Fear & Parenting
I’m car number 12 out of 18. Two men in black and gold security jackets and sunglasses stand at the front of the line, directing traffic. With a wave of their hands they instruct each driver to move forward. We inch along slowly, haltingly, tensely, like tourists trying to cross the border from Mexico back into the U.S. The security guys look tough; they remind me of bouncers at a Manhattan bar I frequented in the ’90s. I turn off my radio.
It’s almost my turn and the security guys look me up and down. I smile. They give me an obligatory half-smile, a half-nod; all business. When I’m close enough, I throw my car in park, jump out and run around to the other side. My daughter is in the back seat (of course). She unbuckles and grabs her backpack. I reach in and grab the large black case next to her—her cello—and hand it to her. With a kiss on the forehead I tell her to have a great day at school, and I linger for just a moment as I watch her—dwarfed by the instrument—march toward early morning orchestra practice.
Just before she disappears into another gauntlet of security, I have to move on. There’s a long line of cars behind mine. One of the security guards shakes his head and waves his hand for me to leave.
As I drive home, I start thinking about this article: how different life is now from when I was growing up, starting with how extensive the security is at my daughter’s elementary school, where we live on Long Island in the New York City suburbs, as opposed to my experience 35 years ago.
