Fun With Play-Dough

My husband and I left New Orleans by the end of 2001; our daughter was just a few months old at the time and has no recollection of the place where she was born.  Over the years, we’ve often joked that she was ‘born in the swamp’, never guessing that the city would resemble exactly that, come 2005. Suddenly, the joke didn’t seem so funny anymore.

By the time Katrina hit, Isabella was four years old, and precocious enough to start asking questions. Then a friend called from a shelter in Texas, not knowing where his family was, and by some crazy miracle my husband managed to find a volunteer who would fly him with his private plane to an airport about 50 minutes away. He came to stay with us, not really having anything to go back to, and told horrible stories of being caught in St. Bernard Parish, having to fight his way through the rubble, waiting for days for help to arrive. My daughter was there and heard all the stories first hand; she also watched all the images on the news. We didn’t protect her or hide things from her, because it was just too overwhelming, and besides, this wasn’t some far-away land that she had no prior knowledge about; this was New Orleans, the place where she entered the world.

We explained as best as we could; about the levees, about Lake Pontchartrain, about the rain that would come down so hard it made it impossible to navigate the city streets, even years before Katrina hit. We tried to describe that typical smell that is unique to New Orleans. We told her about the rats that used to scurry around the Save-a-Center’s parking lot, and I could only imagine what feast they were having now that the city was flooded. We told her about the people, about the music, and about the Mardi Gras parades; not the big ones in the French Quarter, but the little ones in the smaller neighborhoods off the beaten path. Most of all, we told her about the poverty; because we thought we had a responsibility to remain honest with her. The world is not always a pretty place; sometimes it is downright ugly. If we teach our children that, we lay a foundation for them; in order to care, they need to have knowledge of the atrocities that exist all around them.  They need to learn that the world is a bipolar place, that love is accompanied by hate, that some are extremely privileged and others considerably less so; that especially for those who have everything they need, there is a responsibility. It’s what will make the difference between being callous, and being a Mensch.

Now she is six; she knows to give Tzedakah, and why. She knows there are many, many people out there less fortunate than her. She continues to ask questions, and often, they deal with the Why’s and How’s of poverty. I don’t always know what to say; so much of the world’s misery can’t be explained. But then, children don’t always expect us to answer, they don’t need to know everything; the important thing is that they ask the right questions. Of course, this whole “liberated parenting”-thing would get us in trouble sooner or later; which is why yesterday, for the first time, I muted CNN in the presence of my daughter.  I might be able to give an explanation of some of this, if she asks, but I don’t think I can do the whole thing.  I quickly make a mental tally: prostitution, corruption, and governor are all concepts she is not very clear on. So I shut of the Television entirely and say: let’s read a book!

Oh my God, I think, I just censored my child. Why? I think it is because the mechanics of a politician’s fall from grace aren’t all that relevant to a six-year-old. People make mistakes, and they pay for it; she already knows that. Anything more would be indulgent and unnecessary; besides, I am not going to explain prostitution at her age; for that, she really is too young. Also, considering the penchant some politicians have for straying even when they know better, and the way the country (me included) gloats when they’re found out, she will have plenty of time to experience what happens when the mighty fall.

I write a lot about my children; funny bits and pieces, centering around them driving me nuts, me driving them nuts, trading witty comments back and forth. Underneath it all festers the big question: what kind of people do I want them to be? Social justice is high on the list; I want them to have a conscience, I want them to keep their eyes and ears open and care about others. Not in a ‘brake for stray dogs’ kind of way, but by developing true empathy, and a sense of urgency. To that purpose, we sent her to a grade school that does not eschew the important issues, even when they are uncomfortable. 

Currently, we are getting ready for Purim, the Feast of Esther. Two important things happen during the weeks leading up to Purim: Mishloah Manot bags are handed out to family and friends, and money and goods are given to the needy. The school is asking for money to be given, so bags of goodies can be sent to IDF soldiers in Israel. This is good for my daughter to see, but it doesn’t leave that much of an impact; she hasn’t earned the money, and it quickly changes hands. The second part, giving to the needy, is more useful in an educational sense: we collect things around the house we no longer need, or haven’t used for months; someone who has less will benefit from our excess. Making my daughter give her own things away is hard; she has all the characteristics of a hoarder. Asked to donate a toy, she’ll enthusiastically run of and come back with one of her brother’s stuffed animals. “Here.” She’ll say, “we don’t play with this anymore.”

Lately, however, she has been doing better; I guess she’s reaching an age where she understands that giving things away can make you feel good, that it’s liberating. No longer does she try to hang on to clothing that’s too small, just because “it was my favorite dress, mom!” These days, if it doesn’t fit, it’s offered up for donations. She’ll never know where this pair of jeans will end up, or who will wear that dress; she doesn’t need to.  All she needs to know is that every little bit helps to repair the world.

I know that at the end of the day we don’t make much difference; our microscopic salaries don’t allow us to really make a giant splash. Dwelling on that is dangerous, though: we might think that doing so little is the same as doing nothing at all.  So we keep plugging away, a bit here, a little there, and hope that when the time comes, our children won’t be the type of jerks that care about themselves, but forget about the bigger picture.