Chapter 4: Roman Catholics, Protestant Meatballs

Eat My Words Substack Series

When my firstborn was small, I would tutor in the West Village.  Little kiddos, three and four years old who were already being groomed for their (believe it or not) preschool entrance exams.  I had an acquaintance who had begun this tutoring work several years prior and she was such a genius at it, she needed a partner to take the overflow.  No one ever nominated me to be great with this age group, but I worked hard and she was an incredible lady and a great resource, I wanted to stay home as much as possible with my delightful (sleepless) angel, and I loved the West Village.  As in, it was almost unnatural how much I loved taking the train into, “work”.  I suppose that was a Godsend, as I didn’t really love the actual work.  Being a tutor means to most affluent families your station is no higher than that of a glorified nanny.  They would drop kids off at their home with me and flit off to shop for an hour- or run to Soul Cycle or their Barre class.  They would have me take a cab to pick up their children from school, accompany them home, and then maybe we might have time to read something.  

I’m a secondary educator by trade- the demographic that I work with the best is age 16 and up.  They get my jokes and they don’t cover their mouths and threaten to, “tell” when I use the word shit in class.  But this was a good gig because I got to walk up and down Bleeker three times a week and window shop.  I got to traipse down to Union Square if I was an hour early ( train schedules are always wonky) and daydream about buying a Brownstone on West 10th.  I got a Maple Latte once a week at the cutest little coffee shop on Banks Street and I, unashamedly, had lunch more than once at Barbuto by myself.   I loved the way the West Village smelled- like expensive cologne and yeasty bread and hot sewer.  Mostly, though, I loved sitting in the Episcopal Church’s garden on the corner of 10th and Jefferson.