A Helping Hand

It’s an issue that sets comment sections afire.

“Why should I give money to them when they’re going to use it for [nefarious purpose]??”

“How do I even know they’re really in need?!”

I do sometimes have these same thoughts flash through my mind when someone approaches me in the parking lot, on the subway, or elsewhere. Sometimes I’m not entirely certain they’re being honest with me.

Then I remember how demeaning it is to ask for money, how desperate they must be to open themselves up to ridicule by every passing stranger, and then the delusion of the “fake homeless” grifting us for pocket change becomes just that: a delusion.

So I reach into my pocket, pull out some bills, and wish them the best.

I know that I can’t solve all their problems. My offering probably won’t be enough to save them from whatever unfortunate situation they find themselves in. But hope has its own power, and after what I imagine has been a day of being ignored, lectured, berated, and all but spat at by strangers, I hope it’s a breath of fresh air to meet someone who says “Sure, I can help.” No questions asked.

Now, I should acknowledge that much of this charity is rooted in the fact that I have something to give. I have a decent job. I don’t have children or pets that depend on me. Which is not to brag about my personal circumstances but to avoid painting anyone who doesn’t give as greedy or selfish. We all need to take care of ourselves. I get that.

Maybe part of my compulsion to give is rooted in the fact that I grew up in one of the wealthiest counties in the United States. Most of my community had something to give. Then I’d hear all sorts of stories from the then adults in my life about the “grifting homeless” lying about their circumstance or taking your money with only the intention of using it for drugs, booze, or other vices. That they’d say this behind glasses of fine vintage is a nice bit of irony.

What a convenient reason to turn away from suffering. I don’t recall how much I bought into the theory, but considering how libertarian I was in just about all other respects, I really doubt I had a compassionate outlook on those in need.

I grew older and went off to college. Here two of the formative moments occurred in quick succession.

As a student journalist for the College of Integrated Science and Engineering, I covered an event where the professor talked about the NGO his class had partnered with to assist that semester (I believe it had to do with landmine removal), and part of that presentation included a breakdown of how individual donations to international charities have fallen to record lows.

Then we got to the real thunderclap moment: “Millennials say ‘I don’t want to donate to organizations where my money will be wasted on not helping those in need.’ Absolutely, they are entitled to be selective to ensure their money does the most good. We all should be.”

“Instead,” the professor continued, “that has translated into Millennials not donating.”

Those words stuck with me, and not only because it was an indictment of my generation (by some definitions).

What would be worse? That I act and it sometimes produces a less than ideal result? Or that I don’t act? Ever.

I think we all know the conclusion I reached.

In quick succession, I was driving through downtown Harrisonburg with a couple of my friends. When stopped at a light, Beka looked over and noticed a woman standing on the corner with a sign. In the rain.

Without hesitation, she fished out a couple bills and rolled down the window.

My other friend, someone who I viewed as more intelligent than all of us in many respects and someone whose opinion I valued, scoffed. “You don’t know that she was really struggling.”

Beka’s response? “Fuck off.”

Succinct. Yet poignant.

Fast forward to the worldwide pandemic a few years later. Fully cognizant of the way the lockdowns and closures were taking away jobs and opportunities from those most vulnerable to poverty and homelessness while my circumstances remained stable, I started donating large chunks of my stimulus checks. I also set up recurring monthly donations to three different organizations, knowing how much that mattered to continuity of operations.

Then I hurt my knee in October 2020. The pain was intense and often unrelenting. In the deepest, darkest pit of those desperate days, the question “why go on?” became louder and louder.

And so bleak was my circumstance that the idea of the longer I could hold on, the more money would go to these charities was one of my chief arguments.

Thankfully, physical therapy (quite literally) saved my life.

I now found myself giving to anyone who asked me for money. Part of it was, I admit, the selfish notion that the more good deeds I performed, the more good karma I would accrue to get me over this injury. Especially in those early days.

But the practice continues even now, when my knees are (mostly) okay. Not that I still wouldn’t like some good karma, but now the giving comes from a different place. A place of deep sympathy.

I don’t know their struggle, but I know suffering. I know just how hopeless it can feel, and how easy it is to conclude nothing will ever change. That this is the way of the world. I like to think that my hand, holding a five-dollar bill, represents much more than that small piece of monetary assistance.

I like to think it’s the helping hand cutting through the bleakness. To show that things can change. To show that there is reason to carry on.

I’m under no illusions here. I know I’m not Robin Hood. I know that my handouts probably won’t change the world. But maybe enough acts of kindness will produce a more empathetic world. Regardless of the ultimate impact my acts have, I won’t let any doubt I might have about their efficacy stop me from acting.

After all, who doesn’t want to see a better world?