Kid Reflects On Concept of Generosity

Yesterday, we talked to Kina about how she might want to think about giving toys to kids who would not otherwise get Christmas gifts of their own. Kina, who is still very young and therefore moderately self-interested, expressed some skepticism. Instead, she offered as a compromise, she would give presents to friends, family, and classmates. I tried several routes in with her to explore the notion of random acts of generosity—a kid on the playground or at the library, or a girl with the same name as her. No dice.

I had never really explained the concept of generosity to Kina before (there are so many social concepts!) but somebody else must have, because this is what she said when I asked her about it:

“Generous is when you’re nice to someone who is anxious, nervous, or sad.”

Who among us, I ask you, et cetera?

Well, maybe not Kina, or not often, as far as I can tell—so it’s maybe hard for her to place what it must feel like, to empathize with a kid who isn’t as happy as she is, or who doesn’t have what Kina is lucky enough to have.

Eventually, though, she did capitulate, offering that she could give a gift to a stranger “who has yellow hair”—a genetic obsession of hers with all sorts of weird connotations that would require far more than a newsletter for me to really unpack. After pointing out to her that a hypothetical program like that would actually exclude Kina herself from getting a gift, she seemed to grasp the point.

So, with that in mind, we dropped off her balance bike at the free store this morning—a good start—and maybe this week we will spend a little more time together thinking about strangers and their lives and whether or not they might want a princess costume of their own.

So many strangers think of Kina on a daily basis; I suppose it’s only fair she put in the work to do likewise. Especially now.

The Parade this week is probably a few people? Maybe all of us? At least her? The large purple swath at the bottom is the product of twenty minutes of blending colors until the paper nearly dissolved.

dad