About a boy July 12, 2005

I had made five peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, just in case, marking one of the few times that I have made anything, ever in the kitchen of my apartment (I, sadly, shit you not).

I felt very Soccer Mom on my way over to Harlem - ponytail, sensible shoes, bag full of more juice boxes and Goldfish than a small child could ever conceivably consume in one sitting. But hey, just in case.

The kids were varying degrees of rambunctious when I walked in. There were a few other volunteers, all wearing the same “holy crap what have we got ourselves into?” look. Especially the Preppy Blonde Couple in matching Lacoste shirts (collars up, natch). She looked at him, eyebrows raised, as if to say “honey, this was a great idea of yours, spending a day with underprivileged kids but NEXT TIME YOU’RE ON YOUR OWN, I’LL BE EATING BRUNCH AT SARABETH’S.”

There was a quiet kid, sitting in the corner. Playing Connect Four by himself. He was wearing a Yankees hat. I saw my in.

His name is Nowa. He’s seven. He doesn’t know when his birthday is but he does know that he wants to be a Yankee shortstop one day. Like Derek Jeter. He even wants to wear number 2.

He was shy at first. On the bus to the aquarium at Coney Island, it was a lot of me asking him questions and him nodding politely in response, even if the questions weren’t ‘yes or no.’

That all changed once we reached the shark tank. Suddenly I couldn’t get him to shut up. And I mean that in the best way. He led me all around that aquarium and asked me questions I didn’t have answers to and didn’t even want to eat lunch because look, Clink! Sea Lions!

On the bus ride home, he climbed into my lap. He pointed to a scar on his arm. I asked what happened. He said, “an iron. I was bad.”

That’s when I got the urge to grab him and run, just run. Sure, technically it would be “kidnapping” but, whatever. I live close to the park and I could take him there to play catch on weekends. And I’ve got enough money (that is, if I put a halt to all shoe-buying) to feed and clothe a seven year old. Plus, I hear the public schools in my area are pretty good.

I almost teared up on the subway home because Nowa, and the rest, are at such a disadvantage, from the start. They have so much to overcome, so early - it’s nearly impossible.

All I kept thinking, and telling the Boy, and telling my dad was, “it’s just not fucking fair.”

And then I did something I almost never do. I said a prayer for Nowa. Put it out into the universe that I hope he finds happiness someday. Whether or not he’s wearing Yankee pinstripes.