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The Content CompanySina Visitor SystemSina Visitor SystemEven in America’s least gun-friendly city, a small but steadfast group of New Yorkers insist on staying locked and loaded.
The only public shooting range in Manhattan is tucked away in the basement of a commercial building at 20 West 20th Street. After passing through the lobby and descending a winding staircase, I came to a long corridor whose green walls are adorned with framed newspaper clippings, photos and painted-on golden bullets pointing the way. The muffled blasts of gunfire grew louder as I got closer.
Inside, the long rectangular room had a utilitarian array of chairs, tables, sofas, TVs, lockers and notices on the walls—
“NO Magnums,”
“Wear Eye and Ear Protection,”
“NRA Gun Safety Rules.”
The firing range’s fourteen shooting stalls run the length of the room, sealed off by a wall with large windows.
I visited the
because I was intrigued that such a place could exist in one of the least gun-friendly cities in the country. I was curious about the rare breed of New Yorker who is licensed to own a gun.
The front desk of the Westside Rifle & Pistol Range.
When I sat down with Darren Leung, the owner, on the morning of December 14, 2012, neither of us was yet aware of the hell that had just been unleashed at an elementary school in Newtown, Connecticut. Wearing glasses and sporting a crew cut, Leung, who is forty-seven, looked youthful in jeans, sneakers and a gray hoodie with the range’s name on it. I asked this fourth generation Chinese-American who grew up in Manhattan’s Chinatown what had drawn him to firearms.
“Didn’t every Chinese kid want to be a cowboy?” he said with a laugh. He went on to explain that as a child he was “mesmerized” by guns and wanted to be the good guy he saw saving the day on TV and in movies. He ended up volunteering as a New York peace officer for a decade in Brooklyn, investigating domestic conflicts that involved minors for a state-run agency. As a detective sergeant, he carried a gun and sometimes worked alongside the NYPD.
And after working at the range for twenty years, he became sole owner in 2010. The clientele is heavy on cops, but includes a wide variety of locals who share a passion for target shooting, with members numbering around 3,500 in total. (Travis Bickle, Robert DeNiro’s character in Taxi Driver, also practiced there in the film.)
The range, which opened in 1964, is necessary, said Leung, because licensed gun owners need a convenient place to shoot in the city. But still, the police run the show, and can take back anyone’s firearm for any reason.
“In the city of New York, you don’t have a right to own a gun,” he said as a barrage of gunshots rang out behind the double-pane glass that looked out on the firing line. “It’s a privilege.”
A range member loads a magazine into his pistol.
Or, as one member of the range put it, “When it comes to gun laws, there’s the whole country, and then there’s New York.” While that may be a slight exaggeration, New York is indeed the polar opposite of
like Utah, Alaska and Arizona, and is arguably the toughest in the country to own a gun. Here, no one is actually entitled to possess a firearm, at least not until the police give the go-ahead.
“Your right can never be taken away from you,” continued Leung, “but your privilege can be revoked at any given time. The NYPD is the licensing entity. They can add any kinds of stipulations they want. And they don’t have to explain why.”
It makes sense to keep guns on a short leash, Leung acknowledges, because “you want people to realize this is not a toy. If you make a mistake with a firearm, there is no coming back from that.” He also said he doesn’t have much problem with the six-to-eight-month waiting period for a gun permit, though the $340 fee for a three-year license is quite steep compared to other places. Without such a permit, issued by the NYPD, which declined to say how many New Yorkers have gun permits despite repeated attempts, it’s illegal to even touch a handgun. And those who get a license are required to purchase a firearm as well, so it’s not possible to simply have a license to shoot pistols without having your own.
After the wait, and shelling out upwards of $1,500 for fingerprints, licensing, membership at a club, a firearm and ammunition, target shooting isn’t a cheap hobby. Some prospective buyers are put off by all the red tape, which is surely in place to discourage all but the most highly motivated. “You can’t even sell a hotdog in the city of New York without a license,” said Leung. “You think they’re going to give you a gun?”
Signs at the top of the stairs that lead to the range.
As we were talking, a middle-aged man in a grey suit who was carrying a black plastic case sat down at the table next to us. He unlocked it, removed a
and nonchalantly placed the pistol on the table. Then he took out a box of bullets and started loading them into a magazine, one by one. Hearing us discussing the challenge of getting a gun permit in the city, he chimed in (though didn’t give his name), saying that despite being diligent, it was an arduous process. He thought it would be cool to try, anyway.
“It’s really fun shooting a gun,” he said. “It’s totally relaxing, kind of like golf.”
I asked about his ten-bullet magazine, knowing that the limit to this number is a sore spot among some gun enthusiasts. “It’d be nice if they were bigger,” he said as he continued loading. “It’s kind of a pain in the ass loading magazines. But on the other hand, I don’t know what you’d need to blow off more than ten rounds for as a recreational user.”
He described what it’s like to walk the streets of New York with his Beretta. Even though it’s unloaded and in a locked case as the law dictates, it made him feel like “a bit of a tough guy,” he said. “You’re like, ‘Oh, I’m not sure I’m going to take two steps out of the way for that guy on the sidewalk because he’s not going to fuck with me. I’ve got a gun.’”
When I emerged back into the daylight around noon, I checked my phone to see if anything interesting had happened while I’d been out of signal range. That’s when the second Sandy of the year became part of my vocabulary. We had just crossed the threshold into the post-Sandy Hook era.
After waiting for things to settle down, I went back on a cold Saturday morning in early February and found a dozen members of the Chelsea Gun Club—one of two clubs that gather there—shooting the breeze as they do every week. The mood felt different from my first, pre-Sandy Hook visit. It could have been their discomfort with me visiting at a tense moment, or perhaps it was mine. After all, the gun debate had returned with a vengeance, and the media didn’t seem particularly gun-friendly.
The Journal News had recently published the names and addresses of handgun permit owners in Westchester and Rockland counties, and then Gawker ran in New York City. Both publications received death threats. Meanwhile, ‘Newtown truthers’ spread the word that staged by the Obama administration to advance the second-term gun clampdown that the president had supposedly been planning all along, while Slate began keeping since Newtown, which, though certainly incomplete, had reached 5,057 as of the six-month anniversary of the massacre last week.
I sheepishly approached three grey-haired men who were standing around chatting and drinking coffee and told them what I was doing there. One looked me in the eye and said in a tone of warning: “The last journalist who came here wound up dead.” (I assumed he was joking, but it turned out to be true, though her death had nothing to do with the range).
Rifles for a Saturday morning class at the range.
Another agreed to talk but asked that I only use his first name—Barry. A sixty-six-year-old retired consumer research consultant who is a gun instructor, he sat on a sofa, dressed in a black cap, tucked in flannel shirt, jeans and boots. Barry, who first learned to shoot when he was twelve years old, had come by for fifty rounds of informal target practice.
When he was growing up in Brooklyn in the 1950s and ’60s, things were different. He joined the Brooklyn Boy Scout Marksmanship Program, run at an armory in the borough. Four other men who were there that day had been part of the same group. “It was one of the formative experiences of our lives,” said Barry, who spoke in a calm, deliberate manner throughout our chat. “What you learn about responsibility and character stays with you for the rest of your life.”
In an era when mass shootings were unheard of, most scho Barry was a member of one at Stuyvesant High School and then at Brooklyn College. “You could put your rifle in the case and take a subway or bus and nobody seemed to notice or care,” he said. In those days, according to one old timer, there may have been as many as thirty gun retailers around the city, with the fanciest ones on Fifth Avenue. (One remnant of that is the
on Madison Avenue, where you can get a high-end handgun, shotgun or rifle.)
In Barry’s view, the public’s attitude toward guns started to shift after the assassinations in the 1960s (the Sandy Hook, Aurora and Virginia Tech of that decade). In New York City, the restrictions have grown tighter in recent decades—from the administrations of Ed Koch to David Dinkins to Rudy Giuliani—until Mayor Bloomberg kicked the battle against gun violence into high gear and founded . On January 15, in response to the Newtown massacre, Governor Cuomo hastily pushed through the , which expanded the reach of the law even further.
I asked Barry about one of its more contentious points—limiting the number of bullets in a magazine to seven rather than ten (which Cuomo has since backed down on because seven-bullet magazines are rare). I was curious to know if seven, ten or fifteen made a difference to him. He conceded that in some forms of target shooting, it’s not an issue, but if you’re using a handgun for self-defense, he said, “you want more rounds rather than less. You want them there as insurance.”
“What about the idea that that insurance also gives mass shooters the ability to do a lot of damage quickly?” I asked.
“Laws are for the law-abiding,” he said. “The dedicated criminal will get what he wants. You’re restricting the people who are the least likely to do any harm and the criminal looks at the situation and laughs.”
It’s not hard to understand why gun owners who follow the rules feel it’s unfair to punish them for the crimes of others. There was one particular provision of the new legislation—tracking ammunition purchases—that Barry found especially insulting. As he sees it, he’s already gone through a background check for a permit, so why should his ammunition be tracked too, as if he were suspect? “I’m the guy who’s been investigated and found to be purer than Caesar’s wife,” he said, adding that criminals can shop on the black market anyway. Though considering how easy it is to , no questions asked at sites like , they don’t even need to bother with that. And thanks to the Senate’s vote in April against closing such loopholes, these free-for-all marketplaces will continue to provide unregistered guns for basically anyone who wants them.
I asked why he took issue with laws that would not limit him personally, like universal background checks or flagging mentally ill people who might pose a threat. He acknowledged that these seem sensible, but cautioned that there’s a fine line between “safety and giving up your rights.”
He agreed that the mentally ill should not be allowed to possess firearms, but pointed out that trying to judge who is potentially dangerous can put mental health care professionals in “an unfair, tricky spot.” And though he doesn’t buy into the idea that universal background checks will lead to a national gun registry that would enable a future tyrannical government to confiscate everyone’s guns, he said he “wouldn’t be completely surprised if it were to happen in some limited way, involving so-called ‘assault rifles,’ for example.”
When asked if he thought New York’s new legislation could possibly make it more difficult for at least certain dangerous individuals to acquire a gun, he said, “It could, it might. Let’s see what happens.”
After our chat, he donned ear protection and a pair of safety glasses, and with target and gun box in hand, stepped through the double doors into the range.
At the shooting stall, Barry clipped his bull’s-eye target onto a pulley and turned a crank that carried it about fifteen feet into a spacious area that had a wet concrete floor and dingy white walls that went about fifty feet deep. He took out his black CZ Kadet pistol, undid the gun lock and placed it on a wooden counter next to an extra magazine and a box of standard velocity ammunition.
He stood in what he told me was an “isosceles stance”—facing front, arms extended straight, with his right hand gripping the gun and the left applying pressure on the opposite side to steady it, as you might with a camera. He fired five shots in succession, all striking in the vicinity of the target’s center. Five more, and then he wheeled it in for a look, moving briskly. My ear protection dampened the outrageously loud blasts, which resonated in my chest. At the moment of discharge, a small flame, a “muzzle blast,” flared out of the pistol’s tip as a golden cartridge case popped up and fell to the floor with a clink.
He fired about ten more rounds quickly, brought the target in, and shook his head, looking dissatisfied. He sent it back out, loaded up another magazine, fired more shots, and checked again. “That was better,” he said. Later, he wheeled the target out further, to about twenty-five feet away, and after his last ten rounds, examined all the holes in the central black area, saying, “All right, could be worse.” (It looked quite good to me.)
Then he wiped his gun off with a rag, put the lock back on, and returned it to the box. “It’s good range etiquette to always sweep up after yourself,” he told me as he brushed the cartridge cases into a dustpan and tossed them in a bucket.
Discarded cartridge casings.
Most members I approached offered some variation of I don’t talk to reporters. A photographer who was there told me of an interaction he’d had with a man who likened a reporter at a shooting range to “a Nazi at a bar mitzvah.” The truth is, I wanted only to understand guns and the New Yorkers who love them, not further a Third Reich agenda.
Stephen Michel, a sixty-five-year-old accountant who emerged from the range with a pistol on each hip, was sympathetic to my endeavor. He said he’d learned to shoot a rifle as a Boy Scout and then shot in the Army, but didn’t pick it up again till after his kids were out of the house. Now he shoots every week.
Like everyone else I’d spoken to, he questioned the SAFE Act. “At the end of the day, it just makes people who are afraid of guns comfortable because we’ve done something,” he said, adding that the problem is that “you’re chipping away at the rights of people who want to follow the rules.” He did say that a few things could be improved, “like background checks at gun shows,” but in a refrain I heard many times, didn’t think the new laws would accomplish much.
It was still hard for me to understand why those who didn’t seem to be affected by the SAFE Act were so against it, and I tried to be open to the idea that I was missing something. But as someone who fears the lethal power that firearms bestow upon those who bear them, that was a challenge.
Jon Paskoff taking a breather after shooting at a ‘bad guy’ target.
Nevertheless, Michel’s description of the Zen-like art of shooting really did make it sound appealing. He compared it to yoga, saying, “You need to clear your mind, you have to focus, you have to breathe, you have to be in the moment.” I considered taking a rifle lesson, as everyone urged me to, but decided it just wasn’t for me.
When I went outside, I checked my phone as I had on that December day, this time to see if a catastrophe had struck. It turned out there had been a double murder in Texas—at a shooting range. One of the victims was
who had been among the best snipers in the military. Afterwards, David Carr, a New York Times reporter, Tweeted: “Always struck by amount of trust people place in each other at a shooting range.”
My next visit was on a rainy Monday evening in March. I went to see the , which was founded thirteen years ago. (According to a , the number of female gun owners in the United States has been rising in recent years.)
When I arrived, I encountered Alexis Russ, a forty-two-year-old financial services rep from Stuyvesant Heights, Brooklyn, sitting at a table filling out the paperwork required of a first-timer, who is put through a criminal background check. She told me she was considering getting a gun for protection. “This is the first step in my education and a fun thing, I hope,” she said. “And then I’ll see how I feel about having a pistol in my home.”
I sat in on a safety class for the five women who were new, while the others hit the firing line. We sat at small desks in a drab back room where six black rifles were lined up on a table.
“These are designed to make holes in things,” said Barry, the instructor, as he held up one of the Ruger 10/22 semiautomatic rifles that the women would be using when they fired fifty rounds each. He proceeded to break down the “anatomy” of the firearm, showing in minute detail how it worked and how to handle it safely.
Afterwards, while the newbies were getting set up, I spoke to Helen, forty-three, the most experienced shooter in the group, who declined to give her surname. She had just finished her session and was helping the beginners get oriented. Though she has been shooting since 1986, like all the other women in attendance that day she does not own a gun. “I’d be interested in having a gun to protect myself, but I’d probably get hurt,” she said. “It’s probably more dangerous to have a gun.”
When Russ returned from the firing line with her targets in hand, we were surprised to see that most of the holes were near the center. “I’m pretty good,” she said with a laugh. “I don’t know what that’s about.” Having only shot once, Russ felt far from ready to make a decision, though being a good shot, at least with a rifle, was encouraging. Asked if she would feel safer with a gun in her home, she said, “If I knew how to shoot and I knew all the safety features, I would definitely feel safer.”
Considering all the guns and psychopaths out there, a most volatile brew, it doesn’t take great mental gymnastics to get why some Americans want to take their protection into their own hands. After all, the police can’t always be there for you.
On a beautiful spring day in mid April, I stopped by the range once more to check the post-Sandy Hook temperature with Darren Leung, the affable owner, who always called me “my friend” and gladly gave me full access to the place. While waiting for him, I looked up at the TV and found out about the Boston Marathon bombing, which had just happened.
Leung told me that after Newtown, he offered free firearms training to faculty members at his children’s elementary school in Queens. No one took him up on the offer. Actually, what would put him at ease, he said, would be to station an armed, retired police officer at the school whose sole job would be to keep unwelcome people out, rather than arm teachers as recently did. Even pre-Sandy Hook, Leung was worried about what could happen to his kids, who are six and eight years old, at school.
“The world is changing,” he said. “We had best adapt to the changes. The kids aren’t protected. They have a school safety officer, but the officer is not armed. So what are we really doing?”
He sighed and said he wished the Department of Education would come up with a better plan of action.
“They just bombed a sporting event,” he said. “The world hasn’t changed? Why are we willing to stick our heads in the sand and say, ‘I hope for the best’? Wouldn’t you want the odds to be on your side? Wouldn’t you want to have the means to win the fight?”
, a contributing editor at Narratively, is a freelance journalist based in New York. He is a regular New York Times contributor, and his work has appeared in many other publications, including Fast Company, Wired, Slate and New York Magazine.
hails from a two-stoplight town in Massachusetts and now resides in a city with too many lights to count, where she produces media for an arts education organization and looks for any excuse to write, photograph, and film stories that she’s curious about.
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Two decades after NYC sought to relocate its infamous tunnel-dwelling denizens, a years-long investigation reveals a few hardy souls still toiling and thriving beneath the city.
The mouth of the tunnel is wide and dark, swallowing the light and all that breathes. Rubble is scattered along the train tracks, bordered by retaining walls covered in numerous layers of graffiti.
This is where it all started.
Here by the parkway with the blasting trucks and the roaring cars, near the filigree arches of the Riverside Drive viaduct, here with the gravel crunching under my feet as I run down the railroad into this hollow mouth.
This is where they live, deep into the depths of the city, way underground, lying in the dirt. Sure, you know about them. Of course you know about them. They’ve always been there, resting low below the rowdy streets and the carving avenues, gulping the air from inside the earth, crawling through holes and cracks, living off the grid and off the books.
Here in the tunnels.
You’ve heard the rumors. Their eyes have adapted to the constant night that cloaks them from the topside world. Don’t you know they’re eating rats and human flesh? Don’t you know they want us dead? And one day they will spill outside and burn us all alive, and they will reign over our flatscreen joys and our organic delights.
Of course you know about them. The lost ones, the hidden ones. The broken and the ill, the wandering, the gone. The Mole People.
“Jon,” I call, looking up. Jon has been homeless for more than fifteen years. Like many of the people interviewed for this article, he did not want to give his full name. He has been living here for a while now, in a small space between two support beams that can only be reached with a ladder. A plywood roof protects his hoarded belongings from seeping water. The place is crammed full. There is an old mattress on the floor, and cookware, blankets and electronics stacked on makeshift shelves.
“Jon,” I repeat, and he appears, his head cautiously peaking up from his house, a relieved smile on his face when he sees me.
“I thought it was the Amtrak police,” he later says while opening a beer, his legs dangling off the edge of the wall. “They been coming less, lately, but you never know. Regular police ain’t bothering me, but Amtrak, they can be nasty.”
Jon says he did prison time. He is bipolar and suffers from major substance dependence. He used to be a gang member in the Bronx. He used to be a family man until he got disowned. He was a furniture salesman. The FBI is looking for him. He used to know Donald Trump. It doesn’t matter which version is true. His real story has been buried long ago under thick layers of improvised memories that grew more detailed by the years, the man slowly becoming a collage of himself.
“I’m good here,” he says. “No taxes, no rent, no nothing. There’s no hassle compared to the streets, you know what I’m saying? Here I don’t get bugged by kids. It’s a safe place. I can do what I wanna and I don’t have to take nothing from nobody.”
Today is a good day for Jon, despite the rain and the cool weather.
“You’re the first person to visit this week,” he says. “People don’t want to speak to me when they come here. I don’t know, man. They’re scared or something. I can get why, it’s a spooky place when you don’t know it. But people, they like it when it’s scary. They like it when it’s dirty, right? It makes them feel alive. That’s why they make up these stories about cannibalism and stuff. Like alligators in the sewers.”
Jon offers me a sip of vodka. We drink together. He tells me to stay safe and to watch out for trains when I go back walking into the tunnel. I hear him talk to himself as I go away from the entrance and from the white sky.
The smell down here is the one of brake dust and mold. I can see rats scouring for food and drinking from brown puddles in the tracks ballast. EXISTENCE IS FLAWED, a graffiti inscription reads.
The city growls over my head — a distant growl muffled by the concrete, almost a snarl, like something cold and foul spreading over the long stretches of stained walls, like a dark and wild beast curling up around me and breathing on my neck. A dark and wild beast silently trailing me.
Stories about underground dwellers were already flourishing when the first New York City subway line opened in 1904. The expansion of extensive sewers and steam pipes systems had brought a newfound fascination with what laid below the streets. From Jules Verne’s 1864 novel “Journey to the Center of the Earth” to George Gissing’s 1889 book “The Nether World,” literature was brimming with tales of people living in isolation or trapped under the surface, peaking in 1895 with “The Time Machine,” in which H. G. Wells described a fictional subterranean species called the “Morlocks.”
But it was only in the 1990s that the first widespread depictions of real-world tunnel residents appeared in New York. A 1990 New York Times
by John Tierney was the earliest to outline the phenomenon, looking at people living in an abandoned train tunnel beneath Riverside Park, along the banks of the Hudson River.
Collective imagination took over quickly.
In 1993, Jennifer Toth published her essay “,” documenting hidden communities residing in a network of forsaken caverns, holes and shafts across Manhattan. An instant hit, it chronicled the organization of those underground societies, describing compounds of several thousands where babies were born and regular lives were lived, with elected officials, hot water and even electricity.
However, the book was promptly criticized for its inconsistencies. Joseph Brennan, a New York rail buff, wrote an extensive and detailed critique in 1996, exposing many discrepancies in Toth’s reporting, such as places that couldn’t exist, exaggerated numbers and contradictory claims. According to Brennan, the whole notion of secret passages was implausible and “reminiscent of scenes in the TV series ‘Beauty and the Beast.’”
by Cecil Adams further demonstrated that many accounts were perhaps more sensationalism than truth. Adams pointed out unverifiable or incorrect facts in Toth’s work, and her skepticism peaked during her interview of Cindy Fletcher, a former tunnel dweller who challenged important points of the narration. “I’m not saying the book is not true, I just never experienced the things [she] said she saw,” Fletcher explained to Adams. I was unable to reach Toth for comment, but when Adams talked to her, the journalist said she couldn’t remember how to access certain places described in her essay — possibly not to disclose the whereabouts of trespassing squatters.
Still, while the essay might have been inflated or romanticized, it was nonetheless true that the homeless begging in the streets of New York were merely the tip of the iceberg. Photojournalists
have both extensively documented communities spread in underground hideouts since Toth’s book. Dutch anthropologist Teun Voeten’s 1996 diary “Tunnel People” provided an
of the months he spent with the Riverside Park Amtrak tunnel inhabitants before they were evicted and moved to Section 8 housing units. In 2000, director Marc Singer released his acclaimed documentary “,” filming the same people followed by Voeten and Toth in their respective books.
“There were definitely people living in tunnels, but not a lot,” Norman Diederich, a former MTA maintenance inspector, told me. “If there are still any, they’re very discreet. This period is gone.”
“There were talks that the moles were cannibals,” Diederich continued. “That they could see in the dark. That they spoke their own language. Creepy stuff, straight out of a horror movie… Most was made-up. I personally never witnessed unusual stuff. Santa Claus, the Boogeyman, the Mole People, it’s all the same. We need to label things we don’t understand. It’s human nature.”
“Just cause you can’t see don’t mean ain’t nothing there,” begins Anthony Horton’s 2008 graphic novel “,” relating the author’s own struggles as a homeless man. Written in an abandoned crew room of the F subway line, these words were the reason I ventured into the tunnels in the first place, looking for the invisible, guided by local dwellers along the years to seek foundations of humanity in the foundations of the city.
All the stories I had read about the Mole People before descending myself had two things in common.
They all showed simple human beings who were in no way comparable to the legends that had been told, and they all included a man named Bernard Isaac.
I met Bernard Isaac for the first time in 2009. “This is not a place of perdition,” he often said about the Riverside Park tunnel when we talked together during his shifts as a maintenance worker in Central Park. “This is a sanctuary. A place to find peace and take a break from the chaos.” He would then reminisce about his old life, his eyes would light up and there would be the crack of a smile, and whatever place we were in would be filled by his presence.
Isaac was at the very center of the Mole People legend. His BA in journalism and his studies in philosophy had somehow led him to work as a model, then as a TV crew member, then as a tour guide in the Caribbean where he began
to the States. The father of two sons with two different women, he never cared much for family life, preferring to spend his smuggling profits on parties thrown at his Upper West Side penthouse. Soon he was broke, friendless and on his own. By the late 1980s, he was sleeping in the Riverside Park tunnel.
The tunnel was known by homeless people since its inception in the 1930s, when it was used by trains to bring cattle to the city before the freight operations ended. Its population, limited at first to about three or four individuals, quickly grew at the time Isaac settled in, evolving into small tribes of vagrants who built thriving shantytowns in the newly abandoned space.
Few risked getting down into the tunnel. “It often scared grown men easily,” recounted Isaac in 2010 as he showed me his old hangout places. But those who did go down called it home, and it became a haven for the destitute to unwind without fear of getting arrested or .
One day, three men asked Isaac for a toll as he came by the 125th Street entrance to the tunnel. He laughed at them and said “Do you know who you’re talking to? I’m the fucking lord of this tunnel!” The three men never bothered him again, and Isaac’s nickname “The Lord of the Tunnel” was born.
Though there never was any real leader in the shantytown, Isaac became the community’s de facto spokesman, interacting with outreach groups and journalists to explain how living there was better than dealing with shelter curfews, senseless laws and indifferent social workers. Soon interest came from all around the world.
Ironically, the tunnel’s community support was in many ways more efficient than the one offered by municipal programs. In the encampment, the dwellers had a familiar place to be, watch TV, read or smoke. They had autonomy. Rules were simple but strictly enforced. Respect for privacy. No yelling. No stealing. No stupid behavior or you’d be kicked out. Some, like Isaac, were at home in the darkness, and would not have lived anywhere else. Most who lived here did not consider themselves homeless.
As word spread of the tunnel, a growing number of graffiti artists came to paint the seemingly endless walls that flanked the train tracks. One of them, Chris “Freedom” Pape, had known the place for quite a while before. He became friends with Isaac and his community, teaming up with local tagger Roger Smith — known to most as just “Smith” — to paint pieces narrating their stories. “I hadpainted in the tunnel for six years before the homeless moved in, so they were curious about me,” said Pape in a 2014 interview for “.” “I became friendly with most of them and my visits to the tunnel were much safer and even relaxing.”
In a , Isaac explained that the small community lived as well, if not better, than the average people “up top,” as they commonly refer to the streets. “I’ve had the opportunity to get jobs,” he said. “I don’t choose to be a robot within the system… We’ve done something that one out of every 1,000 men in creation in their lifetimes will do. We dared to be ourselves.”
Some residents were still eager to leave, only to come back later.
John Kovacs, one of Isaac’s neighbors in the tunnel, was once given a $50,000 offer to turn his story into a feature movie and . He was back less than seven months later, the $50,000 Hollywood deal gone sour and Kovacs unable to adjust to life in larger society.
Another who attempted to go to the surface was Bob Kalinski, a speed addict known as the fastest cook east of the Mississippi, who could fry twenty eggs at a time when on amphetamines. A heart attack forced him to . He too returned in the following months. The sense of belonging simply was too strong. The tunnel was a better place for him to be alone in freedom.
“After so many years in the streets, they kind of lose faith in humanity,” said Audrey Lombardi, a volunteer at the Holy Apostles soup kitchen in Manhattan.
“They can’t help it, it’s so deeply ingrained in their lives, it’s like they want to go back to the only thing they know,” she explained, noting that hurt and loneliness often became the steadiest part of a homeless person’s existence after hitting bottom and going further under.
“If I had to do it all over again?” Isaac said in , one of his last ones, a year before his death in 2014. “Unquestionably.”
I keep walking along the tracks. Jon must have passed out drunk, now, somewhere behind me. Every noise is threatening in the tunnel, and I find myself constantly looking over my shoulder, ready to face something too awful to name. Was that a train I heard? A cough? The metallic vibration of a dragged chain?
It smells like death here. The pungent stench of rotting meat.
“Anyone here?” I ask, stopping near an old KUMA tag.
The smell of death all over now. Are those eyes glowing nearby?
I lean against the wall and try to breathe calmly, reminding myself this place is only populated by old memories and the occasional homeless person looking for a safe place to be.
The rumbling feels closer. Something moves somewhere.
I see rats scurrying by, racing into the obscurity. Then I see the charred remains of an animal in the corner of an alcove — a raccoon maybe, a big rodent with liquefied flesh, burnt fur and missing limbs. Was it eaten? By what? By whom?
I walk away holding my breath.
The ground is littered with discarded books and magazines. A broken crack pipe has been left on a cinder block. There is a garden chair, and overturned crates and buckets. A mangled teddy bear. Death everywhere.
“Hey man, how you doing?” says a voice behind me, making me jump with fright. “I’m sorry,” the voice immediately adds. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
I recognize Raúl, an undocumented Dominican immigrant of about thirty who has been living in the tunnel for a year. Raúl shaves every morning with great care. His clothes are spotless, regularly washed at a nearby laundromat. His badly decayed teeth and scrawny figure are the only hints he’s a drug addict.
“I didn’t hear you coming,” I say with my heart pounding like it wants out of my chest. “I came to see Bernard’s old place. Maybe talk to some people.”
“Brooklyn is there. She’s always singing out loud, it’s annoying.”
Raúl still has family out there. An ex-girlfriend and a kid. He rents an apartment from a friend when his kid comes to visit, a clean studio in a gray Washington Heights building.
“I don’t want him to think of me as a bum,” he says. “I won’t be here long enough anyway. You want coffee?”
I nod and he goes into an abandoned service room, returning with two mugs.
“I made a lot of bad choices in my life. I hurt a lot of people. That’s why I don’t ask for nothing, you feel me? I don’t blame anyone but myself. I collect cans, it keeps me busy. I do it all week long. It gets me $140 a week, more in summer.”
The coffee is nice and strong. It feels good in the tunnel’s cold.
Raúl uses a Fairway Market cart to bring empty soda and beer containers to various stores in the neighborhood, where he will redeem them for five cents each. The legal limit of returnable cans is 240 per person per day, so Raúl has to go to several supermarkets to earn more.
“You can actually make a good life here when you’re broke,” he says. “I never got a problem eating what I wanted. The streets are full of opportunities if you know where to look. I deal with what I have.” He shows me a box of cupcakes he found in a garbage can, almost untouched. His dessert tonight.
Finding drugs has never been a problem either for Raúl, who tells me he once spent $150 on crack each day to feed his “pizzo” — his pipe — with “cheap McDonald meals in-between the smokes, and hard fucks with Puerto Rican whores because crack makes me horny as shit.” Heroin prices have gone down lately, so that means Raúl’s consumption has gone up. It’s $10 for a deck of brown heroin, making it cheaper than most other drugs.
Raúl knows the risks. The
means accidents are now more frequent than ever, with .
“It makes me feel good for a moment. As soon as I find a real job, I’ll stop, no doubt,” he says. In the buildings he helps maintain, he occasionally sells the tenants K2 — a form of synthetic marijuana that recently boomed across the city, especially in East Harlem where a homeless encampment was .
“I do what I got to do, you know what I’m saying? I’m just a normal guy who minds his own business. This is who I am. And I never ate no fucking rats,” he jokes.
Raúl insists we share the cupcakes he found. We both eat in silence.
New York’s homeless shelters are a lucrative business. The incentives paid by the Department of Homeless Services to landlords renting out shelter units far exceed the ones given for providing tenants with permanent single room occupancy lodging. In 2014, the average stay was , a homeless shelter on West 95th Street managed by private company Aguila Inc. The city paid Aguila
for each 100-square-foot room occupied by a homeless person.
Conditions are appalling inside the Freedom House. Garbage piles up in the courtyard for rodents to feed on. Aggressive panhandling, drug dealing and violent outbursts are commonplace in the shelter’s vicinity. Sometimes a , or the police close the street after someone is . The NYPD
the place looking for people with outstanding warrants, targeting domestic abusers and failing to arrest the major dealers or car thieves roaming the area. Aguila Inc. didn’t comment on the situation when I reached out to the company, but one of their security officers, who wished to remain anonymous because he feared reprisal from his employer, told me that the lack of resources, upkeep and care were the biggest issues in the facilities.
“Why would anyone want to stay [at Freedom House]?” asks Jessica, a former resident. “I can’t count the times my stuff was stolen from me. One day I was assaulted in my own room and the guards didn’t do anything!” she adds, sitting on a rug in her new spot, inside a man-made cave near the Lincoln Tunnel entrance.
Jessica was evicted from Freedom House in late 2014, after DHS came to an agreement with community boards and nonprofit organizations to cut the shelter’s capacity in two from 400 beds to 200 — a step toward its conversion to a meaningful permanent affordable housing facility.
The 23-year-old knows enough about shelters. She will never go back. She was sixteen when she got pregnant with her daughter Alyssa. She briefly lived with the baby’s father until he tired of dealing with a needy toddler, leaving never to be seen again. Jessica was then diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder and admitted to transitional housing in Brooklyn. She says that within a month, social services was badgering her to place her three-year-old in foster care.
“The thing is, single mothers who go to shelters with their kids never keep their kids for long,” she says. “I was devastated. I called my sister and begged her to take care of Alyssa until I found a place of my own. This was the most difficult thing I’ve ever done in my life, leaving my baby. But it was the right thing to do. At least she is with family. When she grows up I will explain it all to her.”
She looks away, tears rolling down her face.
Once her daughter was in the hands of her sister, Jessica was sent to the Freedom House where she stayed for seven months until Aguila notified her of her imminent relocation. She began sleeping in a subway tunnel after transit authorities made her leave her spot in the Herald Square station corridor on 34th Street, dragging her by her feet when she refused to stand up from her mat. “At first I was like ‘I’m never going down there.’ But then Hurricane Sandy came and I had no place to stay, and I didn’t want to go to a shelter again with all the crackheads.”
She spent about two months living in a recess by the subway tracks of a Midtown station, protected from the elements and from harassment. She wrote a long letter to her daughter there. She never sent it. “I hope you think of me sometimes in your dreams,” the letter ends. “You are the light of my life. I miss you everyday. I love you so much.”
Jessica then moved to her current place, closer to the McDonald’s restaurant where she works. The subterranean area she’s living in is part of the same railway system as the one going through the Riverside Park tunnel, and is home to a couple of other homeless people trying to avoid shelters.
“I obviously don’t tell my colleagues I stay here. But it’s better than anywhere I’ve been before. Here I can have my dog,” Jessica says, petting a small mutt snuggled on her lap. “Plus it’s a temporary situation. I’m eligible for Section 8 housing. In less than a year I’ll be in a real apartment and I’ll have my baby with me again.”
On the floor of her makeshift house is a plastic box full of donated kid’s clothes.
Soon she will give them to her daughter.
“I have to keep faith,” she says in the half-light.
Trash as far as the eye can see. Clothes, glass, bike parts and Styrofoam boxes, plastic toys and rotting food carpeting the dirt ground, all frozen in the tunnel’s perpetual dusk. Brooklyn’s voice echoes in the room as she starts singing Michael Jackson’s “Billie Jean.” I accompany her with a beatbox rhythm, hands cupped around my mouth. “You good, man!” she says enthusiastically, snapping her fingers along.
I catch myself wondering if Raúl can hear us from his place, cursing at us for breaking the no-noise rule of the premises.
Brooklyn might be the oldest resident of the Riverside Park tunnel. Now fifty-four, she has been living here since 1982, when she discovered the place by following feral cats. Like Bernard Isaac, she appeared in various films and documentaries. “I’m a celebrity, you know?” she says with a hint of pride in her voice.
She has perfected her story for journalists along the years. Everything she relates is recited like a school lesson. Her stint in the Marines. The death of her parents and the loss of her family house. The kids lighting her cardboard shack on fire in the park. Her boyfriend BK and their issues. The food bowls left at her door for the forty-nine cats she feeds.
She is a tough woman who speaks her mind, and she has the unyielding attitude of someone who has trudged through life. Her bandana and dreadlocks make her look younger than she is. People in the area know her, but she doesn’t socialize much anymore. She’s been lucky enough to avoid the Amtrak police. “I’ve been here all this time because I keep to myself,” she says. “The cops let me be. I don’t pose no threat!”
It’s already dinnertime. Tunnel stew today, a meal made of anything available — chicken soup, microwave mixes or thrown-away vegetables cooked over a crackling wood fire. “I wish I had a big kitchen with all kinds of cutlery and equipment,” she says.
“I’d cook all day long, man. That would be nice.” The food smells good and draws cats inside Brooklyn’s house. “You want some?” she asks, motioning at me to sit with her. The stew is surprisingly tasty.
“We’re just people,” she says after a while. “It’s hard, living here. You never get used to it. If you accept it, if you stop fighting, you’re done, okay? If you give up…you just die, you know what I’m saying?”
After she finishes eating, Brooklyn shows me a pile of recycling bags filled with countless Poland Spring water bottles collected at a nearby bodega. “This is my savings account for when I need extra money. You gotta be creative here,” she says as she gestures to the posters and pictures pinned on her walls.
Brooklyn is disappointed when I tell her I have to go. She calls one of her cats as I keep walking to the south end of the tunnel.
I soon reach Bernard Isaac’s old den, where I will spend the night, as I sometimes do when I want to taste the solitude he liked so much. The whole place feels like a grave. A cathedral for the dead and the fallen. Nothing is left from the former shacks. Even the smallest pieces of debris are gone.
I try to imagine how it was sitting here with him, watching the flames dancing in front of Pape and Smith’s reproduction of Goya’s “The Third of May.” I realize there is a certain power of being nameless and buried. A raw, burning power that some, like Isaac, will seek their whole life.
“Modern society is guilty of intellectual terrorism,”
while talking about Nietzsche’s philosophy with graffiti artist David “Sane” Smith, the younger brother of Roger Smith. Sane immediately sprayed the quote on the wall.
It encompassed Isaac’s entire way of thinking.
A train rushes by, almost silent with its unbearably bright lights, the air swelling around me as the cars dash past.
I’m rolled in my blanket, quiet in my alcove. I’m not sure I exist anymore. This place is not for anyone to be, I think.
I wait for dreams to come. Sleeping in the tunnel is an alien experience, but the sight of rain falling down the ventilation grates and streaking the chiaroscuro light is worth it alone, definite proof that poetry can endure anywhere.
This is the final byproduct of the city. This is civilization pushed to its foremost edge, a harsh place if any, dangerous and unforgiving, but a peaceful place at the same time, welcoming in its grimness. This is a dark and wild beast inviting you to come closer because nothing will ever be all right, but she will always be at your side to keep you warm.
When Amtrak decided to reactivate the Riverside Park tunnel’s train tracks in 1991, about fifty residents were evicted from the shantytown and received vouchers for temporary housing. This first round of evictions wound up largely ineffective and the population quickly grew back to its initial size, as people from up top encampments went straight to the tunnel when they were .
The Empire Line trains rushing through didn’t stop them from coming down here.
Amtrak Police Captain Doris Comb started calling for more enforcement, effectively pushing the homeless out of the active railway. Different times were looming ahead. Safer times. Sterilized. Hygienic. “We try to offer the homeless a variety of social services,” . “The problem is that most homeless are completely isolated. They feel rejected and decline assistance.”
Bernard Isaac still held a grudge against Comb eighteen years later, for having seized the #102 universal key to the exit gates an Amtrak employee had given him. “It was clear in my head that I didn’t want to go,” he told me in 2012, sipping a tea on the Hudson River Greenway. “We were ready to brick up the entrances if needed. We knew that we would have to leave eventually, but we didn’t want to accept it just yet.”
The tunnel residents weren’t quick to fill the multitude of forms requested by the Social Security Administration. Some flatly refused to cooperate and gave up all hope of being granted Section 8 apartments.
In 1994, U.S. Secretary of Housing Henry Cisneros visited the dwellings and, realizing the urgency of the situation, released 250 housing subsidy vouchers and a $9 million grant to help the squatters move to appropriate accommodations. Unfortunately, ; the Mole People were not considered “housing-ready” even though they had already created homes from nothing, complete with furniture and decorations.
It wasn’t until Mary Brosnahan, director at the Coalition for the Homeless, negotiated with Amtrak to temporarily delay the evictions, that the vouchers were distributed to the tunnel community. The dwellers eventually received permanent housing, leaving the tunnel mostly empty for the first time since the mid-1970’s.
Margaret Morton would later write in a New York Times article that this solution had been by far the most economical for the city. “It costs more than $20,000 a year to keep a person in a cot on an armory floor,” she wrote. “It costs about $12,000 to keep that person in the kind of supported housing being made available to the tunnel people.”
As the photojournalist Teun Voeten would discover in 2010, some of the former squatters later achieved normal lives again. There would even be success stories. Ralph, one of the subjects of “Dark Days,” became manager of an Upstate New York hotel and owner of a cleaning company.
Then there were the others.
One would commit suicide, sitting in front of a running train. Another was found dead in his apartment. Another succumbed to AIDS. Another simply vanished. Isaac’s friend Bob Kalinski, the speed cook, moved to a 42nd Street SRO building where he still lives at this time, in a wheelchair and with a serious heart condition.
Bernard Isaac passed away in late 2014, closing a chapter of an old New York legend. His ashes were sprinkled across a creek in his native Florida.
The legend was gone, but homelessness was more real than ever.
According to Coalition for the Homeless, , an all-time record since the Great Depression, with numbers increasing for the sixth consecutive year.
“As liberal as New Yorkers want to be known, I think there’s a class war at work in this city,” Jeanne Newman, the founder of outreach group SHARE and a dear friend of Bernard Isaac, explained during a phone conversation.
Eighty percent of New York’s shelter population is currently made up of families — many working multiple jobs to make ends meet. There were 42,000 homeless children across the five boroughs in 2014.
“Do you know what the major cause of homelessness is in this country?” Newman asked. “It’s the lack of affordable housing. End of story. Everything else becomes a symptom. Drug issues, domestic violence issues, they’re all symptoms, as opposed to being a cause. The cause is lack of affordable housing.”
The median , while affordable housing placements fell sixty percent between 2013 and 2014.
“We’re the wealthiest country in the world, why are we not fixing this problem?” Newman asked.
“Amtrak Police Department now does inspections on a regular basis for signs of homeless persons and encampments,” Cliff Cole, Amtrak’s New York manager of media relations, Wall Street Journal in 2011. At the time of his declaration, only five people had been found living in the Riverside Park tunnel, but a different community was already growing on a nearby dead-end street dubbed .
Today, Chris Pape’s murals are slowly vanishing, painted over in 2009 to discourage urban explorers from visiting the tunnel. His “Buy American” masterpiece, dedicated to the tunnel’s former residents and featuring portraits of Isaac and Kalinski, doesn’t exist anymore. His Goya reproduction has been damaged by water. In a few years from now, it will be completely gone, washed away by the elements.
Morning light is different in the tunnel — colder maybe, and whiter, casting long straight beams onto the rails. Wind gusts make dust rise up in whirlpools. A blue jay flies past a grate. I wake up and New York slowly comes to life.
“God will save me, and it will save you, and it will save all these people too. Soon, we will all be saved,” Carlos says later, as we watch a basketball game in Riverside Park, the overpass casting its shade over our heads.
Carlos lives holed up in an old sewer pipe of about six feet high by five feet wide near the south entrance to the Riverside Park tunnel. He is one of the few original dwellers who stayed. His house is small but very practical, entirely concealed by a metal lid he takes great care of pulling on every time he gets inside. “It’s a good hideout,” he explains in a thick Spanish accent.
His electricity is tapped from an outlet further down the tunnel, allowing him to store his food in a refrigerator and have heat during winter. “Insulation is pretty good. I’m comfortable and no one can see me. I’m used to it now. It’s good for reading. I read a lot. All kinds of books. I read them and I sell them.”
The increased police patrols make his life less simple than it was a few years ago, but he keeps an upbeat attitude about it. “They don’t give me trouble too much. Sometimes they try to make me leave. It’s my home, I tell them. Maybe I live like a mole, but I’m not an animal.” He just wants to be left alone.
Carlos shows me where a decomposing body was found by Amtrak workers in 2006, months after taggers had discovered it. Two femurs bundled in cargo pants, neatly laid into an old child stroller, with pieces of leathered skin still attached to them, and a skull standing on top of a nearby pole.
This was the tunnel’s way of saying hello.
We walk around together to go check on Terry, an older alcoholic man who has been staying here since his wife threw him out of their apartment in Harlem’s Lincoln Houses public housing complex. Carlos is concerned about Terry’s health.
“He’s been drinking too much,” he says. “Last week I had to call 911 on him again.”
We find the old man sleeping on a couch behind a safety wall. A copy of Steinbeck’s novel “Of Mice and Men” rests on the sofa. Inside, a sentence is underlined in blue ink. “Guys like us got nothing to look ahead to.”
We stay a moment at his side before I finally leave the tunnel, emerging from the wet ground behind a grove of trees. The streets seem slower than usual. The clouds heavier.
“What does not kill me makes me stronger,” Nietzsche wrote. But hurt doesn’t make us stronger. Hurt just makes us hurt. And hurt lives in the land of the lost, and unites them in missing love and broken homes, for five cents a can, 240 cans per day.
The few Mole People left today survive in hurt.
They are relics of a New York that was, and witnesses of a world so estranged that nobody truly remembers it anymore. Most are too late for the topside life.
How easy it would be to go away and never come back.
But this is their city. This is their home.
These are their minds wandering and their time slipping.
Their hopes and their thirsts until the sun goes down.
Away — to a place made of birches and wet leaves and blue afternoons and muddy clothes, a place where dark days would be foreign — a place for them and all the unseen, warm as liquor, where hurt would be sweet and love would be real.
We humans are far more complex than the news headlines and clickbait would have you believe. Let the Narratively newsletter be your guide.
Story by Photo courtesy State Archives of Florida
The All-American Girls Professional Baseball League did everything it could to keep lesbians off the diamond. Seventy-five years later, its gay stars are finally opening up.
Josephine “JoJo” D’Angelo was in a hotel lobby in 1944. An outfielder for the South Bend Blue Sox — a team in the All-American Girls Professional Baseball League (A.A.G.P.B.L.), founded the year prior — she had dark, curly hair. Even if you didn’t know her last name, her looks hinted at her Italian heritage.
The hotel was likely decorated with muted colors in the modernist style of the previous decade. Thanks to World War II, there were supply shortages and rations, which put a hold on new design in the early ’40s. All available supplies needed to go toward the war effort.
The story was similar in baseball. With most of the Major League Baseball players deployed, executives decided to fill the gap with female players, paving the way for the A.A.G.P.B.L.
But in the hotel that day, D’Angelo was approached by one league executive and told that she was being released from her contract. This was devastating for the right-hander who’d batted .200 in her two seasons with the Blue Sox. She’d been playing since she was a little girl, and had spent her days working in a steel mill in her hometown of Chicago while devoting evenings to playing ball, before attending a tryout for the league at Wrigley Field. That scene was made famous by the film “A League of Their Own,” with hundreds of women traveling from around the country to the brick ballpark with the ivy-covered outfield wall.
Why was D’Angelo being cut from the thing she loved most in the world? When she told the story later in her life, she gave the reason: “a butchy haircut.” It was a haircut she says she never even wanted, one she was pressured into getting by the hairstylist who assured her she would look lovely with her dark curls trimmed into a bob.
D’Angelo had broken one of the cardinal rules of the A.A.G.P.B.L.: “Play like a man, look like a lady.” But she wasn’t the only one. Connie Wisniewski was told she’d be kicked off her team if she chose to get a close-trimmed cut. Multiple recruits were immediately handed tickets home after they showed up to spring training with bobs, and “Dottie Ferguson was warned by her chaperon against wearing girls’ Oxford shoes, because they were excessively masculine-looking,” writes Lois Browne in her book Girls of Summer: In Their Own League.
Members of the Fort Wayne Daisies baseball team, 1948. (Photo courtesy State Archives of Florida)
Players had to attend charm school and wear lipstick on the field. Their uniforms had skirts instead of pants — not great for sliding, but deemed appropriately feminine by league owner Philip K. Wrigley. All of this was chronicled in “A League of Their Own.” But there was one thing the movie left out: the reason for these requirements.
Though it was never explicitly stated, historians and players alike say the rules were in place, in part, to prevent the women from being perceived as lesbians. Many of the women actually were gay, including D’Angelo, which is another part of the story the movie didn’t tell. By not including a gay character’s story in “A League of Their Own,” the film does to the history of the league what the owners tried to do its existence — erase lesbians from the narrative.
When Terry Donahue met Pat Henschel in 1947, Donahue was a 22-year-old catcher and utility infielder in the All-American Girls Professional Baseball League. She grew up playing ball with her younger brother, Tom, on their family’s farm in Saskatchewan, Canada. “She claimed that she was five-foot-two. She was about five-foot,” Henschel tells me over the phone from the home she shares with Donahue. “She had dark hair, blue eyes, and was very attractive, and she was wonderfully liked.”
Donahue was in Nova Scotia for the winter when she met Henschel, who was 19 at the time. The two women hit it off, keeping in touch when Donahue moved back to the U.S. to play for the Peoria Red Wings. “She was a utility player, and the catcher on her team broke her thumb or her finger,” Henschel says. “The manager came up to her and said, ‘Have you ever caught?’ And Terry said, ‘no.’ He said, ‘Well, you’re going in tonight.’” The first game Donahue ever caught ended up being a 19-inning game. The next day was her birthday.
“The only things [women] can’t do, we can’t hit as far and we can’t throw as hard, but we certainly can make all the plays that you see in the Cubs’ ballpark. Or the Sox,” Donahue told the Kane County Chronicle in 2010, referring to the Cubs and White Sox, Chicago’s two major-league squads.
Left, Terry Donahue’s baseball card. Right, Peoria Redwings team photo in 1947 – the year she met Pat Henschel. Donahue played in the team from 1946 to 1949. (Photos courtesy All American Girls Professional Baseball League Players Association)
Today, Donahue, who has Parkinson’s disease, is 92. Henschel is 89. For seven decades the two told almost everyone, aside from their inner circle, that they were best friends. The Chronicle story calls Henschel Donahue’s “cousin and roommate.” But the truth was much more than that. For 70 years theirs has been a love story, originating in a time when the only love stories we were allowed to tell were those between a man and a woman. Try to ask most former players about the issue and they clam up. “I don’t think it was really even talked about, frankly,” Henschel says.
In the ’40s and ’50s, homosexuality wa it wasn’t until 1973 that the American Psychiatric Association removed it from the list of mental illnesses. The players could have lost more than just their baseball careers if they had been open about their queerness. They could have lost their families, occupations, and reputations, too. In those days, “you had to be very discreet, and we were,” says Henschel. “No one was even aware of it because we got so careful and no one would have even imagined anything at all.”
That stigma has carried on for decades. As Ila Borders, the first woman to play for a men’s professional baseball team since the Negro Leagues, wrote in her memoir, Making My Pitch, “I remain certain that my professional career would not have been possible had I come out.” In 1994, Borders, a left-handed pitcher, became the first woman to receive a college baseball scholarship. She was the first to start an N.C.A.A. baseball game and the first woman to get a win in collegiate baseball. She then played for the independent, otherwise all-male St. Paul Saints and Duluth-Superior Dukes.
“In 1994 few in baseball — or in the country — were ready to accept a gay player, male or female,” writes Borders. Indeed, that same year, the book SportsDykes: Stories From On and Off the Field was also published. In her essay, “The Lesbian Label Haunts Women Athletes,” Lynn Rosellini writes, “To most lesbian athletes … coming out is not yet worth it.”
“If a woman plays hardball, people figure she’s likely gay,” writes Borders. It’s why, during her baseball career, she constantly had to answer questions about whether she dated men, and had to reassure the public that, despite the fact that she played ball, she was not gay. She understands today that talking about being a gay athlete is a double-edged sword, in a way. There’s the stereotype that women athletes are all lesbians, which is both inaccurate and unfair. And yet, there’s also the truth that there are many athletes who are also lesbians.
“I was deeply ignorant of my small place in the history of women athletes and the whole gay rights movement,” Borders writ