Do’s and Don’ts for Do Gooders

When I open my door to a knocking Jehova’s Witness, does she see me as someone in need of “service”?

When she informs me of my spiritual poverty, is she rendering “service”?

When my son comes to stand by my side, does she see a child at risk?  Does she see spiritual abuse? Does she see another to serve?

We’ve been told that “The best way to find yourself is to lose yourself in the service of others.” So,when she hands me her brochure, does she “lose” herself in her “service of others”?

Am I her “other”?

I wonder how she decided that.

I wonder if she ever considered the possibility that I don’t want to be her “other”.

Moreover, if she does “find” herself, what does she “find”?

How does she “find” it?

What role do I play in helping her “find” it?

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I was in eighth grade. It was a cold spring morning in Ohio. And, I was holding my mom’s hand in a human chain that stretched across the continental United States. We were ending hunger in Africa.

It was my first act as a do-gooder.  And, it was the beginning of my conditioning by the Do-Gooder-Industrial-Complex.

The Do-Gooder-Industrial-Complex spun a particular narrative about the end of global poverty. It fed me a particular set of beliefs, assumptions, and notions about poverty and the poor. It prescribed a role for me in ending global poverty. And, over the years (a lot of years), it motivated me to take a set of actions that I now know were in many cases inconsistent with long-term sustainable development.

I was brainwashed. And, I am not the only one.

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She swept the milk, eggs, flour and sugar one by one across the counter, punched each price into the cash register, and hit the total button. Our receipt churned out in a curl. She glanced at us and pressed another button. The receipt lengthened to include a blank space at the bottom. With a quick flick of the wrist, she ripped the receipt away, pressed it against the edge of the counter, and tore off the blank space at the bottom.  In that space, she wrote down our family name and the total amount we owed. On the wall behind her, she taped it in a place for others to see. She handed us the remaining part of our receipt and we walked out with our groceries.

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She sidles up quietly.

She takes my hand.

She laces her wrinkled fingers into mine.

I raise my shades.

She looks at me.

I look at her.

She smiles.

I smile back.

We stand in silence.

We watch my students and her community mingle. They are having coffee, eating donuts, sharing stories, and laughing.

She rocks my arm ever so slightly.

We do not share a language. We do not share a culture. We do not share a country.

We have vastly different backgrounds, histories, and upbringings.

We have overcome significantly different struggles.

We carry with us distinct sorrows and bits of suffering.

We carry with us distinct joys and pearls of happiness.

And, we enter into this moment, with vastly different degrees of power, privilege and material wealth.

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I am a do-gooder. I am part Non-Profit Hero. I am also part Sidekick. The Non-Profit Hero in me needs to raise funds for a microfinance organization. He projects a “can do” attitude. He exudes confidence and displays enthusiasm for his “making a difference” work. The Sidekick in me understands the very limited role he plays in ending someone else’s material poverty. Sometimes, he even wonders whether he should play a role at all. For years, the Non-Profit Hero dominated my understanding of things. His voice carried more weight. He influenced how I communicated my work to others. Nowadays, the Sidekick reigns supreme. This is how I want things to be. This is how I think things should be. However, maintaining Sidekick Supremacy is a constant struggle. And, nothing makes it more challenging than having to write a fundraising letter to donors.  Let’s listen in on the duel of dialogue between my Non-Profit Hero and Sidekick parts as they attempt to do just that.

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I am kneeling down beside her. My tattooed forearm is turned towards the camera. Her drawing of my snake tattoo is positioned just right for a side-by-side comparison. She’s in her Sunday best. Her arms are interwoven behind her back. Her head is titled to the side. And, she holds an incredible smile.  It is one of the cutest pictures I have ever participated in. And, I felt this overwhelming urge to share it with others. So, I turned to Santiago (our Program Director in Honduras) and asked “When there’s a break in the lesson, can you ask her Mom if I can share this picture with my network?”

Smugly satisfied with the care I had taken to secure permission, I walked away visualizing the flood of likes and comments that were sure to follow. Thankfully, the values and ethos that guide the work my students and I do with our clients kicked in. And, so did the questions.

Can her mother really say “No” to your request?

I do not know. She is one of our clients, which places me in a position of relative power. And, I do not know her. Therefore, she has no reason to trust me. She has no reason to trust that I will not punish her if she were to deny my request. So, more than likely, she cannot.

Why did you have your picture taken with a child that you do not know anyway? Are you part of her family? Are you a trusted neighbor, teacher, coach, counselor, or religious leader?

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I bit the inside of my mouth. It did not work. I dug my fingernails into the side of my leg. It did not work. I was running out of anti-crying techniques. And, I did not want my students to see me cry. So, I asked to be alone. They agreed and left the one-room cabana we were sharing. I stepped into the bathroom, turned on the shower to mask any noise, and cried. I was a hard cry.

My students and I were implementing the first phase of our indoor air pollution initiative in Siete de Abril, Honduras. It was my first trip to a developing country. I was my first time witnessing that depth of poverty. And, earlier that day, while they were in the community, I visited a Nutrition Center for abandoned kids. The kids gathered around me. They tugged at my beard. They rubbed my head. They called me “Pellon.”  I was told that most of them were my son’s age. And, they were doing some of the same things that he does to show me love. It was my first time holding malnourished children in my arms. And, I was overwhelmed with emotions.

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We were just finishing up our conversation with Clementina when another van full of Gringos arrived. A middle-aged man in a ball cap and shades bounded over to us. “What are you all doing here?” he asked with a hint of accusation. I introduced myself and my students. I began a review of our microfinance program. And, somewhere between “no fees” and “no penalties” he lost interest.  “You know” he interrupted me. “Before we got here…,” there was a dramatic pause and a deep draw of breath “they had nothing.” He swept his hand over the small community of 30-plus families in makeshift shelters. “We built that meeting house. We built those two public restrooms. We are building that home.” He turned to place his eyes on my eyes. He removed his shades. He raised his cap. “You know without us I do not know whether or not they would have survived.”

It was my first do-gooder pissing contest. I lost. He kicked my ass. And, he did it right in front of my students. Ouch! But, he was good. The dramatic pause. The hand sweep. The good ole boy raise of the cap. The brush of the brow. The exhalation. The consternation. Hell, if I was a mission-trip-virgin his hero’s narrative may have captured my heart. It’s a good thing that I carry protection. Not the kind that fits in a wallet. I carry a copy of Ivan Illich’s “To Hell with Good Intentions” in my backpack.

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