Charity

I’ve been wanting to split up withmy Third World dollar-a-day kid for a while. And no, it’s not because I’ve been under some misapprehension that child sponsorship was a pay-by-instalment scheme and eventually I’d own her and she’d be my au pair / servant, regardless of whatever words have come out of my mouthat dinner parties, school fetes and sleepover drop-offs.

It wasn’t a ‘What’s in it for me?’ moment, either. Not to say I haven’t thought, ‘Clean water, vaccinations and education and all I get is an update telling me her hobby is sweeping. Oh, and a new photo for my fridge to advertise my selfless philanthropy and social awareness while allaying my white-man’s burden.’ I bet she doesn’t have a picture of me on her fridge. Sure, she doesn’t have a fridge, but that’s no excuse.

I’ve been sponsoring a child since before it was fashionable. And certainly since well before you. These days you can go online and browse for Third World kiddies. Click. Next. ‘Oh, he’s cute. Let’s save him from poverty!’ If you were really serious, you’d buy him outright and give him a Vietnamese brother with a mohawk.

I was originally allocated a barefoot waif called Graziela from Brazil after being told they didn’t have kids from Afghanistan or Iraq. Graziela and I bonded. It was good. Visitors would pass my fridge and say how cute black kids were and, I’m fairly confident, drive home talking about how great I was because, let’s face it, who wouldn’t? Suddenly, two years in and without warning, a letter arrived telling me I was getting a replacement sponsor child because the project in Graziela’s area was finished. I’d been dropped. Not happy. I was only donating because she had a face and name, which made me feel special and unique. Don’t worry about my deflated ego and the pain of unrequited noblesse oblige. I sobbed into my chardonnay (that’s what everybody drank their Amnesty International memberships worthof back then; these days it’s Coopers Green and the Monthly). It’s all been downhill from there. Vera from Ghana is no Graziela. She never smiles and isn’t nearly as cute, and quite frankly doesn’t look grateful enough. Or pathetic enough.

Suffice to say, she’s not on the fridge. Despite her scowl and pathetic drawings, I continued going without half a takeaway coffee a day so she could have her fancy maize-beating stick, state-of-the-art goat and opulent dirt-floor hut. Because that’s the kind of amazing person I am.

Nice white people give money and time to charity. Or at least they say they do. Like you (if you’re nice and white), I enjoy giving money and time to charity because it makes me feel superior. Which is pretty amazing considering how superior I am to begin with.

I’ve been developing relationships with a few other charities that are better for my social branding. Because it’s not the amount you give to charity but who you give to that is the biggest social marker. ‘Oh, you still give to AIDS? How very late ’80s! We used to give to Médecins Sans Frontières, now we give to a boutique grassroots organisation you never would have heard of that supports asylum seekers withmental illness. Our choice of charity suggests we are far more engaged in issues of human rights and discrimination than we actually are, which frees up more time for tennis!’

I’m off the idea of an individualistic approach to aid and more into micro-finance, disaster relief and local aid. When I say I, I mean Peter Singer, because that’s what he says in his new book, The Life You Can Save. Not that I’ve read it, but somebody I’ve spoken to has.

I didn’t break up withmy sponsor child because my conversion to atheism conflicted withsupporting a Christian aid agency or because I didn’t want my money spent on converting villages. I mean sure, I’m telling people that’s why Vera and I have gone our separate ways. But really, I broke up withmy sponsor child because I wanted to give money to something cooler. Or at least pretend to. Charity is the new black and I didn’t want to be seen wearing fawn slacks.