The Profitability of Radical Kindness
I’ve been encountering “nonprofit” organizations that make me bristle. Like the one that will charge me to dump my kitchen scraps into a communal bin, and then, after a time, sell me some fresh compost. Annoyed with their pleading emails, I sent a response suggesting if they were really interested in being green, they would teach folks how to compost at home.
And then I unsubscribed.
Recently, I went to a tiny street party that had a stage with some fine local musicians playing at one end of the block, and vendor tents lining both sides of the street selling mostly “vintage” items—second-hand stuff at higher prices than thrift stores. One of the booths declared that 100% of their proceeds went to a charity of some kind. I didn’t buy anything, but I took home a business card from their table. The card claims these folks create “…temporary spaces to uplift and support our local communities… fueled by donations and the desire to spread radical kindness.”
So if I buy stuff, they will spend all of the proceeds handing out kindness?
I looked them up online—but can’t get information unless I “sign up.” Or I can scan the QR code on the card. I’ve read enough about QR codes to be wary.
There are many other non-profits that activate my BS meter and tarnish the reputation of non-profithood. One can’t trust nonprofits just because they claim to be non-profit.
I donate money to a variety of well-established do-gooder organizations. Most of them have been around for decades, and I’m aware of the good deeds they’ve historically done. Several such organizations automatically take a little piece of my pie every month. I’ve liked this plan because it supports charitable causes I believe in and allows me to ignore all other requests in good conscience.
But even some of these test my patience: Although they automatically collect monthly dollars from me, they still send email and snail mail asking for more money. Some of the snail mail is multi-colored—which costs more to print than black and white. Occasionally I’m sent prizes—bumper stickers, address labels, maps, or copies of the constitution. All of this riles me because it indicates these folks are not using my money wisely.
The latest scheme is that they all claim to have some secret benefactor who will match whatever amount I pledge here and now: If I commit $50, the secret contributor will also send $50, thereby—theoretically—making me responsible for the do-gooder agency receiving $100!
Excuse me? Each of these outfits has its own secret benefactor? Hard to believe. But if they do, what kind of namby-pamby contributor will only give money if somebody else will donate first? If they are truly interested in the do-gooder organization’s principles, I should think they would donate regardless of what I do, and not sit on their wallets whining, “Well, I will if you will…”
I’m fed up. I’ve decided to let all my do-gooder organizations know that if they send me unsolicited doodads, multi-colored junk mail, and/or think they’ll tempt me with the notion of secret rich people matching my donations, I will stop contributing all together.
Or maybe I’ll start my own non-profit. One that vows not to send you anything at all. I will urge you, up front, to double the amount you were thinking about sending, because I guarantee there are no wealthy benefactors waiting in the wings to match your donations. I will never bother you again. And I promise I will ooze radical kindness as I deposit your money in my bank account.