THE SAD THINGS YOU DON'T FORGET

I was standing on the subway platform in Atlantic Terminal on a cold evening, about 8 o'clock or so, in the weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas. A mother dragged her crying 3-year-old son down the stairs to a bench and ordered him to sit. He climbed onto the bench and she stood in front of him as he cried and called out to her, reaching for her. She smacked his hand away and said, "If you touch me again, I'll break your arm."

I stood there staring at her, wondering what to do. If I said something, would it make it worse for the little boy at home. I was aware that if this were my mother and I was that child, that any stranger making critical comments about her mothering ability would enhance her shame and later, I would have to deal with that. This young mother needed help, that was clear. And also clear was that this was her relationship with her son. I don't mean the relationship was none of my business. I mean that she had already established authority with this little boy - most likely through violence or the threat of violence - because he wasn't moving off that bench.

She saw me watching her. I'm quite sure my confusion and disapproval were registered on my face, but that didn't change anything. Wherever, however, she lived, this behavior was acceptable. And I understood that, because my mother used to speak to me that way. She didn't threaten to break my arm. She threatened to brain me and when I asked at four years old what that meant, she told me "I'll take a brick and bash your brains out."

We lived in a neighborhood where one mother wore a leather belt strung around her neck so it was at hand to beat her kids. Our next door neighbor used to lock her daughter in a closet. I know that because one day I was playing in their house and I got locked in the closet with her. I wasn't frightened really, because Maggie told me her mother always let her out.

These are the parents who only feel powerful when they are angry. They live on the edge of breaking down and back away from the edge by lashing out. Their words are worse than their physical actions and far more permanent. They can put a fine face on to the public - so friendly, so charming - but their damage at home is continuous and unseen especially when someone has stirred up their deeper shame. 

There's a way of living that isn't in the Christmas commercials for Sears or Target or Wal-Mart where everyone is so jolly and families are so supportive. There's a way of living that is filled with stress and overwhelm. There are people who see the ads on TV and billboards - happy families, buying power, holiday cheer - and they wonder where it is. Anger, frustration, sorrow, those are their ghosts of Christmas past-present-future.

So, I tread carefully that night. 

But, when I see a homeless person, I can think for a moment what they might have experienced. Think of the sense of worthlessness they may have lived with that's brought them to beg at the freeway off-ramp right next to my car window.  I can hand a disposable poncho to a man in the rain, a few dollars to an old toothless woman (who blessed me and when I blessed her back, thanked me for it).  I can give the last few dollars in my wallet to someone struggling to eat.  

I encourage you to think about giving a smile, encouragement, tutoring, mentoring, coaching. Think of the children, the elderly, the vulnerable who have need of a kind word if not a dollar or two. 

Don't be lazy. Don't be afraid. You have something to give away.  Forget about the tax write-off and hand a bag of clothing to someone at the corner begging.  For a day, stop posting your provocative messages and angry opinions on social media and turn to do something good, something kind and peaceful, something that could have far-reaching consequences that you may never know about.

Think of that little boy on the train platform in Brooklyn. He's in all of us to one degree or another.  

BAD NANNIES

Every day in Brooklyn, the nannies are out pushing strollers that hold the children in their care.  They are ubiquitous in the parks – even in winter – and on the subways.  Hiring a nanny is a way of keeping a child at home and away from the head lice and diseases that are found in day-cares and preschools.  But, while day-cares are licensed and generally have security cameras, the nanny is a free agent.

I read the bestseller The Nanny Diaries, and while I’m sure there are indifferent narcissistic mothers like the one in that story, I wonder how most of the mothers would feel if they knew what their nannies were up to.  For example, one spring afternoon I saw two nannies with strollers parked in front of the garage door of an expensive house.  The nannies were sharing a blunt that I could smell as I rode by on my bike.  I wouldn’t want the nanny of my child to smoke cigarettes on the job, let alone marijuana.

Once, a long time ago, I saw a very famous middle-aged actor walking in a park, holding a book near his face and reading.  A toddler about two years old was trailing behind trying to keep up with the actor that I could only assume was the little boy’s father.  I thought that was sad that the little boy was getting no attention.  But now the nannies can’t put their cell phones down for a minute, unless of course, they are in the company of other nannies.  Then they talk to each other.

I was once in a store in Atlantic Mall and a nanny was shopping for clothes and talking on the telephone while the little boy in the stroller just cried and cried.  Was he hungry?  Thirsty?  Wet diaper?  He needed something, something his parents were paying that nanny to provide and she was just ignoring him.  Finally, after 30 minutes (possibly longer) I approached her and said I’d call security if she didn’t take care of that little boy.  She got all humble and sheepish and spoke in a Spanish accent, “Yes, I take care right away” and then got in line to pay for her stuff. 

The worst nanny situation I witnessed was on a train headed for Coney Island.  Two boys about 4 and 6 years old were sitting across the aisle from me.  Their nanny – blond, Slavic accent – was laying on the seat in front of them.  Cursing at them softly.  Using the F-word at these kids.  She wore a baseball cap and had it pulled down low and evidently she had serious problems.  The smallest of the boys stood in his seat and she ignored that until he fell.  She helped him up, cursing softly all the while.  I determined to find a cop as soon as we got off the train.  The parents should know and the cop would get information to let them know.  But when the train stopped she got off quickly with the kids.  I tried to follow, but when I saw a cop and when I veered off to speak to him, I lost her. 

All I can say is – check your nanny.