Feed the Birds, I Think...

Being uncharitable to charities

In art, Charity is often depicted as a sorrowful and downtrodden mother, toughing out the burden of carrying multiple children and (apparently) feeding each and every one. The image is clear: the good and the virtuous give even when they have nothing. I guess that’s fair enough — until the babies at your breast start pulling out clipboards, asking if you’d like to be put on a mailing list for further donations, or if you suddenly discover that one or all of them are dubiously connected to a seedy, religious organisation pairing your monetary contribution with a proselytising one. Actually, forget the babies — instead there are adults asking you to donate to the children from a distance; but where are the children, how do they pick them, and how much of the money are they getting for their time? In modern times, Charity’s eyes should be painted wide and panicked. 

That’s the reaction I have anyway. When I see those vested, bucket-toting charity members on the street, I know I’m in for it. The moral wheels start turning. If I can help, shouldn’t I? Absolutely, but what if I buy that ‘winter essentials’ kit for an orphan, and they wrap it in a piece of paper touting the Lord’s Prayer or throw in a Bible? That doesn’t change the helpfulness of the kit, but it isn’t as straightforward as finding an orphan myself and buying the kit for them directly. Even if you’re only paying a little for a charity’s administration fees, that’s objectively not what you’re asked to pay for: you’re asked to pay for something good to happen to someone in need. You’re not paying for some rich manager to put a new poster of happy pandas or mid-leap dolphins on a conference room wall, or for them to buy another round of complimentary tote-bags so that their employees can virtue signal while walking through their local well-to-do grocery store. I am well aware that this is a deeply cynical take — in fact, as a nod to Diogenes, I’ve already ordered the barrel I plan to live in moving forward. It’s just that whereas some people can put their anxieties aside and contribute to charity (because they feel that it says more about them than the organisation), I freeze up and usually decide to run away. I can’t stop seeing all the unintended consequences, all the morally questionable things I might be doing simply because I want to be assured that I’ve done a single good one. 

Mary Poppins says we should feed the birds, and far be it from me to question her. But Mary Poppins could see the birds in question and the Bird Woman, which undoubtedly made the whole tuppence-a-bag exchange much clearer. My point is not to discount the importance of trying to enact powerful real world change or to devalue consciousness about global issues. My point is this: to abstain from contributing to charity is nothing but an acknowledgement of how complex organised charity really is. The fact that human beings can team up and act in broad sweeps together can bring about a lot of good, but it can also be disastrous: armies and organisations and companies are like monsters with a thousand heads and two thousand hands. They aren’t people — they’re uncontrollable and unreadable entities who are incredibly good at concealing their motives. 

We’re supposed to focus on what we can control; it’s reportedly an avenue towards inner peace. I believe that applying this rationale to charity offers a good enough solution to the problem of its complexity. If you can see what you can control in a scenario — as in there’s no possibility of deceit and the charity is direct — then it’s a wonderful thing to contribute. But if you see me convulsing with moral panic at the question of whether or not to donate, know that I am no Mr Banks — it’s just that some birds have to be fed by one’s own hands, not by a stranger’s.