Do’s and Don’ts for Do Gooders

“If your parents remained married when you were growing up, step forward.”

I stayed in place.

“If either of your parents had a college education, step forward.”

I stayed in place.

“If there were over 50 books in your house when you were growing up, step forward.”

I stayed in place.

The questions kept coming. The others around me kept moving. I kept staying…and smiling.

Then the questions changed.

“If you have a Masters, step forward.”

I stepped forward.

“If you have a PhD, step forward.”

I took another step forward. My smile went slack.

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“Poor people just need more money” concludes Slate’s review of unconditional cash transfers and their role in ending poverty. Well, that’s an incomplete conclusion. How do I know? I went to middle school.

Keith, Greg, and Mark led an exclusive network in my seventh grade class. They were the cool kids. Those on the inside enjoyed privileged access to information (what was in and what was out) and opportunities (invitations to the best parties). Those on the outside wanted in, desperately. Of course, entry was not free. As a prospective candidate, my fitness for the network would be judged by my ability to:

• Employ the correct vernacular like Bitchin’, Rad, and Awesome
• Master ritualistic body movements like the Hand Gide, Worm and Windmill.
• Adhere to strict protocols of dress by donning Jazz shoes, skinny leather ties, and parachute pants

Judgment would be forthcoming at what was billed as the “party of the century” with all you can drink Mellow Yellow, endless Donkey Kong on the Atari and a guaranteed round of spin the bottle.

I knew I could pass the first two trials. However, given my family’s socio-economic status, my prospects for fulfilling the final trial were in doubt.

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It was 2007. I had just launched and participated in the Two Dollar Challenge. The experience was transformative. Poverty inducing constraints, dynamics, and relationships once hidden from view became visible. Childhood memories long buried away bubbled to the surface. Poverty was officially under my skin. I became obsessed with finding a way to transform my job as an Assistant Professor of Economics into a platform for poverty eradication. So, I took to taking stock of the assets, resources and capabilities at my disposal:

• Access to enthusiastic young people – check
• Access to a university community with varied expertise – check
• Access to funding for undergraduate research and travel – check
• Academic freedom to design a course around a topic of my choosing – check

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I’m calling bull#@%.

For years, we have been told that we can be the generation that will end global poverty. Glossy non-profits with kick-ass graphic designers and artsy videographers have promised that poverty will fall to its knees when our pretty faces arrive. Agents of change with catchy Linked-in headlines touting their unparalleled power to do good have forcefully argued that poverty will collapse and crumble under the weight of our enthusiasm. Social entrepreneurs who have fashioned legendary tales of their accomplishments at moving families out of poverty have told us that poverty will retreat when it comes face-to-face with our metrics, expertise, and consultants.

How do I say this without being blunt? Well, I can’t so here it goes.

We will not end poverty.

We may make a scratch. We may even make a dent. But, we will not end poverty.

Why?

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Smoke billows from an Oldsmobile as it idles at the stop light. Rust populates the fender, the muffler is held up by a wire hanger, and the protective plastic strip along the driver’s side door is popped out. Another car pulls up. Daylight dances on the chrome and the paint glistens. In the Olds, a little kid in the backseat presses his face against the small portal hole of a window to take a closer look. With an effortless touch of a button, the shiny car’s window smoothly opens. A woman appears and begins pointing her finger at the Olds. The driver of the Olds grips his window’s handle crank and muscles it down. “Excuse me” she says.  “Did you know that your car is smoking?” Before an answer is given, the little kid turns his attention towards me. His eyes are full of fire. “You have no right!” he hisses.

With those words, my eyes popped open. I was three days into the Two Dollar Challenge. I had been limiting my income to $2 a day, sleeping in a make-shift shelter with my students for the past two nights, and adhering to a number of other rules meant to assist us in gaining a deeper understanding of the economic lives of the poor.

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As soon as I sat down, I felt the weight of the week slipped off my shoulders. You know that feeling you get when you hand in your thesis, finish grading the last exam at the end of a long school year, or complete that contract.  It is as if you can finally relax. You can finally breathe. I was enjoying what felt like my first full breath of air in Honduras. It was the kind of breath that not only takes in oxygen, but also takes in your surroundings and solidifies the moment in your mind.

It was our last day in Honduras. My students were busy saying their goodbyes in Villa. I was sitting on the bench in front of Selma’s house watching the sun set behind the Ceiba tree and reflecting on the week. We had executed twenty-one micro-loans, successfully taught our four-day savings curriculum, and pushed a school bus out the mud. We had been going full tilt all week. No one had gotten sick and everyone was accounted for. By this time tomorrow, I thought to myself, we will be on the tarmac in Atlanta. I took another deep long breath. Then I saw him out of the corner of my eye.

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