Giving Aid Is Society's Last Chance
Giving Aid Is Society's Last Chance
Reflecting on philanthropy being more vital than ever.
My friend Alex and I recently found ourselves immersed in one of our favorite endeavors — human kindness. After an outpouring of generosity that was as humbling as it was empowering, we raised nearly $20,000 dollars to support a women’s shelter in honor of Women's History Month. We chose a shelter in White Plains, NY, transforming gifts from hundreds of kind hearted donors into goods, necessities, and other beacons of hope for women who have known too much despair.
Following that act of giving, I found myself pulled into the soft space of reflection, not just about that solitary effort, but the grander work I’ve been privileged enough to do through similar initiatives over the past decade plus. Each one a drop, a ripple, coalescing into an ocean of aid. Standing on the shores of reflection, I came to a staggering realization. Thanks to the support of countless donors (some reading this now), my combined efforts have raised over fifty million dollars for those in need around the world.
It's a heady sum, fifty million dollars. An orchestra of notes, each one humming with the sound of generosity, empathy, a shared understanding that in this world of ours, we need to look out for each other.
That number humbles me. It inspires me. It leaves me deeply thankful for all of you who given financial contributions, time, and love.
And yet, as I sit and consider the weight of what we have done, a sense of urgency washes over me. I am compelled to recognize that this is not a moment for self-congratulation, but rather a call to arms. This moment in time, this snapshot of our world, feels full of uncertainty, mixed with threats that hang heavy over all of our futures. The eyes of social inequality, the phantoms of struggle, the demons of systemic discrimination – all continue to persist, growing stronger, gnawing at the fabric of our society.
There has always existed a chasm between those who stand in need and those who possess an excess of resources. This gap, this yawning divide, is not new. But today, it feels as though that divide is not merely growing, but accelerating, with such heartbreaking ferocity that I am left wondering how any of us can survive in this world without the armor of affluence.
Consider the housing market, where the dream of owning a home is swiftly retreating into the realm of fantasy for most. Or the cost of food, an essential for survival, soaring to a point where even basic sustenance threatens to become a luxury. Basic human rights, the bare minimum we require to live with dignity, are increasingly becoming notches on the belts of the privileged, as hyper-inflation continues to enrich a select few at the expense of the many.
I recently came across an article, nearly a decade old, that painted a chilling picture: sixty-two individuals held wealth equal to that of half the world's population. Even as I read it, I couldn't help but think, with a sense of dread, how the wealth gap has only worsened since it was written.
Poverty, as I’ve come to learn, living through and studying it, is not an island, but rather the intersection where a myriad of structural and interpersonal injustices meet. It is birthed from a cocktail of poisonous forces: the thievery of unbridled capitalism, the malignant tumor of racism, the insidious venom of misogyny, and the cold indifference of apathy. The United States is a grand example of this. One of the wealthiest nations on Earth, yet it’s often a hollow, soulless place, that ignores that wealth is not measured merely in dollars and cents, but in the dignity and well-being of its people.
We find ourselves in a world that values the shiny trinkets of the rich while casting aside the gems of humanity. This nation, in its voracious pursuit of profit, has willfully chosen to neglect its most vulnerable. This nation, our home, has turned away from the voiceless and has let the cold hand of injustice strike down the houseless. This has let the steel bars of prisons cage the struggling mothers, and auctioned off the lives of hungry children.
Any one of us could be them.
With the way the tides of fortune are turning, any one of us may yet still be.
So, I find myself constantly in contemplation, lost in my thoughts, searching for the path that leads us out of this wilderness of inequity. What is necessary now, I wonder, in these trying times that we are navigating, as uncertainty clouds our future?
The answer, I believe, lies where it all began — community. We have to decide that we are going to take care of one another, despite what the brokers and structures of power in this nation do or don’t do.
There is a certain beauty in this vision, a simplicity that almost seems to contradict the profound impact it could have. It does not necessarily require the clinking sound of coins or the rustling of dollars. No, it demands something of far greater value, something that cannot be quantified or commodified. It calls for compassion, for empathy, for understanding. It asks for the kind of love that recognizes the humanity in each one of us, that cherishes our shared struggle, our shared dreams.
This sort of love requires tapping into whatever it is that you might be able to offer those around you who need it most. The people whose names you might not know, the people who you might have looked over. This offering can be finances, clothing, a meal, time, or simply patience.
I began to learn this fundamental truth not from textbooks or scholarly articles. It was not taught in lecture halls or seminar rooms. This wisdom was passed down to me through the generations, whispered in the moments of daily life, getting to watch how the community I grew up in managed to survive. How the two women who raised me — my mother and grandmother — managed to survive.
Walking around New York City, I’m often reminded that its skyline is stitched together by the hands of people the world tries to forget. The people who raised me. Those who are hungry, thirsty, who yearn for something soft to lay their head on. This city, like this country, is a web of disproportion, haves, have nots, and dreams deferred. Caught in the shadow of this metropolis, lies the streets of my hometown, Yonkers. Southside Yonkers, to be exact, where dreams were often as scarce as full bellies, where survival was a nightly prayer and waking up without your stomach rumbling was the Amen.
It was there that my mother, a Black teenager, barely yet a woman, carried the heaviness of single parenthood with a grace beyond her years. Where my grandmother, from her window in the projects, became the matriarch of a neighborhood, keeping us centered in the turbulent dance of simply existing. Things were hard growing up, but the two of them did everything they could to be a balm.
In the hush of midnight, my mother would sit, her tired eyes scanning the pages of textbooks and GED study guides. The fluorescent kitchen light would hum in the otherwise silent apartment, casting long shadows as she leaned over her work. She has always been a woman of tireless persistence, cradling her ambition with a similar tenderness to how she cradled me.
Her days were a ceaseless cadence of labor and learning. The worn keys of cash registers, the smell of cleaning supplies, the rough texture of second-hand textbooks — these were the milestones on her path out of poverty.
My grandmother, on the other hand, was a warrior of a different kind. Age had bent her once nimble fingers, rendering them unable to work as she once did. But her spirit remained indomitable, seeking out every corner of the city for help. She had become a sage of social services, knowing every food pantry, every assistance program, every resource that could ease our lives.
In our home, survival was balanced with joy and hope. Amid the struggle, my mother and grandmother laid the foundation for my efforts to help others. They taught me that in the vast, unforgiving world, empathy is our greatest strength. They showed me that it is not the magnitude of our resources, but the depth of our compassion that shapes who we are.
Our family was poor, there was struggle, there was hardship, and yet, we were not broken. There was an understanding instilled in me that having little did not mean being little. It did not mean becoming the embodiment of scarcity or scarcity thinking. This is what we should aim to give others. Hope.
Though we didn’t have much, the generosity of their spirits never ceased to surprise me, as a child. Both of them had an extraordinary capacity for generosity. I watched, young eyes wide with incomprehension, as they gave to others who had less than we did. Five dollars to a friend in need, a bag of groceries to a hungry neighbor, baby clothes to a new mother.
"Why are you giving our things away when we need help?" I once asked, a ten-year-old grappling with the juxtaposition of need and charity. This was after watching my grandmother hand over money from her social security check to a houseless man outside the check-cashing store. A man as lean as winter trees, as desperate as the final notes of a symphony. It was a question born from the frustration, as I watched my grandmother, who had waited for that check with the patience of a saint, give it away when her own cupboards were bare.
She had turned to me, her face a map of years etched in lines of hardship and laughter, and her eyes, like seas of wisdom, held a glint of something that I would not fully understand until years later.
"Baby," she began, her voice the soft breeze of early summer, "we give because we know what it's like to have nothing. We give because in this world, there's always someone who needs it more. We give because as long as you can use your hands, you should make them do good work."
I carried her words with me, tucked into the corners of my heart like a treasured keepsake, and they have informed my every move since leaving the Southside of Yonkers for the bustling streets of New York City. It is her words, and the spirit of giving housed in her and my mother that has allowed me to raise such a substantial amount of money over these years. Because it’s not about figures or dollar signs, but rather a kaleidoscope of faces. Women, children, the lost and the found, the broken and the healing. Each digit, each comma, is a story—of resilience, of survival, of a collective striving to be better, to do better.
In that way, South Yonkers, like a fading tattoo, clings to my skin, the gritty silhouette of broken structures etching themselves into my memory. My formative years there taught me what poverty is. What it feels like. How it hurts. Who it destroys. Where it comes from. And why I have to make sure we are all aware of what is at stake right now.
My intent is not to be hyperbolic when I say our society, like a fragile, tattered quilt, is coming undone. In so many place, the very threads of community and kinship that used to bind us, are fraying, and in their place, an unsettling individualism is taking their place. Our neighbors are being failed. Our children are being failed. The country is failing itself.
The current trajectory is not just unsustainable, it is a ticking time bomb, a catastrophe waiting to happen. Poverty is not just rising, it is swelling, surging, an unwelcome typhoon that threatens to wash away the foundation of our society. And the architects of this crisis, in their ivory towers, hands stained with the blood of exploitation, remain untouched. For them, poverty is not a plight to be battled, but a mechanism to further line their pockets.
In this landscape of struggle, where the soil of hope is dry with thirst, we must clasp each other's hands, hold each other close. We must revive the heart of what community once was, and what it can be again. The sort of community that my mother and grandmother held dear.
We must ask ourselves, every day, "How can I lend a hand? How can I ease the burden? How can I make a difference?" It could be as simple as a warm meal for a hungry soul, a coat for someone shivering in the cold, or just a kind word to someone who feels unseen.
There is always something we can do in the vast universe of need. No act of kindness is too small, no gesture of compassion insignificant. Every ripple of good that we send out into the world has the potential to create waves of change.
In the end, it is not just about survival, it's about how we survive. It's about whether we let our society be a barren wasteland of shattered dreams, or a fertile field where seeds of hope and compassion grow. It's about whether we stand by and watch our communities fall, or whether we hold on, hold each other, and fortify what is not yet ash. It's about choosing to believe, in spite of everything, that we can mend the tattered quilt of our society, one thread, one act of kindness at a time.
My hope is that you will also heed my grandmother’s call, and find ways to put your hands to good work each day.
Thank you for being in this with me.
You can support our next fundraising effort to give food, clothing, and other necessities to those in need at a community cookout in honor of Juneteenth here:
https://wehavestories.org/juneteenth-give-back-fund