What's in a Face?
This morning’s walk in from the Union Square subway station yielded only one interesting encounter. Though I am more asleep than not when I am just stumbling in to work, I was able to notice a pair that, given a poor opportunity to come up with a clever description, was truly an odd couple. Connecting them, I caught a glimpse of a deeply sweet and rooted relationship between a privileged boy on the verge of adolescence and his much older, black nanny.
He wore all of the outward signs of wealth and well-being; a fresh academy uniform with a navy blazer and a gold school emblem over his heart, a crisp white collared shirt, neatly pressed, a maroon tinged tie with navy details to coincide with his jacket, and clean pressed new khaki slacks. Over his shoulder was a Tommy Hilfiger backpack, slung over carelessly, hanging slack and mostly empty. His skin was nicely tanned like you would see in a Ralph Lauren ad, with a sprinkling of freckles on the bridge of his nose and some on his cheeks. He seemed somehow radiant and, although he was very cute, he wasn’t a gorgeous boy, nor would he be a stunning man. His dark blond mop of hair streaked in blondes so light and varied that the sun bounced off it like a rubber ball. He wore those pricey invisible braces and had beautiful, icy blue eyes shadowed under thick, dark lashes.
His nanny was a study in differences so expansive and obvious that to view the pair chatting and laughing was to enjoy human communication played out on a stage where the situations are usually fictional and certainly uncommon. Her old school “mom” jeans sat high on her waist and, though she wasn’t a fat woman, she was shapely and curvy in that unique way black women enjoy their womanliness. Her short-sleeved pink blouse wasn’t threadbare, but was certainly showing its age. She carried an old, fabric bag that appeared to be stretched to its limits with whatever she felt necessary to carry with her. She walked in a pair of old sneakers in dire need of replacement, but she had a spring in her step that gave the sneakers that lived-in appeal. Her hair was pulled up in a small bun and she wore thin, teacher glasses that did not mask her happy, brown eyes. She wore no make-up, but her face was soft and warmed by the sun and so it developed its own beauty.
Animatedly, the boy was in the midst of some exciting tale that he shared with his nanny to her great enjoyment. She reveled in laughter with such abandon and honesty that I blushed for their lost privacy. I seemed to be invading this moment and I briefly looked away.
Unknowingly, they were not yet leaving my sights, for as they both crossed the Union Square Farmer’s Market before I did; I noticed we three were heading down the same street up 17th, though we had been approaching from opposite sides.
I walked behind them at a decent pace and leaving a decent space between us. Yet I was drawn to them and their loud, fun conversation as less of an eavesdropper and more of an admirer. To me, an eavesdropper is one who listens to someone who is trying to keep things private, so they could turn around and spread the secret to the dismay of its victim. But this boy wasn’t telling secrets; he was sharing stories of his adventurous summer spent divided between California and Brussels. He said he loved the Autoworld Museum and a planetarium he visited in Belgium, taking great pains to give her good descriptive pictures to imagine all he saw. He giggled when he mentioned a pretty California girl whom he kissed “more than once”, while visiting there. He said they exchanged emails and cell phone numbers to text, but he asked her if she thought “it was worth it.” She said he was too young to think in the long-term and that he should see what the next year brought. She made comments to him here and there about his parents and if they too enjoyed the trips, but he was more interested in telling her all about things he did and people he met.
Since nanny made no mention of siblings, I imagined the boy was an only child, someone born while his parents were busy running around their lives when suddenly…surprise! Probably following his birth they decided one was enough, after all there were committee meetings to attend to, businesses to run, trips to plan. More children would just get in the way. So they took whatever precautions necessary and left it at him.
And yet here both nanny and the boy seemed to love this reunion that exists as a result of their different stations in life. As for nanny, she had no tales of great adventures to tell, and if she did, she kept them to herself. Her summer probably went no further than the Central Park Zoo, or maybe another summer job to fill the financial gap left from his absence. She was choosing to live, vicariously through her charge, the kind of life she certainly didn’t have and of places her own children had not yet seen.
I was reminded of the book The Nanny Diaries, written by two former New York City nannies that combined their experiences at the hands and mercy of the city’s elite social circles and created a character so honest, raw, likable, real and profusely endearing that we could do nothing in the face of this freewheeling lovefest but adore their Frankenstein.
As my time behind the boy and his nanny dwindled, I wished to find an excuse to extend my visit in their lives, to follow through and listen some more to his tales and witness some more of her excitement for him. But when we cross 5th avenue and I have to turn toward my building and they walk past 5th and further down, I just stop to watch them – to watch her lovingly nudge him with a motherly familiarity, to see him make a silly face or gesture with his arm to entertain her. It is disarming this caring, loving friendship and I wonder to what extent it can survive. Will it be like the life of a human, good for a healthy 80 plus years, if you’re lucky? Or is this the kind of transparent relationship that will end abruptly when he no longer needs to be nannied and she finds herself unemployed? Right now this nanny is one of his best friends and confidants. I can hear it in the tone of voice he uses and the way he jokes with her. There is connection there, but I wonder if it’s a connection that’s thin as onion skin, or if there is hope it will endure the changes that will inevitably come as he gets older.
I am saddened by the very real possibility that circumstances, situations, stations and money will ultimately win here and these two will part ways – perhaps unkindly – as the road before them stretches out. I close my eyes and a small prayer pops unexpectedly into my head. My prayer is asking for this friendship’s survival and longevity. My prayer is asking for the life of something as good, pure and beautiful as this was today. My prayer is for goodness of souls.
He wore all of the outward signs of wealth and well-being; a fresh academy uniform with a navy blazer and a gold school emblem over his heart, a crisp white collared shirt, neatly pressed, a maroon tinged tie with navy details to coincide with his jacket, and clean pressed new khaki slacks. Over his shoulder was a Tommy Hilfiger backpack, slung over carelessly, hanging slack and mostly empty. His skin was nicely tanned like you would see in a Ralph Lauren ad, with a sprinkling of freckles on the bridge of his nose and some on his cheeks. He seemed somehow radiant and, although he was very cute, he wasn’t a gorgeous boy, nor would he be a stunning man. His dark blond mop of hair streaked in blondes so light and varied that the sun bounced off it like a rubber ball. He wore those pricey invisible braces and had beautiful, icy blue eyes shadowed under thick, dark lashes.
His nanny was a study in differences so expansive and obvious that to view the pair chatting and laughing was to enjoy human communication played out on a stage where the situations are usually fictional and certainly uncommon. Her old school “mom” jeans sat high on her waist and, though she wasn’t a fat woman, she was shapely and curvy in that unique way black women enjoy their womanliness. Her short-sleeved pink blouse wasn’t threadbare, but was certainly showing its age. She carried an old, fabric bag that appeared to be stretched to its limits with whatever she felt necessary to carry with her. She walked in a pair of old sneakers in dire need of replacement, but she had a spring in her step that gave the sneakers that lived-in appeal. Her hair was pulled up in a small bun and she wore thin, teacher glasses that did not mask her happy, brown eyes. She wore no make-up, but her face was soft and warmed by the sun and so it developed its own beauty.
Animatedly, the boy was in the midst of some exciting tale that he shared with his nanny to her great enjoyment. She reveled in laughter with such abandon and honesty that I blushed for their lost privacy. I seemed to be invading this moment and I briefly looked away.
Unknowingly, they were not yet leaving my sights, for as they both crossed the Union Square Farmer’s Market before I did; I noticed we three were heading down the same street up 17th, though we had been approaching from opposite sides.
I walked behind them at a decent pace and leaving a decent space between us. Yet I was drawn to them and their loud, fun conversation as less of an eavesdropper and more of an admirer. To me, an eavesdropper is one who listens to someone who is trying to keep things private, so they could turn around and spread the secret to the dismay of its victim. But this boy wasn’t telling secrets; he was sharing stories of his adventurous summer spent divided between California and Brussels. He said he loved the Autoworld Museum and a planetarium he visited in Belgium, taking great pains to give her good descriptive pictures to imagine all he saw. He giggled when he mentioned a pretty California girl whom he kissed “more than once”, while visiting there. He said they exchanged emails and cell phone numbers to text, but he asked her if she thought “it was worth it.” She said he was too young to think in the long-term and that he should see what the next year brought. She made comments to him here and there about his parents and if they too enjoyed the trips, but he was more interested in telling her all about things he did and people he met.
Since nanny made no mention of siblings, I imagined the boy was an only child, someone born while his parents were busy running around their lives when suddenly…surprise! Probably following his birth they decided one was enough, after all there were committee meetings to attend to, businesses to run, trips to plan. More children would just get in the way. So they took whatever precautions necessary and left it at him.
And yet here both nanny and the boy seemed to love this reunion that exists as a result of their different stations in life. As for nanny, she had no tales of great adventures to tell, and if she did, she kept them to herself. Her summer probably went no further than the Central Park Zoo, or maybe another summer job to fill the financial gap left from his absence. She was choosing to live, vicariously through her charge, the kind of life she certainly didn’t have and of places her own children had not yet seen.
I was reminded of the book The Nanny Diaries, written by two former New York City nannies that combined their experiences at the hands and mercy of the city’s elite social circles and created a character so honest, raw, likable, real and profusely endearing that we could do nothing in the face of this freewheeling lovefest but adore their Frankenstein.
As my time behind the boy and his nanny dwindled, I wished to find an excuse to extend my visit in their lives, to follow through and listen some more to his tales and witness some more of her excitement for him. But when we cross 5th avenue and I have to turn toward my building and they walk past 5th and further down, I just stop to watch them – to watch her lovingly nudge him with a motherly familiarity, to see him make a silly face or gesture with his arm to entertain her. It is disarming this caring, loving friendship and I wonder to what extent it can survive. Will it be like the life of a human, good for a healthy 80 plus years, if you’re lucky? Or is this the kind of transparent relationship that will end abruptly when he no longer needs to be nannied and she finds herself unemployed? Right now this nanny is one of his best friends and confidants. I can hear it in the tone of voice he uses and the way he jokes with her. There is connection there, but I wonder if it’s a connection that’s thin as onion skin, or if there is hope it will endure the changes that will inevitably come as he gets older.
I am saddened by the very real possibility that circumstances, situations, stations and money will ultimately win here and these two will part ways – perhaps unkindly – as the road before them stretches out. I close my eyes and a small prayer pops unexpectedly into my head. My prayer is asking for this friendship’s survival and longevity. My prayer is asking for the life of something as good, pure and beautiful as this was today. My prayer is for goodness of souls.
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