FYI: I originally wrote this...rant...in August, 2007, on myspace (Good Lord, who uses that anymore??) when the film version of "The Nanny Diaries" was released. This subject has come up in conversation quite a bit lately, with regard to the nanny depicted in the remake of the film "Arthur", and I promised some nanny friends I would find it and post it for them to see. So, apologies for the flashback, but it still holds true.
Okay, well maybe I don't really have a Nanny Diary, but I do have a rant or two about the movie.
Now, let me first admit that when I first read the book, oh so many years ago, I was somewhat unimpressed. This was largely because I don't work for families like the X family. I usually work for NORMAL people who want me to work WITH them, not be the parent so they don't have to be.
Since I've read the book, I have had the "good fortune" to encounter...even work for...parents rather similar to those depicted in the book. I mean, all employer families have their quirks and things to complain about. I know I've certainly found plenty to complain about. There was the family who "forgot" to pay me every week so I'd have to keep asking for my check, then the next week they'd be irritated that they had to pay me again. There are the families who are never, ever home on time and seem to think that it is no big deal to assume that I'm always available to work late because why on earth would a nanny have anything else to do? There are the families who promise me two weeks paid vacation a year and then are horrified when I actually take a few days...and then demand that *I* be the one to find their backup childcare even though they assured me at my interview that they had other options for my days off. There was the family that not only expected me to work major holidays, but to travel out of state with them for those holidays and ignore my own personal traditions. There was the family where I would come in some mornings and find liquor bottles still open on the counters in a trashed kitchen and everyone still in bed long past time to get up and ready to get out the door. There was the family where I had to handwash the mom's...personal...clothing items. There have been many families where I was given a list of rules to enforce...and then found that mom and dad didn't enforce them themselves. (And really, if you are going to insist that I only allow your children to eat organic, healthy food it really does make it difficult for me...and them...to follow that when you take them to McDonalds every time the meal prep is your responsibility. Likewise if you tell me your toddler isn't supposed to have his paci except at bedtime but you pop it in his mouth the moment you walk in the door.) There was the family that didn't tell me until the last moment (as they were walking out the door, luggage in hand) that mom and dad were going out of town for a few days and I was expected to stay with the kids that whole time. Then, of course, there was the dad who showed me his bag of sex toys and offered to share them with me.
Oh, I could go on!
But all those families had their good points, too. Like the family that offered me some free days off when I called off my wedding. Or the mom who spent hours researching digital cameras so she could surprise me for my birthday with one that had the exact features I wanted. Or the family that took me to Bali for two weeks...paid my whole way, gave me spa treatments, paid me to go...and then hardly asked me to work when we were there and spent a good part of the time buying me drinks at the pool bar. Or the mom who raced home early, without warning, on three different occasions within 4 months so I could attend the births (as the doula) of two of my nephews and the daughter of a friend. Or the many families who have invited me to spend holidays with them in their homes because I'm "family" and because they know I don't generally spend many holidays with my own family. Or the family that asked me if they could name me their children's guardian in the will.
But can I just rant for a minute about this freaking movie?
I understand that movies and their literary counterparts are bound to differ. The book is always better. But why change key ingredients of the story, particularly when some of those key ingredients are EXACTLY the POINT of the STORY?
Part of the appeal, at least among the nanny community, of The Nanny Diaries is/was that the nanny in question was a REAL NANNY. Now, granted, she was a grad student working as a nanny to help get through school, and the inherent implication was that when she graduated with her Master's that she'd move on to something different. But that's pretty accurate for a large percentage of the professional nanny population, so that's okay. At least she knew the score. She knew kids, she knew nannying, and she knew parents. Even for those of us who never worked for a family like the X family, we got the nanny thing in the book because at some point we all recognized ourselves.
But the movie? They CHANGED THAT. In the movie, she's a recent college grad with a business degree who strikes out in her first real world job interview. She stumbles into the nanny job opportunity, which she doesn't really want, and decides to take it while she figures out who she is.
She's clueless as to nannying and childcare. She learns, of course, that's the adventure of the film.
But COME ON. Couldn't we please JUST ONCE get a film about a nanny that actually depicts a REAL NANNY? Movies that center around nannies tend to have limited themes. We have movies like "Uptown Girls" and, now, "Nanny Diaries" that depict modern gals with no other option and no skills whatsoever who stumble into jobs taking care of extraordinarily wealthy children with parents who'd rather not be bothered with their offspring. These hapless girls fall in love with their charges (which, in the Nanny Diaries, is claimed to be the number one wrong thing to do!) and learn their jobs on the fly. The basic point in such films is this: Taking care of a child is so easy that any unskilled, untrained idiot can do it well, and probably better than a parent. Then we have the movies like "Mary Poppins" and "Nanny McPhee". Now, I'll admit, I LOVE these movies because they are fun and fanciful. But they kind of set the bar impossibly high. I mean, both those practically perfect nannies have magic skills. Like, real magic, with which they enchant, charm, and discipline their children. Do you have any idea how much easier my daily work would be if I could snap my fingers and thus make all the toys put themselves away??? I've tried and I still can't master that one. Plus, both those nannies stay for such a brief while and then, once things are they way they want them, they leave. The reality is that most nannies aren't going to leave unless the job SUCKS. Not when the job is finally all settled in perfectly! Then there are the charming tales a la "Sound of Music" wherein yet another inexperienced caregiver arrives to make all things well...and to fall in love with the single father. In some films, he's not even single. And, finally, my favorite (note the sarcasm), films like "The Hand that Rocks the Cradle" wherein the nanny isn't really a nanny, but some psychopath bent on causing grave harm to the parents, the children, or both.
I'm a real nanny. I deliberately and consciously chose this as my career. It's not something I fell into because I lacked any other skills, qualifications, or opportunities. It's not a stop-gap until I can find a "real job." It's no longer the way I'm paying my way through college, because I finished with college more than 11 years ago. It's not a stepping stone for experience so I can go on to "something better." I'm not magical. I can't slide up bannisters, have tea parties in midair, tap my cane and confine children to their beds, or fly sedately with my umbrella in hand. I was never a nun and I can't play the guitar. I have one, I just can't play it. I am not interested in trying to seduce any of the dads I've worked for because I find unavailability in a man HIGHLY unattractive. And, despite what some may want to think, I'm not a psychopath.
I'm a real nanny. I have almost always worked a schedule of 50+ hours a week. I change diapers and I potty train. I read stories, teach ABC's, and teach them to read on their own. I kiss owies, and apply bandaids even just as a fashion statement for a 3 year old who thinks that bandaids are cool. I can't do magic, but I can pretend we live in a magical palace and create an imaginary world in which to play for a rainy afternoon. I hear secret wishes, dreams, and fears. I turn cranky mornings into crazy dance parties full of laughter and groovy moves. I teach parents how to really baby and toddler proof their homes, and how to properly install and use their carseats. I cajole stubborn eaters into trying new foods, and I plan and prepare a nutritious well balanced diet that takes into account allergies, preferences, and mercurial toddler moods. I sing childhood favorites 50 times in a row and convincingly pretend that I am thrilled to sing it again. I organize toy rooms and convince preschoolers that cleaning up and maintaining that order is really fun. I get babies on a napping routine that helps them sleep through the night. I read parenting books and magazines by the truckload. I know how to treat/handle/identify colds, the flu, rotavirus, strep throat, pink eye, diaper rash, blocked tearducts, cradle cap, diarrhea, constipation, colic, reflux, ear infections, Fifths disease, Hand/Foot/Mouth, speech and/or language delays, developmental delays, mono, substance abuse, and teen pregnancy. I reassure parents that their infant/toddler/preschooler/grade schooler/teenager is not abnormal and that this, too, shall pass. I can tell them whether or not their baby/child is within normal developmental ranges and whether or not they need to seek a professional opinion or intervention. And, if those interventions are needed, I can...and have...helped implement those at home. I know where all the indoor play areas are...free and not free...within a 15 mile radius of where I'm working. I even know of some that are farther away. I know where all the shady playgrounds are, too, so that little legs don't get burned on sun-heated slides. I know where the best places are for swimming lessons, gymnastics, and dance classes. I know who to call to sign your kid up for soccer or baseball or swimteam or basketball or hockey. I hug, tickle, snuggle, comfort, and play. I am privy to far more private and intimate information than most people know about their bosses/employers because I work in my employers home. I know what her bad housekeeping secret is (and admit it, we all have at least one!) and I know exactly what both of them think of each others parents. And of each other, for better or worse. I hold someone else's children close in my heart and I decide that I'm willing to lay down my life for these sweet, precious little souls. I may or may not be appreciated for any of this by the parents, and frustrating as that is I also know that there is nothing that shows appreciation more than a child who trusts me to make everything alright, to make everything safe, to make their world a place full of love and fun. The baby who melts into me as she falls asleep, the baby who offers big wet slobbery grinning kisses, the little one who won't let me leave without a high five or a hug, the peanut butter kisses and jelly fingered hugs, the letter from a child that says "I wish you were my sister"...these are the usual signs of appreciation I get and I wouldn't trade those for anything. There's something very humbling when a parent entrusts their child to my care, day after day, and it is a responsibility I will never take lightly.
I'm a real nanny. I'm a member of both the Association of Professional Nannies and the National Association for Nanny Care. Someday, maybe I'll join the International Nanny Association. Yes, we have professional organizations! We even have professional training schools, professional conferences, and professional ongoing education. There's even a National Nanny Recognition Week, but Hallmark has yet to acknowledge that one.
I'm a real nanny. By choice. By profession. I don't need a "real job". I HAVE a Real Job.
Where's the movie that depicts that?
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Sunday, April 3, 2011
True Detroit
When I say "Detroit", what's the first thing that comes to mind?
If you're not from here I'm going to bet that you thought something along the lines of "murder capital", "gangster mayor who went to jail", "crime ridden", "gang violence," or even...as one online acquaintance put it years ago, "post-apocalyptic hellhole."
If you're not from here, I'm going to guess that the only reasons you'd come here are for business or to visit someone you know. You might wonder why anyone admits to being from here. You also might wonder why so many people who live in the suburbs proudly consider themselves "Detroiters" rather than specifically identifying which suburb they vote in. You wonder that because you don't know the true Detroit.
If you're from here, you know better.
Does the D have crime? Yes. Show me a city that doesn't. Show me a major metropolis that does not have a section you'd avoid at almost all costs. What's that? You can't find one to show me? Exactly. Did we have a mayor who went to jail? Yes. So did Washington DC...and they re-elected him when he was released. I highly doubt you'll see that kind of mayor reelected in Detroit. Are there gangs and violence in the D? Yes...as is true of everywhere, even in the suburbs. Post apocalyptic? Honey, I used to live in a third world country, don't tell me about post apocalyptic hellholes!
None of those negative things you might think about Detroit are unique to this city. More importantly, those things aren't what truly defines Detroit and her people.
Let me tell you what does.
What defines Detroit is the sense of community, the spirit here that says "We aren't done, and we can do better, knock us down and we'll come back stronger because we're in this together." It is evident in the community gardens in the city, in the partnerships between city and suburban schools and churches, in the countless tiny grassroots organizations that serve specific needs in the community. It is evident in the Olde English D logo of the Detroit Tigers, a logo that has taken on representing more than a baseball team, it has taken on representing pride in being from Detroit. It is the spirit that reaches out and celebrates itself among strangers who are united in only one thing: Being Detroiters.
I could list dozens of extraordinary, wonderful, special things about this city. Places to go. Organizations. People. Things that began here. Firsts that occurred here. But what spoke to me most recently, most powerfully about the true Detroit was an unexpected showing of true Detroit spirit at a Detroit Red Wings game last week.
As a nanny, I often offer my charges a choice for their birthday gift: A traditional present or a shared experience, a "just you and me" date. I have yet to have a child choose the brightly wrapped toy. This past month, when Little Litigator approached his 6th birthday, I gave him that choice and he chose the outing. He even knew what he wanted to do: Go to his first Detroit Red Wings game.
I found a coupon code for cheaper tickets, cleared a date with his parents, and made our plans. For weeks he counted down the days, checked and double checked that his Wings jersey was clean and in his drawer, ready to be worn. The day of the game, he willingly took a nap because he knew he was going to be out late on a school night. (I apologized to his kindergarten teacher in advance for the tired boy I knew she'd have the next day...) We made a poster together that read "My First Wings Game" and he insisted I decorate it with red stars and curlicues.
Of course, as the title of this blog suggests, nothing in my life goes according to normal and we had some serious snafus when it came to printing out the tickets I'd ordered online...snafus that set us back over an hour. We didn't get downtown until after the game had started and by then Little Litigator was starving. Our plan had been to park at the Fox, eat at Hockeytown Cafe, and take the shuttle to the game. When I pulled into the parking garage I asked the attendant if the shuttle was still running. She didn't think so, but then she saw my near tears frazzled self, and she saw the little boy in a carseat holding tightly to that poster and she said, "Let me call the restaurant for you and ask." She did...and, for the record, the shuttle runs continuously throughout the game. That lovely attendant then pointed me to a spot directly in front of me...one marked "Reserved"...and said, "Honey, you take that spot right up front and get that little boy to the game!" Detroit spirit, there.
Our waitress put us right where we could see the game on the big screen, advised me on dishes that were fast to fix, and made sure we got our food quickly. When we were done and paid, the hostess called the shuttle for us and told us to wait inside where it was warm, she'd watch for it for us. More spirit.
And then, we got to the game. Little Litigator carried his sign in such a way that it was easily read by people we passed as we climbed the stairs into Joe Louis Arena. If you haven't been there lately, there is a huge section of those stairs roped off for smokers. All it took was one smoker to see that poster and to read it aloud. "My First Wings Game...hey, look, it's the kid's first Wings game!" The applause began. People clapped, they cheered, they shouted "Have fun, buddy!"
Little Litigator turned to look up to me, his eyes wide with wonder, and gasped, "It's like they know I'm a rock star!"
What a way to welcome a kid to the game, eh?
That welcome continued as we entered the Joe, as we walked towards our section, and as we climbed more stairs to our seats. People high-fived him, congratulated him, some just grinned and nudged their companions as we passed by. We took our seats and inwardly I groaned at the lack of child aged people in our section and the abundance of young adult hockey fans with adult beverages in their sweaty grasps. I instantly worried about what expletives his perked little ears might overhear and how I would explain those to his parents when they came flying out of his mouth at some inopportune moment. I focused on getting a wiggly overexcited 6 year old out of his coat and hat and into his seat when a most extraordinary thing happened: Detroit spirit settled over us and wrapped us in its embrace.
A young, professional looking man sitting in front of us and several seats down saw Little Litigator's sign. "For real?" he asked him. "It is really your first game? Congratulations, I hope you have fun!" They high fived. The man spoke to his girlfriend, then they both got up. I presumed they were going to get drinks, perhaps use the restroom. Very shortly, they were back. "Here, this is for you." This stranger...this fellow Detroiter who never shared his name with us...had nothing with him but one of those giant foam fingers that fans wave in the stands.
What kind of person gets up during a game and buys a souvenir for a kid he's never met? A Detroiter, that's who.
Maybe you know a kid like the Little Litigator...but he's not shy. He is particularly not shy about sharing his delight and enthusiasm. Every molecule in him radiates his mood and his excitment is enough to make you smile...even laugh...just observing him. He's contagious. He was more fun to watch than the game was.
It's a good thing he is contagious because the Wings blew big time. REALLY big time. As the St. Louis Blues racked up goal after goal, I kept waiting for expletives to fly from the fans around us. None did. Maybe they weren't the kind of people who use that kind of language, but I suspect that much of it was in deference to the tiny little fan waving a foam finger and a poster announcing that it was his first game.
The horrific scoreboard didn't seem to bother Little Litigator. He quickly figured out that dancing kids got noticed and filmed for the jumbotron, so every timeout and every break he stood up and boogied his little heart out, waving his poster and hoping he'd see himself on the screen. I sat next to him and laughed. Another person sitting near us saw me snap a photo of him and called to me..."Let me take a picture of the two of you," she said. "You two are the cutest things I've ever seen". I am forever grateful for that fellow Detroiter...I take hundreds of photos of my charges, but have very few of me with them. I like to think that Detroit spirit whispered in that woman's heart and told her that we'd love a together photo of that night. The picture is perfect...a sparkling boy, his grinning nanny, a hug, a gifted souvenir, and a poster. Perfect.
When the ice cream vendor walked through the section next to ours, Little Litigator was inexplicably (note my sarcasm there...) ravenous. We tried...and failed...to capture the vendor's attention. So you know who flagged him down? That's right...a fellow Detroiter sitting a few rows up, moved by Detroit spirit to intervene on behalf of a hungry, sweets craving child.
The score kept getting worse, but the Little Litigator was riding high on sugar, adrenaline and the friendliness of strangers. "You know," said our gift-giving neighbor, "I think he's the only one here having any fun...but at least he's keeping the rest of us from crying!" Indeed, just before St. Louis scored their tenth (TENTH!!) and final goal of the game, a tiny irate little voice bellowed out "Hey ref! Where's the whistle?!" and triggered a wave of laughter through our section. "That's right, kid, you tell 'em!"
I suppose some would argue we just lucked into nice people. Maybe. But here's the thing...that's a lot of nice people to be a city you'd call grim, no? I don't think it was just nice people. I think it was Detroit. It wasn't just Wings fans...it was a community embracing a new young fan, a community that didn't care what suburb he might be from (or even that he was from the 'burbs), that didn't care what his parents do for a living, that didn't care what color his skin was or what religion his family practices, that didn't care what political leanings he might grow up to have, that didn't care about anything except that he was one of them, that he was a Detroiter doing a Detroit thing for his first time. And that this was enough to celebrate.
That, my friends, is truly Detroit.
After the game, as we wandered looking for the right shuttle, I hefted him onto my hip and pointed out the lights across the Detroit River. "See that? See the river? See those lights? Those lights are a whole other country, sugar bean. Those lights are Canada." He was briefly fascinated, and then replied, "But this side is still Detroit, right? And I'm from Detroit, right?" I thought about that. He wasn't born here, he was born in Chicago...a city his family still dearly loves. I reminded him of this fact. He thought for moment, then lifted his sleepy head from my shoulder and gazed across the river. "Yeah," he said, yawning. "But not anymore. I used to live in Chicago, but not anymore. I choose Detroit now."
Congratulations, Detroit. Another Detroiter.
If you're not from here I'm going to bet that you thought something along the lines of "murder capital", "gangster mayor who went to jail", "crime ridden", "gang violence," or even...as one online acquaintance put it years ago, "post-apocalyptic hellhole."
If you're not from here, I'm going to guess that the only reasons you'd come here are for business or to visit someone you know. You might wonder why anyone admits to being from here. You also might wonder why so many people who live in the suburbs proudly consider themselves "Detroiters" rather than specifically identifying which suburb they vote in. You wonder that because you don't know the true Detroit.
If you're from here, you know better.
Does the D have crime? Yes. Show me a city that doesn't. Show me a major metropolis that does not have a section you'd avoid at almost all costs. What's that? You can't find one to show me? Exactly. Did we have a mayor who went to jail? Yes. So did Washington DC...and they re-elected him when he was released. I highly doubt you'll see that kind of mayor reelected in Detroit. Are there gangs and violence in the D? Yes...as is true of everywhere, even in the suburbs. Post apocalyptic? Honey, I used to live in a third world country, don't tell me about post apocalyptic hellholes!
None of those negative things you might think about Detroit are unique to this city. More importantly, those things aren't what truly defines Detroit and her people.
Let me tell you what does.
What defines Detroit is the sense of community, the spirit here that says "We aren't done, and we can do better, knock us down and we'll come back stronger because we're in this together." It is evident in the community gardens in the city, in the partnerships between city and suburban schools and churches, in the countless tiny grassroots organizations that serve specific needs in the community. It is evident in the Olde English D logo of the Detroit Tigers, a logo that has taken on representing more than a baseball team, it has taken on representing pride in being from Detroit. It is the spirit that reaches out and celebrates itself among strangers who are united in only one thing: Being Detroiters.
I could list dozens of extraordinary, wonderful, special things about this city. Places to go. Organizations. People. Things that began here. Firsts that occurred here. But what spoke to me most recently, most powerfully about the true Detroit was an unexpected showing of true Detroit spirit at a Detroit Red Wings game last week.
As a nanny, I often offer my charges a choice for their birthday gift: A traditional present or a shared experience, a "just you and me" date. I have yet to have a child choose the brightly wrapped toy. This past month, when Little Litigator approached his 6th birthday, I gave him that choice and he chose the outing. He even knew what he wanted to do: Go to his first Detroit Red Wings game.
I found a coupon code for cheaper tickets, cleared a date with his parents, and made our plans. For weeks he counted down the days, checked and double checked that his Wings jersey was clean and in his drawer, ready to be worn. The day of the game, he willingly took a nap because he knew he was going to be out late on a school night. (I apologized to his kindergarten teacher in advance for the tired boy I knew she'd have the next day...) We made a poster together that read "My First Wings Game" and he insisted I decorate it with red stars and curlicues.
Of course, as the title of this blog suggests, nothing in my life goes according to normal and we had some serious snafus when it came to printing out the tickets I'd ordered online...snafus that set us back over an hour. We didn't get downtown until after the game had started and by then Little Litigator was starving. Our plan had been to park at the Fox, eat at Hockeytown Cafe, and take the shuttle to the game. When I pulled into the parking garage I asked the attendant if the shuttle was still running. She didn't think so, but then she saw my near tears frazzled self, and she saw the little boy in a carseat holding tightly to that poster and she said, "Let me call the restaurant for you and ask." She did...and, for the record, the shuttle runs continuously throughout the game. That lovely attendant then pointed me to a spot directly in front of me...one marked "Reserved"...and said, "Honey, you take that spot right up front and get that little boy to the game!" Detroit spirit, there.
Our waitress put us right where we could see the game on the big screen, advised me on dishes that were fast to fix, and made sure we got our food quickly. When we were done and paid, the hostess called the shuttle for us and told us to wait inside where it was warm, she'd watch for it for us. More spirit.
And then, we got to the game. Little Litigator carried his sign in such a way that it was easily read by people we passed as we climbed the stairs into Joe Louis Arena. If you haven't been there lately, there is a huge section of those stairs roped off for smokers. All it took was one smoker to see that poster and to read it aloud. "My First Wings Game...hey, look, it's the kid's first Wings game!" The applause began. People clapped, they cheered, they shouted "Have fun, buddy!"
Little Litigator turned to look up to me, his eyes wide with wonder, and gasped, "It's like they know I'm a rock star!"
What a way to welcome a kid to the game, eh?
That welcome continued as we entered the Joe, as we walked towards our section, and as we climbed more stairs to our seats. People high-fived him, congratulated him, some just grinned and nudged their companions as we passed by. We took our seats and inwardly I groaned at the lack of child aged people in our section and the abundance of young adult hockey fans with adult beverages in their sweaty grasps. I instantly worried about what expletives his perked little ears might overhear and how I would explain those to his parents when they came flying out of his mouth at some inopportune moment. I focused on getting a wiggly overexcited 6 year old out of his coat and hat and into his seat when a most extraordinary thing happened: Detroit spirit settled over us and wrapped us in its embrace.
A young, professional looking man sitting in front of us and several seats down saw Little Litigator's sign. "For real?" he asked him. "It is really your first game? Congratulations, I hope you have fun!" They high fived. The man spoke to his girlfriend, then they both got up. I presumed they were going to get drinks, perhaps use the restroom. Very shortly, they were back. "Here, this is for you." This stranger...this fellow Detroiter who never shared his name with us...had nothing with him but one of those giant foam fingers that fans wave in the stands.
What kind of person gets up during a game and buys a souvenir for a kid he's never met? A Detroiter, that's who.
Maybe you know a kid like the Little Litigator...but he's not shy. He is particularly not shy about sharing his delight and enthusiasm. Every molecule in him radiates his mood and his excitment is enough to make you smile...even laugh...just observing him. He's contagious. He was more fun to watch than the game was.
It's a good thing he is contagious because the Wings blew big time. REALLY big time. As the St. Louis Blues racked up goal after goal, I kept waiting for expletives to fly from the fans around us. None did. Maybe they weren't the kind of people who use that kind of language, but I suspect that much of it was in deference to the tiny little fan waving a foam finger and a poster announcing that it was his first game.
The horrific scoreboard didn't seem to bother Little Litigator. He quickly figured out that dancing kids got noticed and filmed for the jumbotron, so every timeout and every break he stood up and boogied his little heart out, waving his poster and hoping he'd see himself on the screen. I sat next to him and laughed. Another person sitting near us saw me snap a photo of him and called to me..."Let me take a picture of the two of you," she said. "You two are the cutest things I've ever seen". I am forever grateful for that fellow Detroiter...I take hundreds of photos of my charges, but have very few of me with them. I like to think that Detroit spirit whispered in that woman's heart and told her that we'd love a together photo of that night. The picture is perfect...a sparkling boy, his grinning nanny, a hug, a gifted souvenir, and a poster. Perfect.
When the ice cream vendor walked through the section next to ours, Little Litigator was inexplicably (note my sarcasm there...) ravenous. We tried...and failed...to capture the vendor's attention. So you know who flagged him down? That's right...a fellow Detroiter sitting a few rows up, moved by Detroit spirit to intervene on behalf of a hungry, sweets craving child.
The score kept getting worse, but the Little Litigator was riding high on sugar, adrenaline and the friendliness of strangers. "You know," said our gift-giving neighbor, "I think he's the only one here having any fun...but at least he's keeping the rest of us from crying!" Indeed, just before St. Louis scored their tenth (TENTH!!) and final goal of the game, a tiny irate little voice bellowed out "Hey ref! Where's the whistle?!" and triggered a wave of laughter through our section. "That's right, kid, you tell 'em!"
I suppose some would argue we just lucked into nice people. Maybe. But here's the thing...that's a lot of nice people to be a city you'd call grim, no? I don't think it was just nice people. I think it was Detroit. It wasn't just Wings fans...it was a community embracing a new young fan, a community that didn't care what suburb he might be from (or even that he was from the 'burbs), that didn't care what his parents do for a living, that didn't care what color his skin was or what religion his family practices, that didn't care what political leanings he might grow up to have, that didn't care about anything except that he was one of them, that he was a Detroiter doing a Detroit thing for his first time. And that this was enough to celebrate.
That, my friends, is truly Detroit.
After the game, as we wandered looking for the right shuttle, I hefted him onto my hip and pointed out the lights across the Detroit River. "See that? See the river? See those lights? Those lights are a whole other country, sugar bean. Those lights are Canada." He was briefly fascinated, and then replied, "But this side is still Detroit, right? And I'm from Detroit, right?" I thought about that. He wasn't born here, he was born in Chicago...a city his family still dearly loves. I reminded him of this fact. He thought for moment, then lifted his sleepy head from my shoulder and gazed across the river. "Yeah," he said, yawning. "But not anymore. I used to live in Chicago, but not anymore. I choose Detroit now."
Congratulations, Detroit. Another Detroiter.
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