Child Philanthropy

With two children enrolled in a Manhattan private school, I've often wondered if they're getting a rather skewered view of the world. My jaw still drops when I realize the sheer size and scope of the apartments my children visit on some of their play dates after school. With all the wealth and accompanying sense of entitlement surrounding a nine year-old girl and an 11-year-old boy, how can they make sense of their own humble conditions at home? (Good peripheral vision will take in our entire home, in a glance.) And how can they understand that most kids have even far less than they do?

As the saying goes, it takes a village, or, in our case, an urban jungle, (known as The Big Apple) to raise a child. New York City is a thousand villages merged into one and represents for its children a universe of possibilities. On the other side of the coin, it demonstrates, in all its fragility, the desperate needs of helpless people.

This amazing palate, running the gamut from confident wealth to desperate poverty paints a vibrant, exciting and disturbing picture on a daily basis. Walking to school, going to the market or merely strolling through the park provides a certain education one wouldn't bargain for. For my children, merely walking from our home to the subway can be a pinball game of stimulation, bouncing them from the neon excitement of Broadway to the squalor of a side street welfare hotel. At first glance, a parent imagines any of this could overwhelm their children. When you mix all of it together it definitely can, more often than not in doses much too large.

But at the same time I've learned that this very same jungle provides innumerable opportunities to discover and explore goodness, generosity, and overall waste management potential.

Our path began in earnest in the weeks following September 11, 2001. At first, it was predicated by some distant fear and an immediate sense of insecurity. Our nighttime rituals markedly changed. Just before we'd turn out the lights at bedtime, my daughter, Stella, then just five-years-old, would ask me if the doors were locked and if the window bars were safe. My son Max, then age seven, wondered if any bad men could find us up here on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. For a parent, those questions instigated some very complicated feelings, but, in fact, the actual answers were relatively simple. Yes, I told the children, the apartment was secure ("Let's get up and have a look together, just to be sure") and, no, bad men weren't looking for us. (Not specifically.) Keeping things short and clear made immediate sense for them, and provided the necessary comfort. It also took me off the hook from having to figure out the whole mess, all at once. Considering the current state of affairs in the world, I'm still working on it.

Soon after the catastrophe, with Red Cross blood drives and Salvation Army collections in full throttle, we looked for ways we could contribute. One look through our closets and it was no mystery. We each had more clothing than any person could ever wear in a week. Like most middle class adults, I had accumulated more than my share of random sweaters. My kids soon realized that they didn't absolutely require every toy and knick-knack in their room. With tall buildings surrounding us in our own neighborhood, the devastation from the Trade Center collapse just a few miles away wasn't so difficult for Max and Stella to comprehend. They grasped the idea of other kids being forced to leave their own homes and losing their favorite stuff. We gathered our belongings and marched them off to reception centers throughout the city.

What took me by surprise was the coin collection my kids came up with. I hadn't realized that my own upbringing was making a dent in their psyche. I'd always been taught and shown by my own parent's example that charity was the norm, no matter how modest or anonymous it may be. My own kids have often seen me writing little checks to various organizations. Numerous times while walking the streets, they'd taken dollar bills and loose change from my pockets to drop in the big homeless shelter bottles. They already had a sense of what was needed so the baggy full of their coins that we took to the local church became a reasonable sacrifice for them.

Now, nearly five years later, Max and Stella and I are soon approaching another season of spring-cleaning. It's not just dust and grime we're after, anymore. Part of our purpose is to rid ourselves of excess possessions and pass them on to people in need. The greater challenge is forcing ourselves to give up a few things we'd each really like to keep but others need, or want, even more. I must admit, with a small apartment and a collective rat pack mentality, this spirit of generosity also provides an opportunity to keep the clutter from getting out of hand. However, I feel quite stubborn about these lessons in sharing the wealth and won't let my kids off the hook very easily. It's all a simple matter of choice. Their choice. Their age appropriate, little sacrifices I hope will endure into their adult lives and give them a greater sense of community.

Since 9.11, we Americans have heard our national hymns sung over and over again, at sporting events, car shows, and graduations. In our house, we've talked about how people come together and sing when they're sad. One balmy night, a few weeks after the towers fell, Max, Stella and I sat outside behind our building, in the same spot where we had smelled the burning smells of destruction blowing north up Broadway, hovering over us like an ominous cloud. They snuggled on my lap, and we started to sing "God Bless America." I spoon-fed the lyrics to them, but they needed no help in raising their voices. It was comforting for all of us, so much so that we then launched into "This Land is Your Land," a song they'd learned years ago, but which took on an even richer significance than ever.

As a result, we've continued this custom of sitting together, singing, and reflecting. Max and Stella now know who Pete Seeger is and what he and his compatriots are all about. They have also learned to spell the word, p-h-i-l-a-n-t-h-r-o-p-y.