Memories of Etan

How can I not not comment on the latest developments in the 33-year missing child case of Etan Patz. I didn’t know him. We lived four miles apart, separated by the Hudson River. But his disappearance was the first news story I followed.

There were certainly other major events of the 70s that I was vaguely aware of. My dad let me come with him to sit in his idling gold Buick LeSabre as we waited on gas lines. I also listened to him rail against the foolishness and folly of building an entire “city” on excavated rubble and trash landfill (the World Trade Center, the World Financial Center and surrounding Battery Park City).

So I knew there were “adult things” going on, but that doe-eyed, mop-headed kid on the Six O’Clock Evening News every night––he looked like someone I could know since we were approximately the same age.

The possibility of getting abducted scared me. When my parents went off to work they assured my well-being with strict admonishments such as “Not do anything stupid” and the evergreen “Stay out of trouble.”

But I was never, ever alone. I had my posse of cousins down the block and a broad network of neighborhood, school and church friends. Although my own biological parent set was not around to helicopter over me, there were the other watchful eyes of my aunt, uncle and friends’ parents. And because my parents worked in town, mailmen, cops and a wide array of town workers knew me.

I do not know what Etan Patz’s network of community members or extended family was like. I don’t know how many watchful eyes he had on him.

But that’s why it breaks my heart when I hear a (former) local bodega worker has confessed to the crime. (I’m not rushing to condemn this person. He is innocent until proven guilty and fully deserves due process. The burden of proof is on the state.)

But even if it’s not this confessor (who knows if he’s telling the truth), someone somewhere out there stole Etan’s life.

Kids trust adults––even strange adults––to look after them. Etan’s killer violated that sacred trust and an inherent social contract: protect the brood. Not only do I remember Etan Patz, but all these years later hearing his name mentioned on the evening news, I realize that I never forgot him.