City Villages
This article is from the archive of The New York Sun before the launch of its new website in 2022. The Sun has neither altered nor updated such articles but will seek to correct any errors, mis-categorizations or other problems introduced during transfer.

Often I’ve heard people say that they love the anonymity of New York. No nosy neighbors, no need to see the same people each day, and no one knows your business unless you choose to share it.
Many of my husband’s family and friends – most of whom were raised in the luxurious, rolling suburbs of Johannesburg and Durban – often comment on exactly that. “What a strange place to raise children, this New York,” they say, incredulous. And then the usual litany of comments follows. There’s no backyard. There are so many people! It’s so busy. Where do children learn to ride their bikes? People let their children take the subway?
No one can deny that New York is a far cry from standard suburban life. But as for raising children here, it is hardly an anonymous affair. When I consider all the people who know my children by name, let alone by sight, I am shocked by the ways in which New Yorkers manage to create, amid the hustle and bustle, their own communities. If, as Senator Clinton once pointed out, it takes a village to raise a child, then we New Yorkers have really got a leg up.
Let me begin where many New Yorkers officially start their day: with the doorman. These men greet you and your children by name each day and act as a buffer between you and the streets. They implore you to go back upstairs and grab an umbrella. They call you on the house phone to warn you that your car is about to get a ticket. Over time they learn what time of day you will need a taxi, which family members can be sent upstairs unannounced, and which ones definitely need announcing. And as time goes by, you will learn a great deal about these men and their families as well.
At the grocery store on our corner, the staff knows my children by name. The woman behind the deli counter knows that the fastest way to make friends with my daughter, Kira, is to offer her one of the small, fresh mozzarella balls that are eaten by the bucket in my house. The cashier recently informed me that when my babysitter brings Kira in, Kira chats to her in Spanish. Who knew?
At the playground across the street, where my kids ride their bikes and scooters, the other mothers and babysitters know each other maybe not on a first name basis, but certainly by their children’s first names. There is no need to make arrangements to formally meet anywhere – kids just show up. And there are different playgrounds to try when your children are tired of going to the same one.
Creating a village within New York happens so naturally because each neighborhood is defined by just a few blocks in each direction. At the paint-your-own-pottery store a few blocks away, the helpful staff knows which of my boys loves to mix colors, and which needs to keep the colors very separate. The cashier at the local Hollywood Video knows my kids by name, and the boys trust her advice on the latest releases. At the nearby bakery, the woman behind the counter knows exactly which cookie to give to each of my children.
And if you want, you can have relationships with your neighbors as well. There’s more than one family in my building who, without a second thought, I would trust to take care of one or all of my children, if needed. There’s an elderly woman who lives alone that my children and I regularly visit, always bearing homemade goodies. And there are plenty of people who follow the progress of my children with great delight. “Is that SpongeBob or Shrek?” a neighbor asked me, laughing, as we waited for taxis together yesterday, referring to one of my sons, the one, in fact who had dressed as Shrek on Halloween.
The fruit store, the butcher, the dry cleaner, the newspaper store, the diner, certainly the candy store. Maybe you can be anonymous if you want to be. But the second you show up with a little creature or two in the stroller, the whole equation changes. Get ready for questions and conversations and cootchy-cootchy coos.
My husband has three single first cousins in their 30s living in New York. Every week or two they call, needing a kid fix. They need to be around the earnestness and silliness of a 5-year-old. The cousins are not the only ones who need to connect with young children. From my experience, most New Yorkers want to reach out and have a carefree moment with the kids.
A few Sunday evenings ago, after trying in vain for 20 minutes to find a parking spot near my apartment, I parked in the garage on my block, near Columbus Avenue. My husband had taken my oldest to a birthday party, and I was left with two sleeping children in the back of the car. At 8 p.m., I couldn’t bear to wake the older of the two children, to make him walk the block to our apartment, and then struggle, of course, to convince him to go back to sleep. But I also couldn’t carry the two kids myself.
A minute after I received my parking stub, in drove a similarly tired-looking man, with a similarly sized family vehicle. I asked him if he was walking toward Central Park West, and he said that yes, he was. “Would you mind carrying one of my kids for me?” I asked. He graciously agreed, insisting that it was a nostalgic treat to pick up a child less than 30 pounds, now that his twins had turned 10. He successfully handed my sleeping child to the doorman, who helped me carry the kids upstairs.
It really does take a village.
Readers can address their parenting questions to Ms. Berman at sberman@nysun.com.