Afghans in the park

The past couple of time I have taken my son to the park, I have noticed a new gang of kids added to the usual mix. Most days, the park can be divided along ethnic and socio-economic lines in the sand. There are the Punjabi kids who take over the jungle gym for an Indian version of 'tag' that involves someone yelling 'superman'. There are the Greek kids followed by concerned grandmothers who try to get them to eat at every opportunity. Then there are the poorer white kids, who stand in groups and use curse words. These kids have the unhealthy pallor of poverty. They shove harder on the slide. They have more to be angry about.

I have watched my son negotiate through and into these different groups. He has his favourites among the Punjabi kids, some of whom carry him and hug him when they see him. He has taken advantage of the Greek, snack ladies when they have bananas. 'Banana, banana, banana' he yells until one of the grandmas hands him part of a banana. 'Banana' he proudly says before stuffing it into his mouth with sandy fingers. He stands back from the barreling energy of the poor kids.

Lately, there has been a new group, a small gaggle of miscellaneous kids playing cricket between the jungle gym and the much-ignored swings. Pale skinned, bare footed children. The girls in that universal dress, the one seen on girls the world over, polyester, faded, too small or too big, ruffles hanging limply, crushed velvet or scratchy lime green. A white scarf hastily draped over messy hair. Boys in the pyjama suits I associate with Pakistan, long sleeved white shirts hanging low on matching pants. The cricket bat looks like it has been through a war. Where are these kids from? They haven't been here long. They haven't had the time to reject the clothes their parents brought with them in favour of skinny jeans and sparkly t-shirts that say 'girl' or 'pretty'.

And they have a certain look about the eyes. Wide eyed. If I were a white man with a belly and a tobacco pipe I might call it 'sauvage'. But I am not a white man so I will call it 'knowing'.

They play amongst themselves, absorbed in their game and oblivious to the woman puzzling and watching over them, her son declaring his love of bananas.