As we go to press, a weather-related event—perhaps not seen since the destruction of Galveston, Texas, in 1900—is consuming media attention, the American agenda, and a new discussion on how charitable Americans can—or cannot—be. Hurricane Katrina and the terrible days of its aftermath are testing our resolve as a nation. It’s the worst of times and the best of times—in a manner of speaking. Today’s headlines share that same sense of tragedy and empathy that Charles Dickens wrote so well in his novels of poverty, disease, and the oppression of the weak. Most of the time, when there is a troubling event (such as the flooding of New Orleans), be it in this country, or abroad, Americans have an inner need to help out. It may go back to our days as pioneers, when in order to conquer the dangerous outposts of the Far West, we had to rely on more than just the cavalry. We had to rely on ourselves. Call it self-reliance, if you will.
But Americans are also known for their outwardness. When visiting Europe I have been told how we speak louder, act before we think. Maybe this is just the emotional nature of being an American. It is also partly why we need to think twice before we act out of charity. Giving randomly to too many disaster relief efforts can create quite a mess.
The criticism oftentimes lodged against the nonprofit sector—waste of resources, mismanagement of infrastructure, and shortsightedness—is well-founded, but it’s not the whole picture. Big government and big business aren’t always best-suited for the role of white knight. The charitable response to the AIDS crisis in sub-Saharan Africa is a case in point. Almost thirty years into the epidemic, many multinationals operating there have yet to subsidize antiretrovirals for their workers. It’s been the nonprofit sector of the industrialized world—the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation to name one of its brightest lights—that has sent billions in aid to stem the tide of new infections.
America has exported many things: from TV to the Marshall Plan. Almost every country in the world has felt our generosity. People admire Americans for their good will unto others. What they might not like is the way we make promises, and then seem to back out of them. In the long run, this sort of altruism elicits a truism: Charity begins at home. If we can’t take care of the thousands of HIV-positive men, women, and children who have been displaced by Hurricane Katrina, then shouldn’t we ask ourselves if we’re not just being—as Nick Lowe once sang—cruel to be kind?
Surely, reckless charity is not the envy of the world, or the way to a better future for anyone, including the victims of today’s weird weather patterns, chaotic geopolitics, or obscene corporate branding of compassion. And disease fatigue, one form in particular—wearing of the AIDS ribbon, however useful it has been in the past—has become a cliché. A symbol of hope that doesn’t carry much weight in a world with as many causes as there are colors in the rainbow.
I know I’m sounding like a cynic. But when I was growing up, the twenty-first century was going to be the Age of Aquarius. Now I suppose this is the era of plagues, floods, and computer viruses. The scribes of the land—today’s self-anointed media experts—have gone on record that these are crazy times. It’s as if the world’s problems—including HIV—are too much to deal with.
Have we, as Americans, lost control of our charitable impulses? Are we no longer able to recognize the face of care? Let’s hope not—in case we’re ever on the receiving end of others’ generosity.
October 2005
