New York
How Brandon Kazen-Maddox, an American Sign Language Artist, Spends Their Sundays
Brandon Kazen-Maddox has always felt an affinity with mermaids.
“We both straddle two worlds,” said Mx. Kazen-Maddox, 36, an American Sign Language dancer, choreographer and filmmaker who is nonbinary and uses they/them pronouns.
Mx. Kazen-Maddox, like both their parents, is hearing. But they grew up living with their mother at her parents’ home in Washington State, where their maternal grandparents, both of whom are deaf, spoke with their hands.
Soon, Mx. Kazen-Maddox learned to do the same. “I like to say my words are just along for the ride,” they said.
Mx. Kazen-Maddox has been interpreting professionally since 2012 and has worked on the Broadway production of “Aladdin” and for former President Joe Biden, the composer Lin-Manuel Miranda and the actress Marlee Matlin.
In a half-hour PBS special scheduled for Tuesday, “SOUL(SIGNS): Making Music Visible,” Mx. Kazen-Maddox documented the process of choreographing, filming and performing an A.S.L. music video for Morgan James’s “Drown,” shedding light on their own relationship with music and sign language.
“I see a lot of A.S.L. as an afterthought or interpretation just thrown in,” they said, “and it ends up not doing service to the Deaf community.”
In 2020, Mx. Kazen-Maddox started the Up Until Now Collective with Kevin Newbury, a director and Mx. Kazen-Maddox’s partner of five years, and Jecca Barry, a producer. The collective, whose projects include “SOUL (SIGNS),” has a multidisciplinary focus on inclusive storytelling.
As a person who yo-yos between various projects, Mx. Kazen-Maddox loves having a home base in a cozy duplex on the Upper West Side of Manhattan along the Hudson River, where they live with Mr. Newbury, 47, and more than a dozen plants.
“My Sunday is essentially five lives in a day,” they said.
SUN, SUN, SUN HERE IT COMES I wake up at 8 a.m. I try my hardest not to use an alarm. I just think it’s healthier. Sometimes I’ll go to sleep with the windows open so I wake up to the sun.
SOUL SESSION I like to put on Spotify and play healing, meditative sound bowls when I’m in the shower. It’s a nice way to get in tune with my own spirituality and be grounded. Then I’ll turn on something like “The Telepathy Tapes” by Ky Dickens — information that feeds my soul and my curiosity for the universe.
GOING GREEN I’ll drink a smoothie or eat a pitaya bowl from Cool Fresh Juice Bar on the Upper West Side. Then I water my plants with my partner, Kevin — we’re plant daddies — and that reminds me to be grounded and care for the earth. We have 16, so it takes about half an hour.
MEDITATION AND MUD Around 9:30 a.m., I’ll either take the train or jump in the car down the F.D.R. to the Russian & Turkish Baths in the East Village, where I spend a good four hours, at least, working on my body, mind and spirit. The baths are so special because they’re my Danger Room, in X-Men parlance — they help me practice the extremes.
I’ll go in the Russian room, which is like 160 degrees — it’s intense. And the hammam, the steam room, is this place where there’s humidity. I bring my oils; I’ll put lavender in the air and peppermint and will breathe them together. It’s so nice for your skin, your lungs and any opening to your body.
When I can afford it, I get a series of treatments: a mud massage with mud from Israel, a salt scrub and a soap wash. When they apply the mud, they let it dry for 15 to 20 minutes, during which time I meditate.
STRETCH IT OUT Then I do the dry sauna, where I’ll stretch my splits, my back and my shoulders. That keeps my dance alive, and it’s meditative. And it’s a little bit of a display of, like, take care of your body, everybody. I also love the cold plunge because, when I go in, I think about what it feels like to be in outer space, and what it feels like to be at the bottom of the ocean.
A SHOP THAT ROCKS I pop into one of my favorite stores, Crystals Garden, which is across the street from the baths. They have dream catchers, incense, plants and a whole slew of crystals and rocks and handmade things. It’s a good place to find gifts to send to family or friends.
FOOD MODE I go to Joe & Pat’s, which is just around the corner, and order a cauliflower crust pizza. They have this amazing broccoli rabe, and I put that on the pizza, which is red sauce and pepperoni. And then I put their cheesy Alfredo sauce on top of it all. I can eat the entire thing after a morning at the baths, and it makes me feel really great because it’s cauliflower crust and wheat free.
Or I might go to this Japanese place called Ramen Takumi, which is at the northeast corner of Washington Square Park. The Steinhardt roll is my favorite. I love that area, which is very much a home base for me — when I was at school at N.Y.U., I would always be around Washington Square Park and walking through the Village. They also have cool comic book stuff on the walls.
Often, Kevin and Jecca will come and meet me, and we’ll talk about something we’re doing with Up Until Now Collective.
SIGN CHECK At 2 p.m., I head to Club Cumming for a rehearsal for a performance we’re doing on April 15, the day my PBS special airs. We’re going to have a public screening of “SOUL(SIGNS).” Then we’re creating a show called “SOUL(SIGNS): 3X3X3” which is all about Nina Simone’s music. I’m asking three Black soul jazz singers to each pick a Nina Simone song to sing, and then I will be signing, and the jazz pianist Lance Horne will be playing on keys. And I’m going to work with a deaf director of artistic sign language, Patrice Creamer, to translate all three of these songs from my perspective and with her guidance. I’m so excited.
AERIAL ARTS It’s on to another rehearsal at 4 p.m., this one at One Day One in Dumbo with my aerial hoop coach, New York Cat. I started writing a theatrical production of American Sign Language dance theater called (FREEDOM), which is basically my story: It’s about a Black queer child raised in a white deaf family. I wanted to add an element that would keep my body really strong, which is an aerial hoop, and I had never seen anyone do American Sign Language in an aerial hoop before. So I was like, well, let’s do that!
NEIGHBORHOOD NOSH I get home around 6:30 and cook dinner with food that Kevin picked up from Westside Market, our favorite market. Their Portuguese kale soup is phenomenal.
MOVIE NIGHT Kevin and I wind down by watching a movie recommended by “The Queer Film Guide” by Kyle Turner. It’s this cool book that goes through all these movies that you may or may not have thought have anything to do with queerness — like “The Fly,” for example. Who knew? If it’s nice, we’ll bring our projector up and watch it upstairs on the roof.
CUDDLE TIME After the movie, Kevin and I will cuddle up next to each other and read our books. Right now, I’m reading “Fourth Wing” by Rebecca Yarros, and it is so good. Those are the kinds of books that I love, fantasy with blends of strong reality. I’m a big believer that what makes it into our subconscious sets our mood. So I try to make sure that whatever I’m listening to before bed is positive and joyful, or interesting and fantastical, so that it affects my dreams.
Every week since 1976, Metropolitan Diary has published stories by, and for, New Yorkers of all ages and eras (no matter where they live now): anecdotes and memories, quirky encounters and overheard snippets that reveal the city’s spirit and heart.
For the past four years, we’ve asked for your help picking the best Diary entry of the year. Now we’re asking again.
We’ve narrowed the field to the five finalists here. Read them and vote for your favorite. The author of the item that gets the most votes will receive a print of the illustration that accompanied it, signed by the artist, Agnes Lee.
The voting closes at 11:59 p.m. on Sunday, Dec. 21. You can change your vote as many times as you’d like until then, but you may only pick one. Choose wisely.
Click “VOTE” to choose your favorite Metropolitan Diary entry of 2025, and come back on Sunday, Dec. 28, to see which one our readers picked as their favorite.
Click “VOTE” to choose your favorite Metropolitan Diary entry of 2025, and come back on Sunday, Dec. 28, to see which one our readers picked as their favorite.
Two Stops
Dear Diary:
It was a drizzly June night in 2001. I was a young magazine editor and had just enjoyed what I thought was a very blissful second date — dinner, drinks, fabulous conversation — with our technology consultant at a restaurant in Manhattan.
I lived in Williamsburg at the time, and my date lived near Murray Hill, so we grabbed a cab and headed south on Second Avenue.
“Just let me out here,” my date said to the cabby at the corner of 25th Street.
We said our goodbyes, quick and shy, knowing that we would see each other at work the next day. I was giddy and probably grinning with happiness and hope.
“Oh boy,” the cabby said, shaking his head as we drove toward Brooklyn. “Very bad.”
“What do you mean?” I asked in horror.
“He doesn’t want you to know exactly where he lives,” the cabby said. “Not a good sign.”
I spent the rest of the cab ride in shock, revisiting every moment of the date.
Happily, it turned out that my instinct about it being a great date was right, and the cabby was wrong. Twenty-four years later, my date that night is my husband, and I know that if your stop is first, it’s polite to get out so the cab can continue in a straight line to the next stop.
Ferry Farewell
Dear Diary:
On a February afternoon, I met my cousins at the Staten Island Ferry Terminal. Their spouses and several of our very-grown children were there too. I brought Prosecco, a candle, a small speaker to play music, photos and a poem.
We were there to recreate the wedding cruise of my mother, Monica, and my stepfather, Peter. They had gotten married at City Hall in August 1984. She was 61, and he, 71. It was her first marriage, and his fourth.
I was my mother’s witness that day. It was a late-in-life love story, and they were very happy. Peter died in 1996, at 82. My mother died last year. She was 100.
Peter’s ashes had waited a long time, but finally they were mingled with Monica’s. The two of them would ride the ferry a last time and then swirl together in the harbor forever. Cue the candles, bubbly, bagpipes and poems.
Two ferry workers approached us. We knew we were in trouble: Open containers and open flames were not allowed on the ferry.
My cousin’s husband, whispering, told the workers what we were doing and said we would be finished soon.
They walked off, and then returned. They said they had spoken to the captain, and they ushered us to the stern for some privacy. As the cup of ashes flew into the water, the ferry horn sounded two long blasts.
Unacceptable
Dear Diary:
I went to a new bagel store in Brooklyn Heights with my son.
When it was my turn to order, I asked for a cinnamon raisin bagel with whitefish salad and a slice of red onion.
The man behind the counter looked up at me.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t do that.”
Teresa
Dear Diary:
It was February 2013. With a foot of snow expected, I left work early and drove from New Jersey warily as my wipers squeaked and snow and ice stuck to my windows.
I drove east on the Cross Bronx Expressway, which was tied up worse than usual. Trucks groaned on either side of my rattling Toyota. My fingers were cold. My toes were colder. Got to get home before it really comes down, I thought to myself.
By the time I got home to my little red bungalow a stone’s throw from the Throgs Neck Bridge, the snow was already up to my ankles.
Inside, I took off my gloves, hat, scarf, coat, sweater, pants and snow boots. The bed, still unmade, was inviting me. But first, I checked my messages.
There was one from Teresa, the 92-year-old widow on the corner.
“Call me,” she said, sounding desperate.
I looked toward the warm bed, but … Teresa. There was a storm outside, and she was alone.
On went the pants, the sweater, the coat, the scarf, the boots and the gloves, and then I went out the door.
The snow was six inches deep on the sidewalks, so I tottered on tire tracks in the middle of the street. The wind stung my face. When I got to the end of the block, I pounded on her door.
“Teresa!” I called. No answer. “Teresa!” I called again. I heard the TV blaring. Was she sprawled on the floor?
I went next door and called for Kathy.
“Teresa can’t answer the door,” I said. “Probably fell.”
Kathy had a key. In the corner of her neat living room, Teresa, in pink sweatpants and sweaters, was sitting curled in her armchair, head bent down and The Daily News in her lap.
I snapped off the TV.
Startled, she looked up.
“Kathy! Neal!” she said. “What’s a five-letter word for cabbage?”
Nice Place
Dear Diary:
When I lived in Park Slope over 20 years ago, I once had to call an ambulance because of a sudden, violent case of food poisoning.
Two paramedics, a man and a woman, entered our third-floor walk-up with a portable chair. Strapping me in, the male medic quickly inserted an IV line into my arm.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see his partner circling around and admiring the apartment.
“Nice place you’ve got here.” she said. “Do you own it?”
“Yeah,” I muttered, all but unconscious.
Once I was in the ambulance, she returned to her line of inquiry.
“Do you mind me asking how much you paid for your apartment?”
“$155,000,” I croaked.
“Wow! You must have bought during the recession.”
“Yeah” I said.
They dropped me off at Methodist Hospital, where I was tended to by a nurse as I struggled to stay lucid.
At some point, the same medic poked her head into the room with one last question:
“You wouldn’t be wanting to sell any time soon, would you?”
Illustrations by Agnes Lee.
‘Part of the job’
Edwin Guity was at the controls of a southbound D train last December, rolling through the Bronx, when suddenly someone was on the tracks in front of him.
He jammed on the emergency brake, but it was too late. The man had gone under the wheels.
Stumbling over words, Mr. Guity radioed the dispatcher and then did what the rules require of every train operator involved in such an incident. He got out of the cab and went looking for the person he had struck.
“I didn’t want to do it,” Mr. Guity said later. “But this is a part of the job.”
He found the man pinned beneath the third car. Paramedics pulled him out, but the man died at the hospital. After that, Mr. Guity wrestled with what to do next.
A 32-year-old who had once lived in a family shelter with his parents, he viewed the job as paying well and offering a rare chance at upward mobility. It also helped cover the costs of his family’s groceries and rent in the three-bedroom apartment they shared in Brooklyn.
But striking the man with the train had shaken him more than perhaps any other experience in his life, and the idea of returning to work left him feeling paralyzed.
Edwin Guity was prescribed exposure therapy after his train struck a man on the tracks.
Hundreds of train operators have found themselves in Mr. Guity’s position over the years.
And for just as long, there has been a path through the state workers’ compensation program to receiving substantive treatment to help them cope. But New York’s train operators say that their employer, the Metropolitan Transportation Authority, has done too little to make them aware of that option.
After Mr. Guity’s incident, no official told him of that type of assistance, he said. Instead, they gave him the option of going back to work right away.
But Mr. Guity was lucky. He had a friend who had been through the same experience and who coached him on getting help — first through a six-week program and then, with the assistance of a lawyer, through an experienced specialist.
The specialist prescribed a six-month exposure therapy program to gradually reintroduce Mr. Guity to the subway.
His first day back at the controls of a passenger train was on Thanksgiving. Once again, he was driving on the D line — the same route he had been traveling on the day of the fatal accident.
M.T.A. representatives insisted that New York train operators involved in strikes are made aware of all options for getting treatment, but they declined to answer specific questions about how the agency ensures that drivers get the help they need.
In an interview, the president of the M.T.A. division that runs the subway, Demetrius Crichlow, said all train operators are fully briefed on the resources available to them during their job orientation.
“I really have faith in our process,” Mr. Crichlow said.
Still, other transit systems — all of which are smaller than New York’s — appear to do a better job of ensuring that operators like Mr. Guity take advantage of the services available to them, according to records and interviews.
A Times analysis shows that the incidents were on the rise in New York City’s system even as they were falling in all other American transit systems.
An Uptick in Subway Strikes
San Francisco’s system provides 24-hour access to licensed therapists through a third-party provider.
Los Angeles proactively reaches out to its operators on a regular basis to remind them of workers’ compensation options and other resources.
The Massachusetts Bay Transportation Authority has made it a goal to increase engagement with its employee assistance program.
The M.T.A. says it offers some version of most of these services.
But in interviews with more than two dozen subway operators who have been involved in train strikes, only one said he was aware of all those resources, and state records suggest most drivers of trains that strike people are not taking full advantage of them.
“It’s the M.T.A.’s responsibility to assist the employee both mentally and physically after these horrific events occur,” the president of the union that represents New York City transit workers, John V. Chiarello, said in a statement, “but it is a constant struggle trying to get the M.T.A. to do the right thing.”
new video loaded: Protesters Arrested After Trying to Block a Possible ICE Raid
transcript
transcript
Protesters Arrested After Trying to Block a Possible ICE Raid
Nearly 200 protesters tried to block federal agents from leaving a parking garage in Lower Manhattan on Saturday. The confrontation appeared to prevent a possible ICE raid nearby, and led to violent clashes between the police and protesters.
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[chanting] “ICE out of New York.”
By Jorge Mitssunaga
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