In New York City, it's a common sight--a child holding hands with either a young, often bohemian college student or a middle-aged woman of minority. When these two get on the subways, the child always gets the free seat, even if the nanny happens to be holding a bag of groceries or the child's knapsack. Many times the child seems aware of his superiority; sometimes he takes advantage of that as he starts to throw a fit in the middle of a busy intersection. The nanny meanwhile looks on with patience, and after the fit is thrown, the two continue to walk down the busy city streets.

The life of a nanny in New York plays out with so much seeming openness that it's rare to find a piece of art either fiction or non-fiction that truly delves past the superficial, this despite the fact that Shari Springer Berman and Robert Pulcini's The Nanny Diaries came out just last month. However, Beth Miranda Botshon's Other People's Children gazes at a nanny's life with unflinching attention. Botshon makes no judgment prior to filming. She merely wants to know, "Why am I one of the few white women in the city taking care of a child? Does every nanny get treated with the same respect as I do?" What Botshon comes to find rapidly is that the nanny life of many immigrant women is riddled with loneliness and sometimes mistreatment.

Following three stories throughout the doc, Botshon interviews Lupe, a live-out nanny who worries and ponders about her employer's trust; Mimi, a Filipino woman who sends home money for her children's schooling but misses them every day of the thus far seven years of separation; and, Claudia, who is woefully mistreated by her first employer, though she becomes very attached to the children. While by no means are the problems these nannies face subtle, there's great nuance to the ironies of their stories, and rather than pinpoint those Botshon is graceful enough in her direction to just let them stand on their own. The fact, for example, that Lupe's youngest daughter goes over without hesitation to kiss Emma, the baby that Lupe cares for, is sweetly sad. This small girl Emma has so many privileges that Lupe's daughter may never have but for the tireless work of her parents. Yet, she's not suspicious or angry about this. She's simply happy to see her infant friend. The facts of their differences are not yet apparent. Likewise, Mimi explains how the boys she cares for always fear to disappoint her, yet for most of their lives, she's served them. The power dynamics established on the baseline dollar are quiet, and yet they mean a great deal because ultimately, that's what dictates the relationships between the nannies and the families-- that, and when the nannies are lucky, a mutual affection for the child.

There's a statement that Lupe makes that's both beautiful and utterly bittersweet. She says in effect that she'll stay with Emma because she loves her, and she'll stay as long as the family wants her. It brings to mind the question: As soon as the family lets her go, will Lupe still love the child she helped to raise? And, the answer, of course, to that is, "Yes."

Botshon here has with precision told a story that people should hear. It's part political, particularly with regards to the nationalities of the nannies, and it's part personal, a way for Botshon to say good-bye to the little boys she takes care of herself. Along the way, Botshon avoids the talking head syndrome, thinks deeply about her shot design and plans carefully the messages of her story. Ultimately she isn't trying to expose the underbelly of the nanny world. While she does interject her own opinions and concerns, she's just genuinely trying to figure out how nannies are treated and why they remain caretakers. In the end, it's left up to the viewer to make a value judgment, and it's this observational technique that moves the film with its artsy air.

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