Mexicans

Since our twins were born, my father has been finding reasons for us to move back to the US, and he has been calling me to tell me those reasons. Of course, the one and only reason -- and, really, the reason that I sympathize with most -- is that he and my mom want to be near their grandchildren, full stop.

He correctly has reminded me many times that, all other problems aside, at least there are some public spaces in the US that are pretty decent. Of course, since we live beyond our means in a pricey Mumbai suburb, we do have one remarkable jogging park nearby where we go to enjoy breezes straight off the Arabian Sea. And the other day, we stood at the corner and watched like 15 donkeys walking around aimlessly in the road; you can't do that in NYC! But still.

A recent conversation with my father went like this:

Dad: There's nowhere to walk with the babies over there.
Mimi: I know. The sidewalks are pretty crappy.
Dad: Forget the sidewalks. There's nowhere to walk to.
Mimi: Well, we walk to Joggers' Park, or to the vegetable market, or. . . .
Dad: At this age, babies are taking in everything. Everything you do teaches them things; they learn about the world this way.
Mimi: I know.
Dad: In the US, at least there are public spaces. There are places to go with your kids, whether you're poor or rich, that are nice for everyone.
Mimi: I know. It's just different.
Dad: Last weekend, we went to the beach, and there were all these Mexican families there. God knows who they are or what they do, but it doesn't matter, because at least there's somewhere they can take their kids to play and be outside on the weekend.
Mimi: I know, Dad. You're totally right. The beaches here are nasty.
Pause.
Dad: Sorry, I mean Hispanics.