Che cosa faccio?

Chi son...

Chi son? Sono un poeta.
Che cosa faccio? Scrivo.
E come vivo? Vivo.


Who am I? I am a poet.
What do I do? I write.
And how do I live? I live.

- "Che gelida manina," Puccini, La Boheme


Oh skin, I do not feel comfortable in you, though you are my own.

Lately I've felt conspicuous in my guise as a nanny. Part of it is my general paranoia that people are always looking at me funny - for a nanosecond too long, with too much curiosity, with a vague look of disapproval or disgust. I know that in most cases I'm imagining it. Regardless of whether I'm making it up, I feel self-conscious with the Lil Pea these days, like someone is going to finger me out in the street and scream, "You are not a nanny! Hand over the child!"

F'rinstance (I know you were waiting for a f'rinstance), yesterday morning I went to a music class with the Pea, the second meeting in an eight-week course. The Baby Mama signed up because she usually has the day off on Wednesday and wanted to do something lovely with her child, and chose this very expensive, somewhat educational class. But Baby Mama had to work yesterday, so I was the replacement killer.

The other four women, moms and nannies alike, and all five children stared me down a bit. The woman who ran the class asked everyone to sit and went around the circle calling out the children's names. She called out the mothers' and nannies' names, too, then came to me with the ol' "And you are?" She knew Lil Pea, but didn't know me. I felt, suddenly, like all the women were comparing me to the Baby Mama, whom they'd met the week before. They were looking at me, a 25 year old seemingly intelligent, pale-skinned, native English speaking nanny?

I'm sure none of them gave me more than a moment's thought, but I still felt this sudden compulsion to explain myself. I didn't, however, because it's actually far easier to never say a damn thing aloud. It does keep me out of trouble.

Cut to choir rehearsal, where we had a social after practice and I got to speak with a few people I've been wanting to meet. While introducing myself to Gene, a tenor and daddy-to-be, I told him I was a nanny. He was interested because he and his wife may have to hire a nanny. He asked if I was originally from the area, and I explained I had come for grad school and have a degree now. That's when that foggy look came into his eyes. The, "wait, I don't get it... and you're a nanny?" look that I often give myself.

And then suddenly several people around me are saying things about how nannying is a noble profession, a difficult one, an undercelebrated one... And I realized, far more than worrying about my own comfort as a nanny, I may have to worry about how others are embarassed by it. It's the equivalent of saying, "I'm a garbage man," or maybe somehow worse, because at least we know what garbage men do all day. People seem to assume that, oh, wow, we have nothing in common, then.

So I find myself desperately saying, "Actually there's a lot of stuff going on in my life... I was freelance writing and might get this fellowship and blah blah blaaaah..." The conversation regains its momentum.

Here's the actual big pointy thorn in my side, though: shouldn't I be old enough to be apathetic about other's opinions? I don't mean that I should be a psychopath or something, but I should at least have a little more confidence in my own decisions and abilities, right?

I decided today that when I tell people what I do, I will actually say, "I take care of an eight-month-old baby girl," instead of saying, "I'm a nanny." Maybe claiming the action of caregiving will remind me that I have the options of other actions, like writing, singing, painting... It's merely a mental exercise, but I wonder if it will make a difference.