The two of you roar away.
Jump on or keep roaming, drive or ride, as it suits you. Not all of your destinations will be good ones—not the crossings your mother and I, your Papa and father, would like. You will want to speed, undoubtedly, and I’ll try not to say, “Don’t,” because that would only make you drive faster.
TELL HIM TO BE KIND TO WOMEN BY NANCY DAFOE 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 60
The woman stopped us on the William Howard Taft Bridge over Rock Creek Gorge in Washington, DC, and said, “Tell him to be kind to women.”
Wait. What? Back up, please. The subject boy in the cautionary from this stranger was 14 months old. How was I, my daughter, and son-in-law supposed to take such unsolicited advice from this tall woman in a camel-hair coat with a red silk scarf at her throat?
Enzo, dear grandson, my advice to you— No, that is not right.
Barely more than a year old, you were not just walking, but hopping, jumping, dancing, because getting around on two feet was still an exciting enterprise, your little fingers extended, caught by your mother’s and grandmother’s hands on either side.
Think back to the moment of the surprising meeting. It was warm for a fall day, the leaves turning but still restlessly attached to trees, the wind changing direction, once or twice causing you to catch your breath in startled reflex. I pointed out the heraldic sculptures guarding the bridge, created by Roland Hinton Perry and later re-cast by Reinaldo Lopez-Carrizo, simply as “the big lions”, and you looked up and pointed, turning to your daddy to see if he, too, saw them. We could have carried you, but you wanted to be down, touching your feet to the ground, so we held your hands a little tighter, cars moving past.
But this description is simply positioning, locating, at the point and moment when a contemporary Sybil, our own version of Madame Sostrois, stopped, looked over her shoulder, studied you intently, then turned to confront us, me and your parents, stopping to avoid collision. You, in turn, considered her with a smile.
“Flirting?” she asked, and we looked to see you leaning your whole body slightly toward her, shaking your curly head. Your mother laughed uncomfortably, drawing you closer. Your father took a step toward you. “I know people,” she said.
Then I asked if she was a psychologist, her brazenness spurring my own.
“Psychiatrist,” she offered. “I study human beings for a living. I’ve gotten rather good at reading adults but not children, and this child is absolutely interacting with me at a high, personal level. How old is—?”
Hesitation, the type when you’re not sure if honesty is required in this situation, before his proud grandmother replied, “He’s a little over a year.” My daughter shot me a scolding glance.
“Oh, my, I wasn’t sure,” the woman said. “He’s absolutely beautiful.” She took a long, slow breath, followed abruptly with, “Tell him to be kind to women,” and walked away.