Growing Up New York

I spent the morning at the playground, with this small child who looks like she could be mine but is in fact someone I get paid to care for. Her language is mine, thin, light hair encircles both our faces, and when I stare her down to pretend i am the one in charge, my blue eyes pierce hers until we both giggle and carry on.

We ran around the playground, this safe haven with high fences in a midtown corner, where children mill about and never match their caretakers' dialect or skin color. And the thought struck me, how different our lives, and our relations to New York, will be. I grew up in the small town, ran free in the woods, and dreamed of a life where something would happen until I landed starry eyed in the City. But this child, she grows up in the playground that is Manhattan. Smells of fried meat wafting from the corner carts. Somebody upstairs playing the trumpet. Cabs honking and streets neatly arranged on a grid. In a city of such diversity, soon divided up according to class and ranked, opportunities staked out and what age do you let them ride the subway on their own, anyway?

This is the City where she was born, where she has spent most days and the place she calls home. But I can't grasp it. I had to fight so hard to get here. I had to leave all those beautiful people, pack up my most cherished possessions, and run without looking back. I still walk with determination in my step, as if to will New York into existance, should it want to disappear beneath me. And this, this is the place she can take for granted.

It's amazing how different lives can be.