Pan-Handling

Seasonally we all think about giving... about gratitude, generosity... we count our blessings and try to remember the less-fortunate. Generosity, I have always told my son, is judged not by the quantity you give but the percentage of what you have left.  This puts the billionaires' annual charitable rosters in another light.  They give what they are able to deduct; they keep plenty on hand.  

The holiday was a little spoiled this year by the sudden passing of a downstairs neighbor.  He was an economist of sorts... we were fellow alumni of the same college, so he gave a sort of hall-pass for my financial eccentricity, as he referred to my personal life choices.  I live on food stamps; he regularly ate a modest meal at the local diner. I'm sure he left behind a small fortune... like my father he hoarded papers and financial documents and statements.  But his death was sudden and a little shocking.  He was stern and smart and short with people, but kind to me.  He reminded of my father.  His daughter and her family came quickly; they sorted out some possessions, and they left... just like that... his home of so many years will be professionally cleaned and quickly sold, renovated... and just like that another family will begin an urban dynasty.  

It made me feel disposable, temporary... I survey the landscape of my home and mourn the dispensing or discarding of possessions which will come. Time is relentless.  

Tonight I went on craigslist, as I often do, when I need something that feels easily surplussed-- like a partial can of paint, or copy paper... things that are shared or given away by the thoughtful... But there was a posting from some person who offered to grant a wish, soliciting applicants.  I replied, expressing my gratitude that such a person exists.  Besides the open can of paint which will come my way somehow, I need nothing.  But the woman with the two overweight children tonight, standing on my corner-- she needs things.  Her daughter who cannot be more than 10--  brazenly asked me for money.  I'm sure I don't look wealthy but I apparently look weak, or sensitive or generous, perhaps.  Today alone, walking all the way from Union Square, I was solicited by an astounding number of people-- with stories, with pleading, with a little theatricality.  Since I carry no cash, I generally offer to buy some groceries; it's rare that anyone responds.  This is not what they need.

My very successful friends-- with money, with positions of power-- spend an inordinate amount of time trying to solve problems.  They organize events and fundraisers.  The billions of dollars that are given toward cancer alone-- well, it's staggering.  And yet... my friends who have died over the last few years-- at home, in hospice-- suffering... received little.  Personally, I used to fundraise... then I began to just allot whatever small amounts I could muster to brighten their lives--- to hire a cleaner, to take them for a wig fitting, a manicure.  Most of them craved company-- someone to acknowledge their suffering, to empty trashcans and gather Christmas trinkets for them to give others-- things like that.  

I guess what I really notice, in this city of mostly good and somewhat generous people, is that we give and yet the receivers do not seem to get what they need.  Those who decide on the allotment of funds and the administration of charities (yes, fictional sums go to institutions and research... dinners and entertainment functions) succeed in eliciting so much from the party-attenders and diners... and yet the individuals-- the sick and suffering-- the poor and overwhelmed-- they do not seem to get relief.

How can we fix this?  To assign, like Secret Santas, one person for each of us?  A match, a recipient for whom we are responsible?  The city is filled with single-occupant homes and aging populations.  Who will really care for them?  The New Yorker today had a feature on the private equity acquisition of profitable hospice platforms... one of the most repulsive pieces of investigative journalism.  The whole system, the way medical groups and hospitals are run by massive insurance for-profit companies and hedge funds.  It's a disgrace,  it's anodyne for the rich who delude themselves into thinking they are doing some kind of good when the waterfall of benevolence becomes a mere trickle as it reaches or does not reach the bottom.  

The massive amount of money spent on our elections seems grotesque; these commercials in which one person mostly maligns their opponent in a way that is counter-exemplary for children... and then the ubiquitous drug advertisements.  When I was young there was Bayer aspirin and Alka Seltzer.  Now there are myriads of back-to-back creepy medication commercials-- like brainwashing-- the drug of the month club, with endless caveats and disclaimers accompanying the happy, calm, lovely people on-screen.  We all know the advertisements alone add many zeroes to the cost of these things which also do not seem to cure but to palliate and generate profit by giving some kind of trade-off or hope. 

I know that by allying myself with the educated poor I am not making a contribution.  I can't give these people on the street what they want; nor does a successful day of panhandling solve their long-term problem.  On Thanksgiving, a close friend of mine revealed that he was participating in a Go Fund Me campaign... he was tired of living hand to mouth, felt entitled to more.  He was tired; I argued with him, about which I feel badly, but I also cannot expect everyone to feel satisfied with the what-I-have scenario.  It is not human nature to be content.  Capitalism is not driven by people like me.  Art and ambition are not always bedfellows in my version of biography.  

What bothers me is the bitterness-- the climate of subliminal anger and dissatisfaction... the culture of money generates unhappiness... the obscene display of wealth among celebrities... who yes, fuel and fund charities with fervor... and also leave the world a huge mess of inequality.  What drives us to become the best version of ourselves seems competitive and joyless.  There is success and there is Success. It goes on... until, like my neighbor, it does not.  

We all need to make repairs-- to fix the most broken things first... but we also tend to dwell so much on what we are missing.  So much of our assessment is based on what our neighbors have, rather than what they don't.  It's a function of this culture, too... seeing everyone's instagram and how much they spend on their underwear and face creams.  It's astounding.  We are all entitled to our priorities.  I've been accused of excessive moralism.  Yes, without blaming people, there is a price to pay for smoking multiple packs of cigarettes every day... this is a choice, and some people are unwilling to make better choices. I used to spend my childhood allowance on a book; it lasted much longer than a milkshake and I still have many of them.  I also saved for college while my own son did not.  At my age now I realize debt is more or less buried with our dead bodies. My son found his own version of life; the apple of him fell very far from his mother-tree.  I will always revel in his successes.  I will listen to my friends and try not to moralize.  I will not covet my neighbor's possessions, but I will dispute their distribution.  Isn't that in the end the global challenge?