While my colleagues might zero in on one of the concepts the book examines (economic moralities, scales of solidarity, Facebook families, etc.) I hope that a reader who is just browsing might do the opposite. That is, if one were to simply flip through the pages, I hope some detail of the empirical material might catch their eye first – the photo of the overflowing bookshelves of a “Senegalese intellectual” in Paris or a family story of a summer trip to Dakar – so that the banal details of everyday life might provide a hold to grasp on to as it dives into more theoretical ideas. My Senegalese interlocutors are such astute observers of social life in Dakar and its Parisian diaspora that I hope their quotes stand out to someone flipping through. In the introduction, for example, Nafi’s idea of a “bush to banlieue (suburb)” type of immigrant – one who came directly from rural Africa to the poor suburbs of Paris – and thus, who lacked the cultural capital, class privilege, and education that facilitated “integration” in France for the middle-class Senegalese I worked with. The titles of chapters 3 and 4 are quotes from discussions in Senegalese families, children’s and parents’ reflections on their own and others’ expectations regarding exchanges of food, gifts, and money. A Senegalese mother complained that her children are “sometimes too generous” (Ch. 3) in redistributing ice cream bars to their friends outside. The chapter then considers how her teasing of her son’s generosity was overlain worries that he get caught up with the “wrong crowd” in Paris. “What did you bring me?” (Ch. 4) was a quote from Badara, a high-school boy in Paris, who expressed frustration at the demands for gifts (sarice) that he and his family receive from relatives in Senegal. The chapter examines his story of one vacation in Dakar when he was forced to give his cousins clothes from his own suitcase before leaving to go back to Paris. It considers how youth grapple with economic moralities, not only in events like the act of distributing items from Badara’s suitcase, but also in the telling of the story afterward, which reveals children’s perceptions of the moral logics that legitimate requests for gifts and money in Senegal.The book is called “Selective Solidarity,” not because the middle-class Senegalese I worked with in Paris were particularly picky about the people with whom they were willing to share. On the contrary, the book exists thanks to the generosity and hospitality of all the Senegalese families I met. Rather, I mean that all solidarity is selective solidarity. Whether at the level of the state or interpersonal relations, the rights and responsibilities associated with “solidarity” can never be extended indiscriminately and are always contingent on group membership.I hope that the book urges us to rethink value-laden concepts like “solidarity” to consider how these moral notions are working to shape the circulation of material resources in specific ways, asking which sorts of practices, carried out by which types of people are condoned, valued, and legitimated by the powers that be, and which people and practices are questioned, critiqued, and discouraged in the everyday language that surrounds them. I hope that the book urges readers to rethink some of the banal moments of family life, to consider how practices like eating and sharing food are tangled up with societal assumptions about family and economic relations, who should take care of and provide for whom. I hope it urges readers to critically question concepts that like immigrant “integration” or “middle class-ness” itself, to consider how these can be used to exclude and limit people’s access to resources. And finally, I hope that the book encourages us to consider the many ways that children are already taking part in (transnational) economic relations. If we accept this book’s premise that the material exchanges that make up children’s and families’ everyday lives are fundamentally economic, we are forced to reconsider the relationship between so-called “microeconomic” and “macroeconomic” processes. The household appears at the center of the global economy, fleeting and forgettable moments of family life providing the foundation for larger-scale resource flows, like migrants’ remittances that make up 10% of Senegal’s GDP.