Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Native New Yorkers… 

and Have Probably Asked, Too

by Gigi Rose Gray and Luisa Conlon

Gigi: It’s no surprise someone would question whether this scary metropolis is a safe or nurturing place to raise a child. However, as products of this city, I feel confident that a child can flourish amongst all its conflicting extremes.

Growing up here, kids experience and see things some people miss out on altogether in life. Yes, we did get a condensed, large dose of reality early on, but children are children no matter where they grow up. They live in the fantasies of their minds and take in the realities of their environments in stride. My nightmares were filled with crazy bums chasing me down the street rather than ghosts or zombies, but I too dreamt of fairies, frolicking the magnolia trees of Central Park, the closest I got to having a backyard.

Central Park is an oasis that holds a lot of mystery for a child, and many of my own beautiful experiences were lived there. Whenever I woke up, looked out my window and saw the city quietly covered under a blanket of snow, it felt like Christmas. My mother would pull out our old wooden sled as I would zip up the waterproof onesie that filled me with such shame, and excitedly waddle out of the building into the park. Climbing the boulders of Central Park felt like scaling Mount Everest: knee deep in snow, we would search for the highest point and I’d speed down, gathering snowflakes in my eyes. It was exhilarating! But the actual highlight was the enchanting ride home. I would lie down, my onesie cushioning the wooden planks of my sled, and my mother would pull me along all the way home. Gazing up—with the park’s trees and skyscrapers perfectly framed in the night sky, I was floating through a city that was my Narnia. Every noise was dampened by the snowfall. It was magical and peaceful. It’s one of those memories that, upon reflection, I question whether it was a dream or a reality.

Luisa: When I was in kindergarten, my aunt Joan would bring me to a playground on the West Side, off of Riverside Drive. This was the early ‘90s, a time when you had to keep discarded syringes out of your kids’ hands. Joan had a deep trove of New York stories: Muggings, assaults, robberies. Walking to the park, my little hand in hers, I would beg for another tale: “Like when the guy stole all your money from inside of your sock.” My aunt would look down at me, her morbid and cherubic blonde niece, and tell me the same story again and again. I relished crimes stories, which I’m sure has everything to do with growing up here.

Children like me are why people think that kids just can’t be kids here.

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