(Erika/Mom) We were thrilled to be attending the Macys Thanksgiving Day Parade this year in person. It was the perfect idea for a little family of five who live so far away from any relatives. Instead of a table groaning with food and surrounded by loving family, we would surround ourselves with the happy crowds of parade goers. We would be official members of Those Who Have Gone.

Our plan was simple: take the train in from New Jersey on Wednesday afternoon after school got out. I borrowed my neighbors’ lightweight beach chairs and an old Stanley thermos for hot chocolate. Tim was already in Brooklyn checking on one of his terminals so he met us at the Marriott Courtyard Hotel on 40th St. We had a very comfortable night, made even better with Angelo’s Pizza.

As early as we could the next morning, we made our way up to the place where the parade viewing was supposed to be best: Central Park West and 60th St. (give or take a block). Even after 12 years of motherhood, I still had not quite grasped the fact that momentum and speed are significantly reduced with kids. Gathering coats, getting reluctant bottoms to the bathroom, wiping noses, finding lost gloves…by the time we emerged from the hotel, all the childless people had moved in to the prime viewing spots. “C’mon, c’mon, hustle hustle!” I couldn’t help saying as my three childrens’ little legs tried hard to keep up with mine. Tim just laughed. “Your mom’s doing the ‘New York’ walk,” he commented.

The subway was crowded and things started looking bad as we passed Columbus Circle and crossed over to Central Park West. Layers and layers of people, it looked nearly impenetrable. As we hesitated, ten head back from the parade route, I noticed a very thin trail leading up Central Park West toward the next block north. Very politely, we began to snake through the crowds, uncertain of our reception. We were, after all, the latecomers, even though it was only 7:30 a.m. I scanned the sidewalk for any tiny oasis of space and as luck would have it, found a bit of ground that would fit us. Once we settled in and exchanged smiles with those around us, we noticed a bit of open space right in front, for the kids.

“Good luck,” said one of our neighbors. “They will tell you to get out of their space.”

“Who’s ‘they’?” I asked.

“That group right in front,” they explained, pointing to a well-dressed family sitting determinedly on a brown tarp. As I watched, I could see that they were expanding themselves to cover every inch of space so that even a small child would have difficulty getting up close. And yet as I observed, there was plenty of space for lots of kids if the “We Were Here Firsts” just shifted a little bit. Was that going to happen? Judging by the rolling eyes of our better-informed neighbors, it didn’t appear likely. Anytime someone got too close, the matriarch, in a white quilted coat, got wild-eyed and declared “you need to get back. You weren’t here at 5 a.m.” All she needed was a rifle and you’d have Annie Oakley.

The group around us were friendly, helping us find a place for our beach chairs (we had no space to expand them in) and moving out of the way as we tried to take family snapshots. But bitter comments flowed. Everyone was appalled that this First Family of the Parade would not allow any children to move forward to see better. They guarded their turf with great skill while loudly pointing out the sights to their indifferent 18-month-old, who preferred watching the crowds to the giant floating balloons. “Look, Chloe, look!!” exclaimed her hyper mother, grabbing the child and pointing. “Look, it’s Dora the Explorer, say hi!” They would wave furiously as evidenced in many of my snapshots. Hands, wrists, and noses of the First Family abound.

I was fascinated by this display of territorialism. They were like the early immigrants to this country, facing cold and hardship on first arriving but then thriving and establishing themselves. Then came the aggression towards anyone who came later. This was THEIR land. They were here first. It was maddening and I had a hard time looking at them because their behavior disgusted me.

But, but… To be fair, I had to ask myself, Don’t I get angry when someone tries to take cuts in a line I’ve been waiting in for a long time? Wasn’t it terrible when Lizzi and I were constantly shoved back in a crowd at Bergdorf Goodman’s during Fashion’s Night Out? We were there first but the latecomers shoving their way to the front didn’t care. Weren’t these situations similar?

I watched a young couple with a little boy who were determined to get up front. They persevered long after the rest of us had given up, and faced a showdown with another vocal First Arrival, who proceeded to scream at them to “get out of our space. We’ve been here for hours and you haven’t!”

First come, first served. It makes sense and seems fair. Yet as I watched the parade, which was really wonderful and filled with color and music and dancing and gigantic floating Buzz Lightyears and Pillsbury Doughboys, I realized what the difference was. Parades are for children, and any child who wants to see better should have a seat up front, no matter what time he or she arrived. The last shall be first, you know? Doing the right thing and following the better angels of our nature is never easy. But witnessing turf wars on Thanskgiving is harder.

Recent Posts By Erika Kotite

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Tags: Family, Macys, New York City, parade, Thanksgiving Day Parade, turf wars

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