Poster Vendor Discusses Life on the Corner of 116th

Standing quietly behind an eclectic assortment of images portraying such marketing icons as models, musicians, museum exhibitions, and movie titles, a street vendor--the self-proclaimed "Posterman"--has himself become a permanent fixture on the Columbia campus.

Situated on Broadway's sidewalk, just a few feet away from Columbia's gates, Debó, who declined to give his last name, and his posters are a familiar site to commuting students and workers entering and exiting the 116th Street subway station.

"My girlfriend attends Columbia University. Taking the 1 or the 9 several times a week to visit her, I see the 'poster guy' fairly often getting out of the subway, and have even bought a couple of posters from him," said Fausto Jaquez, a Rutgers student. "He's a genuinely nice guy with a good business, but that's all I could tell you."

While few students know much about the man who sells them the posters that decorate their dorm room walls, to Debó, Columbia students are less of a mystery.

"I've been here for two and a half, three years. I can look and see the difference between the freshman and the seniors," Debó said confidently. "I can look at their faces and tell the freshmen are pretty wide-eyed, and the seniors are about business. Once you become a senior here it seems like you become a little more focused."

Braving the weather for three hours at a time, Debó keeps warm under his usual multiple layers of clothing. A tall man, Debó can usually be seen in the winter bundled up in his black hooded sweatshirt, his hands tucked tightly into his coat pockets that rest just above his waist, with a distinctive grown-out beard that also seems to serve that same purpose of protecting him from the bitter cold.

At times, a slight tone of disappointment accompanies his voice. Other times, however, a sense of nostalgia can be heard as he speaks about college and the possibility of pursuing a Bachelor's degree.

"If only I could afford it, I'd love to take classes here," Debó said as he pointed to the Journalism building standing directly in front of him.

Most times, however, an opposing sense of pure content overwhelms Debó's voice, accompanying a generally kind and happy disposition. There is an acceptance of a reality, in which Debó sees his larger and most important role at this point of his life as being a family man. His two young sons are both currently in grade school, and their education has become Debó's highest priority.

Selling posters for additional income, and selling them in the relatively calm, hassle-free Morningside community lends itself to a hard-working man who enjoys and values his peace. Though the idea of a more lucrative market in either Times Square or Greenwich Village is appealing, its high volume and naturally fast-paced natures are not.

"This way here is calmer. I'm not in front of anyone's business. I'm not scaring anybody's business. My wall is here and the subway backing of the exit of the train. I'm not hurting anybody here, and that's what I hope people see."

He patiently watches over his merchandise, waiting for customers, bearing in mind an acute awareness that both the location and nature of his work may lead some passers-by to form inaccurate and unfair perceptions of who he is.

"Some of the kids are very cynical because the first thing for most of the students is where did I get my posters from," Debó said. "They are under the impression that because you're a New Yorker you've gotten them illegally."

Though he says that, for the most part, people in the community are "supportive," Debó's notions concerning people's negative presumptions have only been reinforced by numerous, unwarranted run-ins with the law.

In his three years serving the Morningside community, he has been forced to spend the night in jail twice, only to have his case dismissed by a judge the following day both times. Selling paper that depicts neither politically nor sexually explicit material is completely legal, Debó explained. Responding to his encounters with the New York Police Department, which appear to have affected him personally, Debó has obtained a federal tax identification in the hopes of being able to do business without fears of further unjustified arrests.

The idea to start a second-income occupation of selling posters first came to Debó as most business ideas do. After a friend commented on the posters hanging on his very own walls, Debó recognized a possible demand for a product that is "washable, waterproof, and durable." Columbia University, blocks away from his apartment in Harlem, presented itself as an ideal market.

A Florida native, Debó moved to New York City at the age of six, and has been faithful to New York ever since. In his 40 years here, Debó has lived and worked in locations throughout the five boroughs. He attended Bronx Community College, where he earned an Associate's Degree, and after, Adelphi University. Despite spending time across the city, Debó has a special connection to the Upper West Side, where he has been both longtime resident and community worker.

For 13 years, Debó served as a director for the Westside Youth Council, a job placement program for inner-city youths. The council worked with city agencies to employ both students and non-students coming from low-income households who lived between Riverside Park and Central Park, from 72nd Street to 110th Street.

Debó solicited funding for a program that boasted an active summer participation of over 1,200 boys and girls. Largely dependent on federal funding from the Department of Employment, Deployment of Labor, the Community Development Agency, as well as area policy boards, the council was severely hurt by budget cuts inflicted during the Reagan era. The program was soon discontinued after a depletion of staff, several more cuts in funding, and a merging of community agencies.

Today, Debó is a husband, father, and, since September, a grandfather, a title he's slowly adjusting to.

"It's something else. I'd always wanted a grandson, of course. But I just didn't think I'd be a grandfather that soon. I keep forgetting, sometimes people would say 'Hey Mister!' and I'm looking around like 'Mister?' And I remember I'm 46. I'm definitely old enough to be someone's pops now."

Debó originally never thought he would be a grandfather at the age of 46, nor could he foresee himself still selling posters.