For All the Brianas of the World

It was an idyllically beautiful September day in Seattle. The park where my husband, daughter, and I had taken our two-year-old grandson Cole had a clear view of the city buildings, in addition to being outlined in the early morning light by an array of autumn trees gently showering down their leaves. I watched as Cole swung high in the kiddy swings and thought how blessed this child was to be loved and adored by two mamas, two dads, five grandparents, a nanny, her boyfriend, and a host of cousins and other relatives.

I did not notice the little girl who hovered around Cole and Kimberly for a while. I wondered for a moment if she could be alone in the park, but then I noticed them: the caregivers. They were young but seemingly hung over. She was a bleached blond young woman, and he was an African-American with baggy pants. Both seemed to be smoking pot. They were stirred from their reverie only slightly to hollow at the child once, "Don't do that; that's not your stroller." The child bragged to us that she had chocolate milk with her as a treat. I asked her what she had for breakfast, and she seemed not to know if she had eaten breakfast. Kimberly started feeding both her and Cole some Elmo crackers she had brought along with her. The girl seemed ravenous and ending up eating the majority of them. She said her name was Briana.

I would like to think that Briana was an isolated case in Seattle, but I am not that naive. Having felt somewhat neglected myself as a child being brought up by a mother who was often absentee due to her work schedule, I tried to imagine Briana in fifteen years. Would she be able, perhaps through some mentor, to get herself on track and move to a productive life? Or would she become one of those who sit in front of drugstores and theaters asking, "Can you spare some change?"