Brooklyn School Crossing Guard

Hey everyone, welcome back to *Brooklyn Echoes*, the podcast that keeps the borough’s legends and memories alive. I’m your host, Robert Henriksen.

Ah, let me take you back to those crisp autumn mornings in the mid-1960s, when I was just a wide-eyed fifth-grader in a bustling suburban elementary school. Being selected as a school crossing guard—or as we called it, a member of the Safety Patrol—was like being knighted in some grand adventure. It wasn’t just a job; it was a badge of honor, quite literally. I remember the day the teacher announced the new patrol roster. My name was on it, and I felt ten feet tall. Only the most responsible kids got picked—usually the older ones in fifth or sixth grade, those who showed they could handle a little authority without letting it go to their heads.

 We had to be reliable, punctual, and ready to face whatever the day threw at us, from honking cars to giggling kindergartners.

First things first: the uniform. Oh, how I loved that getup! It started with the iconic white Sam Browne belt, slung over one shoulder and across the chest, buckling at the waist. Some schools had orange belts for the “veterans,” but ours stuck with the classic white canvas ones that we’d roll up neatly at the end of our shift and hang from our regular belts like a trophy. And the badge—man, that was the crown jewel. It was a shiny metal shield, pinned right on the belt, emblazoned with “AAA School Safety Patrol” in bold letters. Mine was the standard silver one, but if you got promoted to lieutenant or captain, you’d get a fancier version with a colored center or even a special pin. I think ours were from the 1960s style, with that classic design that hadn’t changed much since the ’40s. We’d polish them up with a bit of spit and shine before every shift, making sure they gleamed under the sun. Some kids even got white helmets with numbers on the back, but at my school, it was just the belt and badge—enough to make us feel like mini-cops directing traffic in our little corner of the world.

Our duties kicked off bright and early, about 10 minutes before the bell rang. We’d get excused from class a tad early—now that was a perk! No sitting through the last bit of arithmetic while your mind wandered. Instead, you’d grab your gear from the patrol locker and head out to your assigned post. Mine was the busy intersection right in front of the school, where the crosswalk met the main road. The main job? To protect the younger kids from the hazards of crossing those streets. We’d stand there with our big stop signs on long poles, the kind you’d plant in the middle of the crosswalk to halt traffic. When a group of kids gathered, you’d check both ways—stop, look, listen, just like they taught us in training—and then step out boldly, arm extended, sign high. “Wait for my signal!” we’d bark, feeling like traffic directors in a big city.

Training was no joke, either. Sponsored by the AAA since way back in the 1920s, we’d go through sessions with a local police officer or the school principal. They’d drill us on traffic rules: how to spot speeding cars, when to let pedestrians go, and even how to report reckless drivers. We learned to instruct, direct, and control the flow of students crossing near the school. Some patrols, like mine, also handled raising and lowering the American flag each day—a solemn duty that made you stand a little straighter. And after school, we’d be back at it, guiding the exodus of kids homeward, making sure no one darted out into traffic amid the chaos of buses and parents’ cars.

But it wasn’t all serious business. There was a thrill to it, a rush of power mixed with the warmth of helping out. I’d wave my sign, and cars would actually stop—for me, a kid! The little ones looked up to us like heroes; they’d thank us with shy smiles or hand us drawings of us in our belts. Parents would nod approvingly, and teachers would pat us on the back. On rainy days, we’d huddle under umbrellas, our belts getting soggy, but we’d tough it out. Winters in the late ’60s were brutal—snow piling up, fingers numb from the cold—but slipping on that badge made you forget the chill. One time, a driver ignored my sign and zoomed through; I reported the license plate to the principal, and boy, did that make me feel important.

By the 1970s, things evolved a bit. More girls got involved—back in the ’60s, it was mostly boys on the streets, with girls as indoor safety monitors wearing white armbands. But as times changed, patrols became more inclusive. The badges got a slight redesign, maybe a bit more modern with enamel finishes, but the essence stayed the same. Duties expanded in some schools to include bus monitoring or hallway patrols, but at the core, it was about safety and responsibility.

How did it feel? Empowering, that’s the word. In an era of black-and-white TVs, moon landings, and Vietnam on the news, being a crossing guard grounded you in community. It taught discipline—showing up on time, rain or shine—and empathy, watching out for the little guys. There were laughs, too: friends teasing you about your “cop” pose, or racing to roll up your belt fastest at shift’s end. Challenges? Sure, like dealing with bullies who tested your authority or the boredom on slow days. But overall, it built character. I carried that sense of duty into adulthood, always ready to lend a hand.

Looking back from today, in 2025, with self-driving cars and digital everything, those analog days seem quaint. But slipping on that badge each morning? It made a kid feel like they could stop the world—or at least the traffic—for a moment. And that’s a feeling that sticks with you forever.

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