Opinion
I’m rethinking how I choose to give to those in need By
Kate CohenContributing columnist|AddFollowDecember 29, 2023 at 2:46 p.m. EST Need something to talk about? Text us for thought-provoking opinions that can break any awkward silence.ArrowRight
He waited a few seconds for a response from a woman clutching a tote and a phone, but when she studiously avoided eye contact, he moved on. “I’m hungry.”
It was unsettling to hear such a simple plea, to watch everyone ignore it, to ignore it myself. I had a twenty in my bag, and I didn’t need it — not for that day in New York and not in the grander scheme either.
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So why didn’t I give it to him?
Did I fear, as people often do, that my money would be spent “the wrong way”— on drugs or drink?
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This is the self-justifying attitude that Pope Francis, in a 2017 interview, characterized as “if I give him money, he’ll just spend it on a glass of wine.”
Not me. Even if that were true (it’s not), I know I can’t cure anyone’s hypothetical addiction by withholding help. And since I use alcohol, cannabis and sleeping pills to cushion my already warm and well-fed life, I don’t judge the spending habits of less lucky people. I agree with the pope, who went on to say: “If a glass of wine is his only happiness in life, then so be it.”
So ... why didn’t I give?
Because I bow to the conventional wisdom that money should be given cautiously, that there’s a right way and a wrong way to donate. Right: setting up a monthly autopay after looking at the charity research platform GiveWell or CharityNavigator. Wrong: handing cash to someone you don’t know on a subway platform.
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I’ll donate that $20 later, I promised myself, to a reputable organization that feeds the hungry. My $20 will help more people that way, anyway.
This is true, in a “give a man a fish vs. teach a man to fish” kind of way. If that organization is doing its job — and, yes, we should check — it will provide more meals with my $20 than I could, or, even better, help the city’s unhoused population provide for themselves.
But I still feel ashamed of tamping down my human sympathy and hoping for my train to arrive. I don’t want to be someone who stands paralyzed as I calculate how much further my $20 could go in the budget of a nonprofit than in the hands of a hungry man.
“There are many ways to justify one’s actions when not giving alms,” the pope said. Surely that includes deferring generosity until a later, smarter time.
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Jeff Bezos, who owns The Post, told CNN last year why he’s been slow to donate his money: “You have to think about it carefully and you have to have brilliant people on the team.” The “hard part” about giving away money, he said, “is figuring out how to do it in a levered way.” Don’t rush into anything, Mr. Bezos!
But he’s a regular softy compared with some proponents of “longtermism,” an extreme version of “levered” philanthropy that prioritizes saving humanity over saving actual living humans. See, for example, Elon Musk spending billions to colonize Mars so that humans can be an interplanetary species. Or venture capitalist Marc Andreessen arguing that “advancing technology is one of the most virtuous things that we can do.”
Teach a man to fish and you’ll feed him for a lifetime. Invest in artificial intelligence and you’ll increase the chances of developing a protein-rich fish-substitute for future generations to eat on Mars.
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Perhaps what these guys need is more time in the subway and on the streets. One recent study finds that wealthy people donate more the more they spend time around poor people. And it’s axiomatic in the nonprofit world that those who volunteer are far more likely to give money than those who don’t. If seeing firsthand what needs to be done increases giving, it’s unsurprising that along with the drop in volunteering since the pandemic, donations are down, too.
Could it be that human contact makes humans feel more responsible for one another?
Could it be that the real reason I pretended to ignore a man in need was because I was trying desperately not to see him as a human being for whom I was responsible?
“I’m hungry,” he said. I looked away. I went home and set up a recurring donation to World Central Kitchen. On Election Day, I voted, as I always do, for the political party that tries to give more to people in need, not less.
All correct and smart and “levered.”
But next year I also want to be someone who — on the subway, in the moment — looks up and says, “Here. I can help.”
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As usual (for me and for many Americans), I’m making some final charitable donations at the end of the year. But this year, one memory haunts me.
I was standing on a subway platform, waiting for a rush-hour train sometime last winter when a man started making his way through the crowd. He was maybe in his 30s, White, heavyset, unshowered. He went up to each commuter in turn and said, “I’m hungry.” Like a child would say it to a mom, urgent and whiny at the edges. “I’m hungry.” Begging — asking for food or money — but also begging. Pleading.
He waited a few seconds for a response from a woman clutching a tote and a phone, but when she studiously avoided eye contact, he moved on. “I’m hungry.”
It was unsettling to hear such a simple plea, to watch everyone ignore it, to ignore it myself. I had a twenty in my bag, and I didn’t need it — not for that day in New York and not in the grander scheme either.
So why didn’t I give it to him?
Did I fear, as people often do, that my money would be spent “the wrong way”— on drugs or drink?
This is the self-justifying attitude that Pope Francis, in a 2017 interview, characterized as “if I give him money, he’ll just spend it on a glass of wine.”
Not me. Even if that were true (it’s not), I know I can’t cure anyone’s hypothetical addiction by withholding help. And since I use alcohol, cannabis and sleeping pills to cushion my already warm and well-fed life, I don’t judge the spending habits of less lucky people. I agree with the pope, who went on to say: “If a glass of wine is his only happiness in life, then so be it.”
So ... why didn’t I give?
Because I bow to the conventional wisdom that money should be given cautiously, that there’s a right way and a wrong way to donate. Right: setting up a monthly autopay after looking at the charity research platform GiveWell or CharityNavigator. Wrong: handing cash to someone you don’t know on a subway platform.
I’ll donate that $20 later, I promised myself, to a reputable organization that feeds the hungry. My $20 will help more people that way, anyway.
This is true, in a “give a man a fish vs. teach a man to fish” kind of way. If that organization is doing its job — and, yes, we should check — it will provide more meals with my $20 than I could, or, even better, help the city’s unhoused population provide for themselves.
But I still feel ashamed of tamping down my human sympathy and hoping for my train to arrive. I don’t want to be someone who stands paralyzed as I calculate how much further my $20 could go in the budget of a nonprofit than in the hands of a hungry man.
“There are many ways to justify one’s actions when not giving alms,” the pope said. Surely that includes deferring generosity until a later, smarter time.
Jeff Bezos, who owns The Post, told CNN last year why he’s been slow to donate his money: “You have to think about it carefully and you have to have brilliant people on the team.” The “hard part” about giving away money, he said, “is figuring out how to do it in a levered way.” Don’t rush into anything, Mr. Bezos!
But he’s a regular softy compared with some proponents of “longtermism,” an extreme version of “levered” philanthropy that prioritizes saving humanity over saving actual living humans. See, for example, Elon Musk spending billions to colonize Mars so that humans can be an interplanetary species. Or venture capitalist Marc Andreessen arguing that “advancing technology is one of the most virtuous things that we can do.”
Teach a man to fish and you’ll feed him for a lifetime. Invest in artificial intelligence and you’ll increase the chances of developing a protein-rich fish-substitute for future generations to eat on Mars.
Perhaps what these guys need is more time in the subway and on the streets. One recent study finds that wealthy people donate more the more they spend time around poor people. And it’s axiomatic in the nonprofit world that those who volunteer are far more likely to give money than those who don’t. If seeing firsthand what needs to be done increases giving, it’s unsurprising that along with the drop in volunteering since the pandemic, donations are down, too.
Could it be that human contact makes humans feel more responsible for one another?
Could it be that the real reason I pretended to ignore a man in need was because I was trying desperately not to see him as a human being for whom I was responsible?
“I’m hungry,” he said. I looked away. I went home and set up a recurring donation to World Central Kitchen. On Election Day, I voted, as I always do, for the political party that tries to give more to people in need, not less.
All correct and smart and “levered.”
But next year I also want to be someone who — on the subway, in the moment — looks up and says, “Here. I can help.”
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