Page 9 of Yours, For Good

It was either like my friend Gabe's parents, and you won the lottery on a two-dollar bet… or you invested a million bucks, only to find you never got much out of it anyway. Like my parents, my grandparents, and who knew how many generations before me.

If I factored in the family dynamics I inherited alongside the money, there would be no two-dollar bet for me. I had seen too many transactional marriages to believe I could escape them. I'd have to invest heavily and, considering my dormant organs, I didn't think I had the emotional funds to make anything work.

Being single made sense. It guaranteed the focus I needed to do good with my privilege. I could keep investing in social causes, in the hope I'd get to go to the grave in peace. I would enjoy the love I had with my friends and the chosen family they provided. I would leave their kids a token donation they didn't need in their trust funds, because Tío Javier had thought of them, too. All the rest could go to people like Nora, all over the world, giving them a chance to succeed in a world that wasn't designed for them.

Still, Nora's email beckoned me to question what I held as truth. I may not be someone who felt many romantic stirrings in my heart, but I was not a coward. If she could challenge herself, so could I. Not for romance, no, but maybe I had to question this comfort I had with being alone.

Chapter 5

Date: September 7

To: Mr. Smith

From: Eleanora

Subject: What is charity, really?

Dear Mr. Beanpole,

As per my subject, I've been thinking a lot about charity. How most people think it's generous and altruistic. That it helps change things. But it doesn't, Mr. B. Not in the long term.

PLEASE, don't get me wrong: I'm truly, deeply appreciative of the opportunity you've given me. Your sponsorship to this program is a bridge to my dreams like I never thought possible, and I will freely acknowledge that you've effectively changed the course of my life. But if it changes my life, how does it change the life of the other students at JGH?

Because, really, we'll still be living in a world that makes it possible for people to be in need in the first place. Policies keep things in the status quo. Unless power gets properly distributed and laws and action make it sustainable, charity won't really make a difference except for a tiny portion of us. Then we get what-abouted or tokenized. And the pattern repeats forever, nothing ever getting any fairer.

I think that was my biggest problem with the John Grier Home Charity. I needed the JGH, Mr. B. I wouldn't have been able to complete my studies without its support. And the JGH reminded me of that often, made me feel like I OUGHT to be thankful, and see it as a miracle, and see it for its complete benevolence… like the JGH was the one studying for me, tutoring for me, or cleaning the ten toilets in the home for me. Like it wanted me to remember my place in the reality of it all and that, if I was afforded the chance to write my own story, it was because of their power— their goodness. Not my effort: their magnanimity.

That's why meritocracy is a myth, you see.

But back to my point. Giving is such a messy thing, because our society has made it messy. I'm sure you know my business plan will involve supporting and guiding youth that can't pay for the services themselves; that a percentage of each full fee enrollment goes to subsidize a sliding scale for others. I'll be perpetuating the problem, in a way, won't I? Because I can't change policy or culture as a whole; I don't have that kind of power.

It makes me sad, but I don't know how to help, otherwise.

Take care this evening, Mr. B.

Nora

Javier

OOF.

I threw myself on my guest bed in Laguna Island, and covered my eyes with my forearm. Night had fallen late in the coastal small town. Some of my friends still chatted away and visited, enjoying the balmy evening and the view from Max and Eva's patio.

The Pacific and twinkling lights were breathtaking, but I retired early. Several emails had reached me at once, including one from Nora. I thought I could catch up with everything, journal for a bit, and then read a book before sleep. That was until Nora's message hijacked my intentions.

Fuck. I liked to think of myself as a progressive man. Someone who'd grown in a world that taught me to expect all doors to be wide open for me and who, despite the odds, had managed to lift the veils covering my eyes.

It had taken a long time and a lot of luck to figure out the extent of my grandmother's advice. When she had said to flip the script, she hadn't only meant leaving the Pendleton rules behind. Freedom from the family's expectations and their views of the world implied seeing our wealth and social responsibility differently, too.

I bit back a groan and, sitting at the edge of my bed, reached for the phone I had thrown on the comforter.

Surrounded by light sage-green walls and thick, wooden beams; with the sound of breaking waves in the background and laughter reaching me through the window, I read Nora's email again. And again.

Shame washed over me, for my share of responsibility in making Nora feel pain.

It wasn't her responsibility to teach me a lesson, but I had much to learn from her insight. In my position, I could never know what it was like to be in the shoes of someone like Nora. With every letter, she showed me a new perspective and it was made clear— what I thought I knew was lacking.

I tried to be good, do good, but I had to be better. Everything had to change. Just like Nora said, giving money away wasn't enough.