Playing Philanthropist

As fund raisers, we think about it all the time: What would it be like to give away money, to be a philanthropist?

We fantasize about donating large sums -- or at least of having large sums to donate -- and we dedicate countless brain cells to figuring out what motivates people to give. Every time the lottery jackpot swells high enough to justify playing, my wife and I concoct plans to fling millions at our family members (after buying the beach house and the Ferrari). That’s about as close as I get.

Until this past holiday season. Just before Christmas I was persuaded to join a staff-driven effort to supply needy families with food, presents for children, and various other forms of holiday cheer. Everyone in my office pitched in some bucks, and a few of us volunteered to deliver the goods.

So I spent an afternoon riding around the poorest neighborhoods in our city, visiting tenements I would describe as unlivable. But of course people lived there. The apartments were uniformly dirty and decrepit. Most were devoid of creature comforts, while some contained no real furniture. Many lacked adequate heat. This, I thought, is how the other half lives.

I have to admit to being downright scared during my first few visits. These were relatively dangerous neighborhoods, and I recognized street names from crime stories in the newspaper. We were three professionals sporting Santa hats and driving a pickup full of wrapped gifts and food baskets. I suppose I felt a bit conspicuous, and a tad threatened.

My fears soon dissipated, however, as I gained more courage with each delivery. People were pleasant enough, though we quite often faced an insurmountable language barrier. One fellow didn’t speak a speck of English, so I couldn’t ask him why his living room featured only a large tank filled with Oscar fish. I didn’t know if they were for viewing or eating. No couch, no chairs, no coffee table, no TV. Just Oscars.

Toward the end of our deliveries, my fears returned. I had heard stories about the particular house we were visiting, a dilapidated three-decker with a history of bad press. We drew an assignment on the third floor. After lugging a frozen turkey and a dripping ham up three flights, I knocked on the door. Greeting me was a middle-aged Latino woman who was obviously overjoyed to see us. So was her pit bull, who saw three meals in his doorway. I evidently displayed the universal look of almighty terror, prompting her to reassure me that “he OK, he OK” before inviting me in. Yes, but did he know he was OK?

Despite almost losing continence there, I managed to make it through the day unscathed. And to be honest, I actually learned something. I discovered the fundamental motivation that spurs people to give. If I hadn’t figured that out before landing at our final destination, I quickly did.

Our last delivery brought us to a Vietnamese family living in a one-room apartment with a front door that didn’t close. There were at least six kids, from what I could see, and a couple of them wore nothing but diapers. Their father greeted us and continued to thank us as we paraded through the kitchen with baskets of goodies. On the last trip in, I stopped to hand a wrapped gift to a barefoot girl about 5 years old. She didn’t say anything, but looked up at me with big brown saucerlike eyes and the hint of a tear. She stared at the gift in her hands and smiled. I later learned that her mother had died recently. I imagined the little girl hadn’t had much to smile about lately. Standing in her kitchen wearing a red-and-white cap, I wasn’t some do-gooder from the local college. I was the purest incarnation of Santa Claus she had ever seen.

And I was, that day, a true philanthropist. I wasn’t giving away scads of money, the millions over which we fund raisers salivate. I wasn’t, in fact, giving away any money. Each family received what I’m guessing was about $100 worth of goods, which was about $100 more than they would have had otherwise. For the children, we made Christmas real. For the parents, we gave their children a Christmas. Can philanthropy be expressed more simply?

After our first few visits, my colleagues and I reflected on how lucky we felt. We may not live in mansions, but we have homes and cars and jobs and food and clothes for our kids. No one has to bring us charity. We vowed to never again take what we have for granted. Seeing people live under those conditions throws a bucket of ice water in your face, and you don’t soon forget the feeling.

Later that day, I felt lucky for a different reason. I felt lucky to have had the opportunity to play philanthropist. I learned what it means to make a difference. Fund raisers often joke about our exhortation that “every gift matters” because deep down we don’t really believe that small gifts make a huge difference. Well, sometimes they do.

And that’s why people give. They give to make a difference, large or small. They give so a little Vietnamese girl with no shoes and no mom might experience a moment of joy. They give to us working in colleges because they believe in the empyreal promise that education can lift people out of dire circumstances and afford them a chance to make a better life. They give not because we ask them, but because we remind them.

I suppose I knew that all along, but sometimes we need a little ice water in the face to joggle us. I look forward to returning to those neighborhoods next year, though I hope I don’t see the same faces again. Maybe some will find their way out. Maybe not. In the meantime, I’ll no longer disregard the donor who writes a $50 check. Nor will I discount the emotions she harbors while writing that check. She is, after all, a philanthropist.

See how easy it is?