WHAT DO I SEE . . .

What do I see. . . a lot. It brings me joy and it brings me pain.


I see a blond woman with gold bracelets and flawless makeup pushing her four year old child in a stroller that is plush and new. There are Gerber juice boxes in the mesh pouch and she is on the phone with her friend, laughing as she pushes her child down Madison Avenue. I turn away in disgust.


I see a dark haired woman with stained clothes holding her four year old child's hand on a dangerous street in Queens. The child is eating half of a peanut butter sandwich and does not flinch when a city bus roars by, brakes screeching. A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth and I can feel my eyes turning glassy.


What do you see? Do you see that the child in Queens has on well-scuffed sneakers from many walks to the caged in park? I do. I see the mother is closest to the curb too, keeping herself between trouble and her child. The child is tan and in scruffy, worn out clothes that have seen many days at the park, many days of running and playing, many washes in the kitchen sink. They are stained but clean. The unstained clothes are being saved for special occasions. Today's clothes are meant to get dirty. The sneakers have climbed many ladders to go down many slides. The shoelaces are tied tightly and double-knotted. The peanut butter sandwich is eaten happily. A good, nutritious snack that does more than just fill a void. The child feels the warmth and security of his mother's hand and he looks up at her frequently, chattering and smiling and talking about what he will do at the park. The dark haired woman smiles softly at the boy and nods, agreeing to lift him up to the monkey bars and push him on the swing. The boy is looking forward to pushing the button on the water fountain in the park. It's one of his favorite things.


As the child in Queens squeals with delight and runs to the slide, the child being rolled down Madison Avenue remains silent. There is no one to talk to. No one to laugh with. He looks at the tips of his Lebron sneakers and taps them together. The sneakers are not scuffed. None of his sneakers have ever been scuffed. The brass buttons on his denim bibs are shiny in the sun. Craning his head forward, he carefully sips from his juice box so he doesn't spill any on his clothes. He is four years old but wearing a Pull Up diaper. His mother doesn't like him going to the bathroom in public places because who knows what type of people use those facilities? The blond woman with the gold bracelets continues to chatter with the invisible person on the phone. She told him they were going shopping for his new sneakers. They will be a different color.


I see all of this as I walk to the subway station on Madison Avenue. Wordlessly, I enter the station and scan my ticket. It is lunch time. And I prefer to spend my time in a happy place. I board the train to Queens.