Working in D.C. you see a lot of panhandlers. All along my commute even as early as Northern Virginia I see a gallery of people asking for help in one-way or another. All of them certainly need help, monetarily and certainly spiritually, but I wonder how they will use the money they collect. Will they use their money for good or ill? Will they use it for food or to lose themselves in alcohol or drugs? In the brief exchanges I have, there is so much context I’m missing.
Because I’m a big softie, I don’t discriminate and I give a couple of dollars to everyone who asks. Perhaps I’m just a weak enabler but I like to think I give them something more important than the money: kindness and recognition of their human dignity. A few I even talk with regularly. My regular behavior with these panhandlers has at least the pretense of philanthropy in the broadest sense, showing a love for our fellow man. The story I am about to tell is what philanthropy is not.
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