I finally ““just said no’’ to fund-raising projects that depend upon my child’s friendly face for their success. In the past decade, these projects have multiplied faster than popcorn can pop. And I, for one, will no longer be trolling the neighborhood and pestering relatives in order to finance my children’s activities.
I’m not against entrepreneurial zeal. Every kid should mow lawns, shovel sidewalks or baby-sit, and later he should deal with customers and clean the bathrooms at McDonald’s. He’ll appreciate money-what it takes to earn money, how easily it disappears, maybe!-and he’ll be motivated to stay in school and do well there.
I know Sally Struthers’s sad eyes and heartfelt appeals on television bring in funds for a worthy cause, and I do contribute to a variety of organizations like that. They deserve the support of private individuals. That support is more and more essential with the political winds gusting against children’s best interests.
What I object to is the use of children to raise money for an ever-widening assortment of causes. From Little Guy football players to the ““little sisters’’ of beauty-pageant contestants, children wear a path from door to door that would put the Fuller Brush man to shame. At least once a week I answer the doorbell and donate to the Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, swim team, parochial schools, public schools and so on. I have bought – among other things – fruit, nuts, coupon books, calendars, raffle tickets, CDs, subscriptions, coloring books and plastic upholstery guards.
Why haven’t I just said no before? Because the person standing on my front step is a child, an innocent player in the grand solvency scheme of all of these groups. How unfair to punish the child by saying no. I feel better when I just buy something. The child invariably rewards me with a smile and a bouncy exit.
That feeling I have is the trump card of fund-raising experts. They know I won’t reject a child with a $5 offer. They know I’m not going to quiz the kid about the group’s political leanings, its administrative costs over the past five years or anything else that I would naturally ask of grown-up solicitors. They know I’ll probably just open my purse.
So the group makes money. What about the individual children? When these projects begin, there’s usually a giant carrot in front of the kids: a prize list. Sell $100 worth of candy, you get a plastic pen with a feather on the end. Sell $600, get a waterproof radio. If my child sells enough chocolate-covered almonds, his class gets an ice-cream party. Little League dangles an enormous licorice rope as the reward. Sell candy, get candy. Keep it simple.
It’s not simple for me anymore. I sense my child is a pawn, manipulated for his appearance and innocence. I’m asking my friends and neighbors to subsidize my child’s optional activities. I can’t help but wonder, ““When did these fund-raisers begin?’’ Did the ancient Romans think, ““Hey, little Antonio here has a nice smile. Let’s send him out selling cannoli. The neighbors can help pay for his new chariot.’’ I suppose the Victorians did away with such projects, because children were supposed to be seen and not heard. During World War II, children collected recyclables like grease and newspapers as part of the war effort. Now, kids are used to foist consumables on captive customers.
My own ““little Antonio’’ – 10-year-old Ben – wants to swim. We look into it, and he joins the swim team at the YMCA. I pay the pool fee. I buy the equipment. Then, in order to pay the coaches and meet other expenses, the team has a swim-a-thon. Each child is to raise at least $400 through pledges. This amount will cover the actual cost of competitive swimming for one year.
Is my neighbor obliged to help with the costs? I can’t see it. I’m obligated as a parent to evaluate whether the activity is appropriate, beneficial and affordable. If it’s not affordable, we won’t do it. Just tell me the actual cost, and let me decide. If I had all the money back that I’ve doled out to everyone else’s kids for their activities, I could easily finance my own child’s activities.
What would happen if each activity had to sell itself on its merits, at actual cost? Maybe 6-year-old ball players, like my son Eric, would wear cutoffs and T-shirts instead of white knickers and logo-emblazoned team caps. Maybe the gluttonous list of optional activities would give way to music, academics and family time.
Meanwhile, the pressure on both parent and child is daunting. His attraction to the prizes, his zeal for the current ““cause,’’ are fueled early and often. He is already sold on the project. My concerns are cold water. ““Why can’t I just sell candy to Grandma?’’ says 8-year-old John. (Never mind that Grandma has a lifetime supply of chocolate-covered almonds in her freezer from other grandkids.) John and I are adversaries inside a minivan, arguing over nuts and raisins. Selling the candy looks easy next to explaining exploitation to a second grader.
““Your child will learn that it takes everyone’s efforts to keep the boat afloat,’’ some parents tell me. ““It’s fun, you meet people,’’ say other boosters. ““You’re really going against the grain,’’ my skeptical spouse warns. He looks even more skeptical when I say that I’m not trying to reform the world.
I’m not. I’m trying to form my own children’s experience. My encouragement of their activities must be honest. My discomfort as John and I go house to house, his sated expression as he grasps the too-big-to-eat licorice rope, my sense that this is not a child’s responsibility, have created a credibility gap that I can’t hurdle.
We’ve sold the candy, all right. We’ve cruised the neighborhood and solicited at offices. Some people are rude. Some are soft touches. It’s hard work, a real slice of life. My quarrel is with having little kids eat that slice in order to play baseball.
