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August 17, 1998 Desperate for art a few weeks back, I went to Henry Hudson Park just up the block from my home, where I had spent literally thousands of hours when my children were small, not too many years ago, and yet a lifetime ago. I didn't know the new faces in the neighborhood. I used to know every single kid; I knew the moms and dads, I knew the nannies; I knew which kids were being weaned from mother's milk, which ones were in the midst of potty training. We moms, and some dads, learned parenting from each other, and from our children, and we became friends for life in that playground. Once when my daughter was about 18 months, and old enough to go up and down the slide by herself, I was talking to friends, not paying attention to my toddler. Suddenly, a scream, and a very angry mother looking for the "mother of that child" (my child,) who was at the top of the slide looking like the cheshire cat. It seems my daughter had just tried to take a bite out of her kid's butt because he didn't go down the slide fast enough. Embarrassed, I rushed to explain to my daughter that that was completely inappropriate behavior (read, "No, you don't EVER bite anyone, EVER, EVER EVER." --- in a very loud voice). As I walked back to the bench, red-faced, where a group of my friends was sitting, they all stood up and applauded, not for me reprimanding my child, but for my daughter, who, thus far, had never shown any signs of aggression, and of whom they were (un)justifiably proud. And so it was that these memories came flooding back a few weeks ago when I ventured into that playground. What was startling was that one of the kids who used to play there not so long ago, now a young mother herself, was there with her 3 year old. She works as a park ranger with the mounted police and was in the park on her day off with her daughter, whom I photographed drinking from the sprinkler. I took two pictures that day that ran in the paper. A few days later, someone clipped the sprinkler picture, and mailed it back to me at the Press with a note that it was "like Henri Cartier- Bresson." Cartier-Bresson-like or not, I was happy for the compliment. I wondered where the time had gone and how different my life is now from those moments I once cherished with my own children, moments I now see only when looking through the lens of my camera.
Susan B. Markisz August 17, 1998
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Susan
Markisz
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Contributor
since 1998
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Behind
the Viewfinder - A Year in the Life of Photojournalism |
