Giving the newcomers a quick once-over, I noticed they were city kids — a bit rough around the edges but they seemed cool. I was determined not to let their café con leche-colored skin bias me. After all, they weren’t much darker than I was!
I’m a firm believer that mothers should always go with their gut. Especially when it involves another person’s child. Your own kid you can afford to mess up on, at least a little bit. But someone else’s? Not so much. Not listening to my “Mommy Alarms” going off led to my friends’ son getting a black eye.
A few years ago, Ash and Julie were visiting the US from the Netherlands with their two lovely boys, Dan and Tom. Dan was a couple of months older than my son David and they got along famously. We were thrilled to show the family around the city. However, when the others visited the very emotional World Trade Center site and Tribute WTC, we thought 7-year-old Dan and David should do something else.
I offered to take the two younger boys to a nearby park, but we didn’t get off to a great start. The first place had cool rocks to climb and a huge slide, but Teardrop Park “smelled like sick” as Dan politely phrased it. It was so bad that it made us retch and our eyes tear. Hence the name, maybe?
Next, we hightailed it to Nelson A. Rockefeller Playground, a pretty spot on the Hudson with a jungle gym — and, more importantly, no eau de puke. Dan and David were having a blast playing when a bunch of slightly older boys arrived. They invited David and Dan to join their game of catch. How sweet of them! I thought. What a great idea.
Giving the newcomers a quick once-over, I noticed they were city kids — a bit rough around the edges, but they seemed cool. I was determined not to let their café con leche-colored skin bias me. After all, they weren’t much darker than I was.
But then I noticed the two older kids getting a little rougher with Dan and David than I was really comfortable with. The other kids started winging the ball harder and harder to Dan and David, who weren’t even eight years old yet. “Hey, they’re younger than you,” I warned them. “Be cool.”
The biggest boy assured me they would be. But the ball play got even more intense. Were they aiming the ball at my kids or was it just my imagination?
The more they rough-housed, the stronger my impusle to take Dan and David away became. Unfortunately, I didn’t.
Why? I was worried that, deep down, I wasn't just being a prudent mom who wanted to protect her kid. I was worried I was being racist.
The next time they hurled the ball, it caught Dan right in the eye. He grabbed his face in both hands and started crying. I ran over to him, expecting the worst — for instance, an eyeball hanging by a thread — but the damage didn’t seem too bad. The other boys just stared hard at us, unmoved. No apologies, no nothing.
As I cradled Dan, consoling him, I sneered at the group of wildings. “What the hell! Did you just do that on purpose?” No response.
The flesh around poor Dan’s eye was already starting to color. He was hit so hard that it broke the skin and a scab was starting to form near his left orbital bone. I led Dan and David away, as I should have done in the first place, and went to meet the others.
I’m surprised that Ash and Julie took it so well. I certainly didn’t— I was traumatized. Horrified, even! I was shocked that my friends were still speaking to me. I didn’t want to speak to me — I wanted to kick myself because I didn’t go with my first instinct to get the hell out of there. It still bothers me today that I didn’t. After all, why did I care if a bunch of street urchins thought I was a racist?
Later, I asked David if he thought those kids played so rough because he and Dan were white. “No,” David said. “Just because they were mean. Mean kids come in all colors.”
Eight years later, all Dan remembers from his trip to New York City is getting a shiner. And all because of me.
