosis that I felt, I could fight back. Not literally with my fists but I would refuse to make myself a target again. I was empowered.

At that moment I remembered something he said to me years ago during one of the moments of my biggest humiliation. He grabbed me by the bicep and started pulling me, this time, more out of fear than defiance, I pulled back hard and resisted, to which he said, “you’d probably be pretty strong if you weren’t so afraid.” I wasn’t afraid anymore. It was a turning point for me. Even with that one life changing victory, bad memories still linger. I still, often wake up in the middle of the night or am startled by past thoughts while I’m awake. I still have flashbacks from my years of indignity. My constant silent companion, hidden away, deep down waiting for something (or nothing) to trigger it to rear its ugly head. This is why bullying must be stopped before it takes another life, through suicide or even a life’s worth of internal torment.
 
One of the things that motivated me to write about my experience was seeing the face of a 15-year-old Morristown High School freshman who had taken his life. His friends saying because of a few intolerant classmates, bullies who tormented him only because they could. This young man had so many friends, such a good family. Why didn’t he tell someone, why couldn’t he just….exactly. That’s just what bullies count on, shame and silence.

Perhaps this post could motivate someone to stand up for themselves, perhaps tell someone, maybe even motivate a bully to see how pointless and destructive the choices they are making. When every day seems like a never-ended cycle of abuse, it’s impossible for someone who is being bullied to look ahead one week let alone thirty years. But please, please, please step into my shoes. If you had told me as a 15-year-old pimply faced, red-headed boy that 40 years from now, I’d be living the life of my dreams, traveling the world with my soul mate and loving life with beautiful friends and a great career, I would have called you crazy. Though the memories still linger, time passes, wounds heal, bullies go their way, the bullied generally go the opposite direction.

My message isn’t to fight back but to stand up. If every one of us all stood up for ourselves and one another, refusing to accept this kind of behavior it would disappear. I’d appeal to anyone reading this, parents, teachers, administrators and most of all, children…stand up and stop this nonsense before it takes one more life.

Childhood is a priceless gift. And no one has the right to take that gift or tarnish it just because you think your victim won’t fight back, yet.

My DMs are open if you need to talk.

BK









Rest in Power Tony Eresman, a 'Great American Hero'

Last night, I was saddened and shocked to read about the passing of a young man I had the honor of photographing during his journey to become a Marine. After the World Trade Center attacks on 9/11, Tony Eresman immediately found his calling and joined the United States Marine Corps. Tony passed away of PTSD at his home on August 2, 2020, at the age of 37.

What I treasure most about being a photojournalist, is the opportunity I have to be a witness. The witness of events, the witness of private moments, sometimes the witness to history. Most moments are on a smaller scale, others, like 9/11 are monumental. But each that Ive shot over the course of my 30+ year career has been a gift and shaped who I am not only as a photojournalist, but as a human being. One of these moments came unexpectedly during the final hours of a four day shoot at Parris Island, South Carolina.
Reporter Matt Katz and I traveled with local educators as well as local ‘celebrity’ Jack McGreevey (a Marine Drill Instructor himself and the father of former New Jersey Governor Jim McGreevey) from Newark by US Marine Corp jet and were welcomed at Parris Island just as the recruits are. Journalists were thankfully left out of the yells and screams from the Drill Sergeants who tried to give educators the full treatment as they nervously lined up and marched before the start of the program.

After our introduction, we went our own way with two Staff Sergeants who stayed with us as our guides for the rest of our trip. We got to spend time with recruits and officers alike, learning how Marines prepare to defend our country. Many if not all of the Marines we met during those four days would be heading to Iraq and Afghanistan after finishing their training.
The most impressive of the training exercises was the torture test called ‘The Crucible.’ It is the final test of a Marine in recruit training and as much of a symbolic culmination of skills and knowledge as it is a physical challenge. The Crucible consists of a 54 hour field training course that emphasizes the importance of teamwork. It includes a total of 48 miles of marching, simulating combat situations, deprivation of food and sleep and if you survive the 54 hour course, you’ve become a Marine.

Along the way, we met Rich and Sue Eresman of Rockaway whose son Tony was a 19-year-old young man going through his final days as a recruit. We were lucky enough to be there for final week of recruit training referred to as “Marine Week” which consists of the Battalion Commander’s Inspection, Family Day, and Graduation.
For over 13 weeks, Tony’s mother, Sue had been apart from her son, and desperately wanting to give him a hug. The platoon instructions were very specific, ‘while wearing uniforms on the ceremonial platform, hugging was forbidden.’ These were the same orders given the day before at Family Day. At the time, during the picnic, Tony denied a hug from his mother, apologetically saying, ‘Sorry Mom, but we’re not allowed.’ The following day after the graduation, Sue’s pain drew the attention of one of Tony’s Staff Sergeants who asked her what was wrong. She mentioned the protocol of not being able to hug her new Marine. It was that moment, Staff Sgt. Benjamin Haynes turned and barked out Tony’s first order: “MARINE!! HUG YOUR MOTHER!!!”

As Tony’s father looked on, his wife got her hug. Tony’s father Rich thanked Haynes, so the staff Sergeant ordered a hug for him too, after which the proud father put his hands to his face and cried. It was an emotional moment that Tony had thought about as well. At the time saying, ‘That was great, I was waiting for that.’ Afterwards, family and friends unfurled a sign saying, ‘Tony, Believe it or not!’ an inside joke referencing the theme song of the Greatest American Hero.
I talked with Tony seven years after we had first met, I found it hard to believe the shy 19 year old was now a 26-year-old veteran combat soldier. I was amazed at what this young man had been through, and survived. He referred to his first tour of Iraq as ‘very eventful.’ As I learned more about the tour, I was startled at his humble and modest descriptions. He described to me one of the bloodiest battles of the war in the city of An Nasiriyah located in southern Iraq.

‘My unit was 1ST Battalion 2ND Marines I was a rifleman, our mission to seize two bridges for the push to Baghdad. Unfortunately we were not fighting uniformed soldiers but fighting Saddam loyalist that were wearing regular civilian clothes which made it very hard to tell who the bad guys were that we were fighting. We fought for about 2 days, but the first day were lost 18 Marines and the total of injured Marines was around 44 wounded. My unit was involved in the rescue of the 6 Army Soldiers including Jessica Lynch.’

Tony’s second deployment was again in Iraq in the city of Iskandirayah, His mission was much different the second time around, this tour, he was involved in helping set up humanitarian missions for schools and the first Democratic election in Iraq. Unfortunately, in a war zone, even this seemingly innocuous assignment was filled with danger. ‘There were always the fire fights and IEDs all the time but the main mission was to try to rebuild this country and to help these people realize how great freedom actually is. We were always going on combat patrols and turning up weapons caches and doing a lot of missions with the Iraqi police and National Guard. This deployment we lost 16 Marines again but had a lot more wounded Marines due to the IEDs and mortar attacks that would happen everyday on our base, sometimes it felt safer to be out on patrol.’

During our conversation, Tony brought up numerous time his happiness in marrying his ‘beautiful wife Nicole’ and even though he said the adjustment from combat to coming home to a normal life was ‘difficult,’ he reiterated that his life now is happier than ever.  In turn, after I found Nicole through Google and contacted her asking for Tony’s contact info, she thanked me for ‘taking the time to feature my personal hero!’ Tony shared that the most difficult part of the war was the second guessing at times. Why he had made it home safe to his wife and family while some of his friends didn’t. He added, 
‘Going to all the military funerals, and seeing friends laid to rest just tears you up inside, but you always just live one day at a time and always remember the good times and never forget the bad ones.’

When questioned about the good times, Tony said there were ‘too many’ to name.
Throughout four days and having shot thousands of images, the story culminated with one special moment between a mother and son. I was proud and felt privileged to be a witness to Tony Eresman’s first day as a Marine. Since that day in 2002, he had come a long way from the 19-year-old teen I met at Parris Island. A boy who dreamed of growing up and becoming a Marine, along the way, maturing into the great American hero his family always knew he was.

My deepest condolences to Rich and Sue Eresman, Tony’s wife Nicole and their two children. Army Gen. William Thornson once said, ‘There are only two kinds of people that understand Marines. Marines and the enemy. Everyone else has a second-hand opinion.’ I could never possibly understand the courage it takes to become a Marine, but I remember coming back from Parris Island commenting how proud I was and how grateful I felt having these young men and women protecting our freedom.

God bless you Tony and all our service members. Rest in power.

Odd brushes with celebrities Part 1- Joe Pesci (2006)

Being in journalism for over three decades, you tend to run into celebrities, especially in the New York Metro area. Some encounters are fun, some, not as much (see future post on Lawrence Taylor) In 2006, I met Academy Award winning actor Joe Pesci as he attended his annual Pesci's Celebrity Skins Game at Brooklake Country Club in Florham Park, NJ.

This was also an annual assignment I enjoyed shooting because, well, it was June and I got to hang out on a golf course all day with A-list celebs like Pesci, Mark Wahlberg, Angie Everhart etc. I got a few images of Pesci warming up, hitting some drives for the cameras. Then I ran down the hill to get a different angle. As I was shooting, I noticed he was chipping and not driving as I heard a thump….thump…thump in my general direction. I looked away from my viewfinder to see Pesci taking a dead eye in my direction as he was chipping.

It was a great day, as a charity even, everyone is on their best behavior. Pesci always worked the crowd like a pro. Long story short, he never did hit me, (not sure if that was by design or not) and I quickly grabbed up a souvenir ball from that day to tell the story 14 years later.

Painful lessons

As any new employee, I’ve tried to learn painful lessons early and not repeat them over the course of my career. One particularly painful lesson was the one I learned during my very first major job for the Albany, NY bureau of United Press International.

As journalists, we are trained or born with the instinct to get the best story (or photo) and more importantly get it first. As a 24-year-old ‘photojournalist,’ I was assigned to shoot Vice President George H.W. Bush throwing out the first pitch at the National Baseball Hall of Fame Game at Doubleday Field in Cooperstown on July 29, 1985.

I have gained much wisdom over the past 35 years, and this day is never far from my thoughts. I got in position, my camera to my eye and BOOM a giant figure stepped in front of my lens. I shouted, “Hey, what the hell!!” and looked up to meet eyes with 6’ 2” 200 lb Red Sox left fielder Jim Rice, looking not so happy at my sudden cry. In that time I had missed the photo of the ceremonial pitch and moved positions to get a photo of George H. W. Bush shaking hands with Sox catcher Rich Gedman. The image was fine, enough to put on the wire without having to reveal my screw up, but not nearly as good as the image by veteran AP photographer Jim McKnight who was standing in a much better position.

By the nest morning, I thought all had been forgotten until I saw Jim’s photo in USA Today. I was crushed beyond belief. I vowed never to get my butt kicked like that again by the competition. In all honesty, of course it has happened over the past three and a half decades. When you are blessed enough to surround yourself with some of the best shooters in the country. Shit happens. But, thankfully, my win/loss percentage has been enough to keep me in the majors.

To keep myself always humble, from that day on, I have carried that photo with me. It has traveled through every job, apartment, relationship and has been the one constant in my ever changing life. Cherish your failures and learn from them, each has made me a better photojournalist, and as I continue to try and make that one perfect image, I make mistakes.

Luckily, for me and my clients, they are far less often and traumatic than that hot summer afternoon, when Jim Rice and Jim McKnight teamed up on me to teach me the photojournalism best lesson I ever learned.

Behind the Photos–Mike Tyson: 1990

One of my favorite portraits came (again) out of just dumb luck, both of timing and the way the light happened to fall on the subject. I was scheduled to cover a boxing program during the Summer of 1990 at Waterloo Village in Stanhope, NJ. We had heard that former heavyweight champ Mike Tyson might make an appearance. The timing wasn’t the best, Tyson had just lost the title (and his first fight ever) to Buster Douglas about 6 months before.

As I wandered around the restored 19th Century canal town in between fights, I saw a slight commotion in the distance. Following a faint light, I saw seated in a folding metal chair Mike Tyson, a larger than life character,  looking very reserved and humble. As people shouted to get his attention, Tyson just sat quietly, not rude, just seeming to be lost in thought.

It was extremely dark with only a couple tungsten lights shining on him for the interview he was about to give. I pushed my T-Max to about 6400 asa and held my breath as I dropped to one knee shooting about three frames at around 1/30 sec. After the interview began, I left thinking I didn’t get anything worth keeping. Arriving back to the darkroom I push processed my film to the limit still, the negatives were very thin.

Making a couple prints I was shocked that I had indeed captured a moment. Something I hadn’t even realized while pushing the shutter. This is what Ive always loved about photography. From viewfinder to negative (or digital card) to darkroom or computer, sometimes you’re able to pull out something from nothing. And on this night twenty years ago in Stanhope, I was lucky enough to captured a sensitive, introspective portrait of the “baddest man on the planet.”