Everybody gets recognized these days. Secretaries, parents, black people, even the controversial gay.
But what about the male nannies of these United States? What about the men of compassion who commit their afternoons to the betterment of childkind? What disqualifies us from a governmental shout-out?
Nothing. And that is why, on this week after Labor Day, a day which remembers the laborer, we turn to me, the manny.
We recognize me, for steadfast moral support and dominant Wii tutelage. We commemorate me, for instilling hope and absurdity into the manifold vein of impressionable elementary-aged children. We decorate me, for body slamming a dour teenager when his mean-spirited antics became personally inflammatory.
A year has passed since I moved to Brooklyn. When I was a kid living in Western Massachusetts, John Calipari, then coach of UMass penned a message to me on an NBA basketball. He wrote, “Dear Ben, Work hard to be your best!”
Have I worked hard to be the best manny I can be? Maybe not. Have I worked hard for anything in my life? In spats. Is there a pattern here? Probably.
Henceforth, on this first annual Manny Recognition day, I tender my quasi-resignation from duty. That is, I’m not stepping out of my manny loafers completely – simply taking the time to procure the means to patch the hole that haunts my shoe.
Being Thayer 