From The New York Times, I’m Anna Martin. This is modern love. And that’s my sister Emily. Do you remember Mrs. Dina?
ms. Dina took care of me and Emily when we were young, and she’s a completely mythical figure to us. Our memories of her are colorful. I remember her hair being as red as a fire engine.
No. In my memory she wears a red tank top – v-neck – with low pants.
We spent a lot of time with Mrs. Dina. So many snacks and neighborhood walks and books read. When I asked Emily what she remembered the three of us doing together, it was those everyday things that still stuck.
I remember going to the Bed Bath and Beyond and going down the huge escalator and just looking around at our crew, that was me, you and Ms Dina. And we’re in Bed Bath and Beyond, touching towels and trying out the beds.
But I think that’s also because we were young, and our feeling for her was completely determined by the amount of time she spent with us. What strikes me about Miss Deena is that we have these memories of her, if we can explain the specific time and date of what we were doing. It was blurry, but the lasting feeling when we talk about Miss Deena is always happy.
They are warm memories. That will last forever. It’s so tainted gold, even though I can’t tell you more than five stories.
Emily is right. The details have faded over time, but that’s how growing up works. We are left with impressions and colors and feelings. And those feelings remain.
On her last day with us, Mrs. Dina gave Emily and me these picture frames, her picture and ours. On the back she wrote, “I will love you forever.” And when I talked to my sister, I realized it can go either way. We also love Mrs. Dina forever.
[THEME MUSIC]
This episode is about the secret world that lives only between nanny and nanny. Our essay today is called “The Manny Diaries,” written and read by Kevin Renn.
I was 24, relatively new to New York City, had a day job that I hated, waited for tables in the evenings, and wrote plays in my bedroom whenever I could. But money was getting tight. With few options left, I decided to fall back on one job that I knew would be sure: babysitting.
Growing up in New Albany, Indiana, most of my jobs involved working with children, including seven years as a “Kinder Camp” counselor at my local Y and as a summer theater teacher. Everyone told me babysitting was one of the best jobs for a starving performer – pretending, diving deep into a child’s imagination, the laughter, the joy. Until the child is hungry, angry and has a meltdown. The question, however, was not whether I would be a good nanny, but whether someone would let me be a nanny if a black man over six feet tall.
Lucas’ parents do. When I walked into their apartment that first day, I was greeted with an unexpected hug from a small, white, 4-year-old boy with a big smile. His parents, John and Mark, were in their early fifties, slim and tattooed, one with a sleeve. They were cool, hip and showed me that it was possible that I too could have it all one day.
The idea of having children was something I’d always imagined, even more than having a partner. When it came to sex and relationships, I was a late bloomer. While college friends were busy drinking at house parties, I was rehearsing for a Tarell Alvin McRaney play and had my first kiss with, yes, a woman. Mainly because the script told me to do it.
I thrived late in college in Indiana and during my early years in New York. With Lucas, I almost felt like we were growing up together. For two years, until the pandemic interrupted our routine, I took him through the same day-to-day business: picking him up from school, helping him do his homework, giving him a snack, taking him to the park, then taekwondo, dinner, bath, bed.
Things didn’t always go smoothly. One day, as we were leaving the playground, Lucas had one of his ghostly breakdowns, crying and pushing me away. A certain middle-aged white woman tried to intervene. I calmly explained to her that I was his nanny, but she didn’t back down, assuming I was kidnapping him or something.
Finally she said, “Should I call the police?” I lost my cool and said, “Do it. I dare you.” Everyone stiffened and I dragged Lucas away, fighting my own tears.
Another year passed. Lucas was now 5 when we ran into a second white woman who found the right to play the hero, all because I was hand in hand with Lucas looking for the way to the museum on my phone. She approached him and said, “Are you okay, honey?” Then she looked at me with concern and added, “What’s going on here? Should I call someone?”
Lucas, remembering the stressful meeting from a year earlier, looked at her and said, “Do it. I dare you.” Growing up before my very eyes! Soon he had gone from 5 to 6, from Sesame Street to Star Wars, from symbols to sayings, from gossip to conversation.
Most days I did my best to be a supportive friend to him while trying to remain a strict adult. He’d had enough of that at home—a warm and cold environment of Mark’s exhausted laxity and John’s anxious expectations of well-behaved perfection. To them I was no longer just a nanny; I was family.
Christmas gifts, Sunday dinner invitations, birthdays, christenings and more. This was a problem. I waited for a chance to get out, but the closer I got to Lucas, the harder it would be for me to leave. Lucas knew I would be leaving New York for the summer, traveling to work on my plays, and entering the biggest summer of my career yet — back-to-back residencies and even a national new play festival.
But he didn’t know I wasn’t coming back. Sitting on a bench in J. Hood Wright Park, I tried my best to tell him the truth. I bought him ice cream to cushion the blow, fearing it would break his heart if he heard me say, “I’m not going to be your babysitter anymore.” However, as I mentioned, he called to pigeons nearby.
‘Ah, little piggy. Come here, little pig.’ He barely listened, or so I thought. I promised him that I would always be there, that I would always be his friend. And then, for the first time, I told him I loved him.
He was distracted by two boys on a children’s motorcycle. “Oh, you must give that to me for my birthday,” he said.
“I’m not here on your birthday,” I said.
“I think I already knew that.”
“You did?” “Yes,” he said. “I’ve got a good memory, man.”
I laughed. But soon I sat still with a broken heart.
I realized he was just trying to tell me what he ultimately wanted: a motorcycle and me.
The months turned into days and the days turned into hours as I counted down my last moments with Lucas. Memories flash through my mind – peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch. Spaghetti and meatballs for dinner accompanied by the sounds of Sammy Davis Jr., Dinah Washington, Louis Prima, and his favorite, Dean Martin.
The time he saw a Black Lives Matter sign hanging outside a church and said to me, “Your life matters.” I taught him the universal sign for choking which would later save his life when he got a bite to his throat, made the sign and I gave him the Heimlich maneuver. There were so many things I still wanted to teach him, but his childhood got in the way.
On my last day, I said goodbye to John and Mark and asked Lucas my usual parting question, “What are you going to do when I’m gone?”
“Listen to my parents,” he said. We had taught each other so much, grew up together, laughed and learned to stand our ground with strangers and their assumptions. He gave me a big hug and then I was gone.
That evening, as I was walking through Washington Heights on my way home, I began to cry, already missing his broad smile staring back at me and his small hand holding mine.
Think of me, Luke. I promise to remember you.
And make sure to keep your heart open as it is now. Do it. I dare you.
After the break, a rainy day playdate at Lucas’s apartment.
It’s only been about a year since Kevin officially stopped babysitting Lucas, so their bond is still strong. The colors are still vibrant. But they are in this interesting place, where their relationship is hard to maintain. Kevin comes by when he can, taking Lucas to the park or to a show. Kevin used to be always around. Now his visits to Lucas are rarer, more special.
So a few weekends ago, Kevin and I were buzzed into this big Manhattan apartment building. And as we approached a unit on the second floor, it was perfectly clear which was Lucas’s apartment.
Children describe themselves through their stuff. So when Lucas gave us an extended tour of his bedroom, he introduced himself.
As soon as Kevin sat down, Lucas immediately climbed onto his lap. Kevin put his arms around Lucas and for the first time since we arrived, Lucas relaxed. What struck me was how natural the two looked. Their affection was still instinctive, immediate.
As I sat there across from Kevin and Lucas, I thought of the many, many nights I’d spent with Mrs. Dina on my own couch, reading aloud. Sometimes I would fall asleep and wake up, still lying on her lap. I remember feeling so safe.
When Mrs. Dina left, I felt this way much less often. That unadulterated confidence, that composure—knowing there’s someone older and wiser to hold on to. It’s nice to lean on someone like that.
And then Lucas wanted a snack.
In the kitchen I walked over to the fridge, which was covered in these Polaroid photos of them both.
Kevin looks about the same in every photo. He has a different shirt or his hair is slightly different, but he has the same gigantic, infectious smile. But Lucas – in every photo he is a different version of himself.
In the earliest he is almost impossibly small and his wispy little hair is pulled up in a bun. In another, his smile is a constellation of baby teeth and the space left over when they fall out. And on the most recent one, his hair is long and limp and has some grown teeth showing through.
Luke grows. He changes at the alarming rate that children do. The memories associated with these photos fade. And soon it will be just the photos. In 20 years I imagine Lucas looking at this Polaroid the way I look at my photo of Miss Deena.
Maybe he doesn’t remember the details. But maybe, like me, he will look beyond the picture and know that there is someone who loves him, even though the rest has faded.
On the next Modern Love, a mother and son go for a walk on the beach, and the mother tells her son a secret. That’s next week.
Modern Love was produced by Julia Botero and Hans Buetow. It was edited by Sarah Sarasohn. This episode was mixed by Dan Powell, who also created our beautiful Modern Love theme music and all the original music in this episode. Digital production by Mahima Chablani and a special thanks to John and Mark, Lucas’ fathers, who kindly welcomed us into their home.
The Modern Love column is edited by Daniel Jones. Miya Lee is the editor of Modern Love projects.
I’m Anna Martin. Thanks for listening.