I grew up in suburbia, where everyone had a grassy backyard to play in, and I always worried about raising my daughter in the city. I used to think that, later in life, she would resent me for depriving her of the opportunity to run barefoot on our lawn through a sprinkler on a hot summer day. My feelings changed, however, when I went to visit my family in Florida.
Now, I know better.
As a parent living in Queens, I take my daughter to a local park almost every day. I admit one of the main reasons I bring her is because I’m hoping she’ll get enough exercise to collapse in bed every night, but I also take her so she has a chance to socialize with other kids her age. Nevertheless, the more we frequent these local parks, the more I see how growing up in an urban environment is shaping her behavior for the better.
Growing up in suburban New Jersey, I got a taste of city life by watching “Sesame Street.” There were episodes with kids in New York City parks climbing on jungle gyms, or running on the cement under water sprinklers. The kids were white, Hispanic, black and a whole bunch of different ethnicities that I had never seen before. Watching “Sesame Street” transported me into another world so unlike mine, where everyone spoke English and was a second- or third-generation American.
What “Sesame Street” had failed to show was another side of city life that was being overshadowed by the friendly faces of Big Bird and Snuffleupagus.
During my outings to city parks, I’ve observed all sorts of Darwinian behavior. In one instance, when I pulled out a bubble maker for my daughter, 10 kids came rushing towards me, yelling and trying to grab the toy. I explained to my daughter that she was going to have to share the bubble maker with her new friends. In her instant city kid reflex, she immediately grabbed the toy and made sure she had the first turn. After spending half an hour ensuring 10 kids shared a toy, I felt so exhausted that I began to understand why my daughter’s teachers look so tired when I pick her up after school.
The playground slide is another sink-or-swim experiment for city kids. If a slide is popular, a line naturally forms at the top and each child gets a certain amount of time to go down. If a child is holding up the line, he starts to get what I call “encouragement” from the other kids. Queens kids like to “encourage” these slowpokes with a frank reminder and an effective push. Sometimes parents are around to make sure their toddlers can survive this peer pressure, but the older kids are usually on their own.
City kids aren’t in the clear even once they’ve gone down the slide. They have to make sure no one is climbing up the slide that they are trying to go down. They also have to look out for unwitting victims — the stray child innocently standing at the bottom of the slide, or the child leisurely walking by, about to be a cushion for whomever is on his way down.
The last event on the city park obstacle course is the swings. Parents are always there pushing their kids, yet they are constantly on the lookout for the wandering child running by, about to be hit by their kids’ swinging feet. No matter how many times parents tell their children to run circles around the swing set to avoid getting hit, kids always seem to be crossing that fine line between safety and head injury.
Despite all my fears for my daughter’s safety, the only injuries I’ve ever seen in these parks have been children’s self-inflicted wounds. If blood ever appears, it’s because a child got excited, ran very fast, tripped over his own feet and skinned his knee. Kids trip over themselves quite a bit, yet you rarely see a Queens parent rushing to the rescue with a Band-Aid. Not that city folks are cold and heartless, but these parents usually wait to see how their kids react — if they can pick themselves up before getting their bumps and bruises kissed.
I’ve never seen blood shed in a battle for playground equipment. There is always the natural New York City reflex for a child to grab something immediately before someone else gets it, but parents are always around to intervene and impart their wisdom about sharing. The kids usually sit listening silently, and secretly wondering if they will ever get to try out their friend’s new scooter.
Suburban parks
When we go to visit friends and family outside of the city, the community parks are sometimes empty as kids opt to play in their yards. And even when kids in the suburbs or in the country play and hang out at each other’s homes, there isn’t the competition for space and attention that children need to have to survive in a city park. When I visited my brother in Florida, he noticed that my daughter speaks about 20 decibels louder than his own kids. My brother also remarked that when all the family’s children stand in line to get something, my daughter often pushes her way to the front of the line, leaving her older cousins with astonished looks on their faces. Granted, my daughter is an only child and is used to having her way, but I believe a lot of this behavior has been nurtured in the survival-of-the-fittest mentality of the New York City parks.
In Florida, we did find a park that was full of kids. My daughter was running down the walkway of a jungle gym when a girl, five-inches taller and three-years older, ran towards my daughter, about to push her down. In a way I could have never imagined myself behaving at 4 years old, my daughter didn’t move and looked at the older girl head on. Slowly, the girl started walking backwards until she stepped aside and let my daughter continue on her way.
At that moment, my doubts about raising a child in the city dissipated and I became an even prouder parent.
