I was 24, relatively new to New York City, working a day job I hated, waiting tables at night and writing plays in my bedroom during any spare moment. But money was getting tight. With few options left, I decided to fall back on one job I knew it would be a sure thing: babysitting.
Most of my jobs when I was growing up in New Albany, Indiana involved working with children, including seven years as a "Kinder Camp" counselor at my local Y and a summer theater teacher. Everyone told me that nannying was one of the best jobs for a starving artist — playing make believe, diving deep into a child's imagination, the laughter, the joy. Until the child is hungry, angry and having a meltdown. The question, though, wasn't whether I would be a good nanny, but if anyone would let me be a nanny as a Black man who is over six feet tall.
Lucas's parents did. Walking into their apartment that first day, I was greeted with an unexpected hug from a small, white, 4-year-old boy with a wide smile. His parents, John and Mark, were in their early 50s, slender 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 had 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 boozing it up at house parties, I was in rehearsal for a Tarell Alvin McRaney play, and having my first kiss with, yes, a woman. Mainly because the script said I had to.
I bloomed late all the way through college in Indiana and during my early years in New York. With Lucas, I almost felt as if we were growing up together. For two years, until the pandemic interrupted our routine, I took him through the same daily paces — pick him up from school, help him do his homework, feed him a snack, take 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 witching-hour meltdowns, crying and pushing me away. A particular middle-aged white woman tried to intervene. I calmly explained to her that I was his babysitter, but she wasn't backing down, figuring I was kidnapping him or something.
Finally, she said, "Should I call the police?" I lost my calm and said, "Do it. I dare you." Everybody froze, and I whisked Lucas away, fighting back tears of my own.
Another year passed. Lucas was now 5 as we encountered a second white woman who felt entitled to play hero, all because I was holding hands with Lucas finding directions to the museum on my phone. She approached him saying, "Are you OK, sweetie?" Then turned to me with a look of concern, she added, "What's going on here? Do I need to call someone?"
Lucas, having remembered the stressful encounter from a year earlier, looked at her and said, "Do it. I dare you." Growing up before my eyes! Soon enough, he had gone from 5 to 6, from Sesame Street to Star Wars, from symbols to statements, from chit chats to conversations.
Most days, I did the best I could to be a supportive friend to him while trying to remain a strict adult. He already received enough of that at home — a hot 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, invitations to Sunday dinners, birthdays, baptisms and more. This was a problem, though. I was waiting for an opportunity to get out, but the closer I got to Lucas, the harder it would be for me to leave. Lucas knew I was leaving New York for the summer, traveling to go work on my plays, entering into the biggest summer of my career thus far — 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 did my best to tell him the truth. I bought him ice cream to cushion the blow, fearing that hearing me say, "I'm not going to be your nanny anymore" would break his heart. As I said it, though, he was calling out to nearby pigeons.
"Aw, little pigey. Come here, little pigey." He was barely listening, or so I thought. I promised him that I would always be around, that I would always be his friend. And then, for the first time, I told him I loved him.
He became distracted by two boys riding a child's motorcycle. "Oh, you've got to get me that for my birthday," he said.
"I won't be here for your birthday," I said.
"I think I already knew that."
"You did?" "Yeah," he said. "I've got a good memory, dude."
I laughed. But soon, I was sitting still with heartbreak.
I realized that he was only trying to tell me what he ultimately wished for: a motorcycle and me.
The months turned to days, and days turned to 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 of a church and said to me, "Your life matters." Teaching him the universal sign for choking, which would later save his life when he got a snack on 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 youth stood in the way.
On my last day, I said my final goodbyes to John and Mark and asked Lucas my routine parting question: "What are you going to do while I'm gone?"
"Listen to my parents," he said. We had taught each other so much, grown up together, laughed and learned to stand our ground against strangers and their assumptions. He gave me a tight hug, and then I was off.
That evening, as I was walking through Washington Heights on my way home, I began to cry, already missing his wide smile staring back at me and his tiny hand holding mine.
Remember me, Lucas. I promise to remember you.
And be sure to keep your heart open as it is right now. Do it. I dare you.
