Ravi Mangla
As a matter of principle, I never donate to charities that guilt donors with the gift of a dime or a nickel. I was a product of a religious upbringing and had taken pains to divest myself of that influence. Preying on middle-class guilt was, to my mind, no more virtuous than greed itself. One charity in particular (I am withholding its name out of basic courtesy) persisted in issuing donation asks, weighted with small currency. I raised in a letter of exceptional length my concerns with their nonprofit model, as well as a carefully considered critique on the shortcomings of philanthropic giving as a meaningful solution to societal ills. A response arrived several weeks later with a template apology, signed by hand, and fitted inside the folded letter a pre-addressed donation envelope. I was able to determine (through a cursory Google search) that the charity's base of operations was only a six hour drive (or eight hours by train). On the way I listened to a beguiling podcast on the history of Venetian blinds. When I arrived at the nonprofit's office, the receptionist appeared flustered by my presence (I am, it should be noted, a man of generous proportions). I asked to speak with a person of authority. She said she would notify her direct superior, and in the meantime invited me to wait by her desk. I performed a series of knee-bends and calf exercises while I waited (it was common for my calf muscles to seize after long car outings). She returned less than twenty-five minutes later. Mr. Choi, she reported, had a late lunch engagement and was unable to see me at this time. As an expression of his profound and sincere regret, he wished to present me with a promotional tote bag. I told her—folding the tote and placing it under my arm—that I had not driven six and a half hours for a promotional (albeit elegantly designed) tote bag. She asked if she could relay a message to Mr. Choi. Yes, I said—and had her transcribe an abridged treatise on the outsized role of philanthropy in the face of deepening structural inequities. How charities—like theirs—appealed for contributions as penance, without expecting the gilded bidet class to surrender even the smallest iota of privilege. Is there anything else? she asked matter-of-factly. I mulled over the question. Not at the present time, I said. While I hadn't had the opportunity to meet with Mr. Choi, I felt pleased with the general progression of the afternoon. The receptionist promised to hand-deliver the letter to his cubicle as soon as he had finished with lunch. On the return journey, I passed a billboard advertising the lottery jackpot; painted underneath was the phrase it could be your lucky day. I never fail to be astounded by the easy delusions of man.