My Hunger Challenge, or Blogging for Charity

And this week on the Pens we've got a little weekend extra!! Our pal, Bethany is here! Bethany Herron is an almost-Pen, by blood (yes, that Herron). She drives freight trains, raises moolah for disadvantaged youth, counts pennies on the Board of SFA-RWA, and writes urban fantasy from her Edwardian-era flat (it has a pie safe!) in Oakland, California.

Blogging is a very personal thing. Which is a nice way of saying that it has a tendency to become quite selfish.

There are frequent breaks in that tendency, all of which I love: twitter mavens donating their tweet to charity, fundraising campaigns through social media, blog posts that shed light on a social injustice.

Some non-profits are starting to do amazing things on blogging platforms, raising awareness and involving online communities. Which brings me neatly to my #HungerChallenge http://hungerchallenge.blogspot.com! For one week, finishing up today, the SF Food Bank challenged bloggers everywhere to try and live on an average food stamp budget.

That’s $33, for one week. $4.72 a day. Dude, one Zachary’s pizza would wipe you out for the entire week. And that’s not even counting a tip.

I’m not going to focus on the fact that I failed miserably. I’m not even going to go into the why and how; you can check out my personal blog for that, if you’re so inclined. I will share a couple of thoughts that came to me during the process, and hope that it inspires you to show some charity towards your local food bank. And yes, this will still be all about me. It is a blog, after all.

I’m blessed, and I know it. I have an amazing support system, and a billion places to score a freegan meal. I still have an ‘emergency’ credit card, even after cutting all my real cards into little pieces at the beginning of this year.

What happens when those fail? When my sisters can’t afford to feed me, and when all of my emergency cards max out from “but I really needed it” pizza and ice cream? What happens when – not if, but when – I’m looking for some charity?

See, I always think the apocalypse is just around the corner. I’ve been learning how to create debris shelters and make fire, and a tracking course is in my future. But there are smaller, more personal apocalypses. Where your world falls apart, but the one around you keeps going.

I hope I will be prepared and have the strength of will to keep going when that happens, just like the 38 million people on food stamps in the US already do. I could live on $4.72, for sure. But it wouldn’t be easy, it wouldn’t be fun, and it would also be only one small view of a larger life of difficulties.

Plus, no more Hangar One Vodka tonics! Like, ever! Can you imagine the horror? This was a very dry week.

Be charitable, while you can. And appreciate your booze while you still have it.

And if you want more of Bethany, you can read about her adventures here.
http://jujuwiz.wordpress.com

Martha's Secret Charity Shame

If this were the charity equivalent of an AA meeting, this is where I'd tap the mic, wince at the screechy feedback through the speakers, clear my throat with an awkward cough and say, "Uh, my name is Martha and I'm a Charitaholic."

When I was in elementary school, our class was asked to fundraise. I don't remember the cause, I only remember it involved public solicitation of cash from parents, friends, and neighbors. And I remember refusing to do it.

Oh, and no one could make me do it. Not the teachers. Not the nuns. No amount of Catholic guilt was going to sway me.

I don't know why I had this particular aversion to fundraising. But I do know after the class raised money, and I found out the amount, I made an equal, private donation to the same charity...but didn't tell anyone about it.

There is probably some psychological reason I have this weird dysfunction, but I suspect I'm not alone.

If you...
- publicly shun the donation till at Church only to sneak in after the service and stuff it with dollar bills
- refuse requests to fund races for leukemia and whatnot only to go online later and donate anonymously
- when alone, and only when alone, randomly dole out cash to all kinds of people on the streets...only to learn that some of them are not homeless or pandering, only bike messengers chilling between assignments (oops)
- often purposely over-purchase at restaurants and pretend you are throwing it away only to give it whatever poor soul is hungry and huddled in a blanket nearby
...then you, too, may have Charity Shame.

Why am I ashamed of charity? Maybe it's the word - charity. It's full of connotations. Like I'm somehow "better" and giving to someone "in need" or "helpless" which makes me feel all douchebaggy and squirmy inside.

But the truth is....

(deep breaths)

...I love, love, love giving away my time, energy, and money to other causes/people/friends/strangers. I really do.

NO. I DON'T MEAN IT LIKE THAT. STOP LOOKING AT ME WITH YOUR HEARTWARMING SYMPATHY EYES, DAMMIT.

Charity is fucking ridiculous and I don't have to do it just because you expect me to and get the fuck out of my face with your stupid cause.

(no really, it makes my heart warm and fuzzy...)

BUT NOT BECAUSE YOU THINK I SHOULD, DAMN YOU.

All right we're clearly not going to solve all my issues in one blog post.

Point being.

Sometimes prickly people are charitable, too.
Stop making so many damn assumptions about us.

(grumble grumble grumble)

The Beautiful Bill of Rights

by Gigi

Working for a non-profit is in my blood.

Before he came to the United States and became a professor, my dad worked in India for CARE, the humanitarian organization working directly with the poor to combat world poverty. Before becoming a professor herself, my mom attended Antioch college, a unique liberal arts college where the students alternate each quarter of school with a quarter of cooperative work.

It was really no surprise that I went to work for the ACLU. When I'm not off writing mysteries or photographing mysterious subjects like gargoyles, I spend my days as a graphic designer producing publications for the ACLU of Northern California.

The mission of the ACLU is to preserve and promote individual civil rights and liberties as guaranteed by the Constitution's Bill of Rights. That includes important rights such as free speech, due process, and the right to be free of unreasonable search and seizure.

Some of my favorite projects are when we create public education materials in our "Know Your Rights" series, such as rights with the police and the rights of demonstrators, shown below.

I've been so fortunate in my life that it never occurred to me to do something different than work someplace that would help people. When I leave work, I'm refreshed rather than tired. So maybe I'm helping myself, too.

The Charity Blog, Pens Welcome Veronica Wolff

Pens are really pleased to welcome our pal, Veronica Wolff, author of historical romances and a the newly released YA series, beginning with ISLE OF NIGHT!!!

The Charity Blog




I’ve got a new book out this week, which means two things:

1. Yay, new book! Happy birthday, ISLE OF NIGHT!
2. I’ve been blogging, and interviewing, and Q-ing and A-ing my little heart out.

You’re catching me at the tail end of my publicity blitz, wherein I’ve been asked everything from the nature of horror (my book has vampires, and not the sparkly kind…mine are of the ruthless, bloodthirsty sort), to childhood abuse (my heroine suffered at the hands of her father, sending her careening straight to rock-bottom, which is how she ended up with those vampires), to vanilla vs. chocolate (vanilla in a photo-finish, unless it involves sea salt, in which case, chocolate all the way).

So, yeah, I’ve written lots of blogs in the past month, which has me a teensy bit burned out. But I really, really wanted to stop by and blog with the Pens too, because, seriously, I love these women. And not just in a SQUEE OMG AIR KISS kind of way. In a real, honest-to-goodness, admiring sorta way.

So, when Lisa got in touch, I had to say yes. Our exchange went a little something like this:

Lisa: Wanna come be a guest on the Pens? You could do an ISLE OF NIGHT launch post.

Isn't this cover gorgeous? (Lisa ::inserting her opinion here::)


V: (beaming, feeling thankful and honored) Fun! Thanks! I’d be honored!

Lisa: Great! The topic of the week is Charity.

(Shoulders sag.) How on earth do I tie vampires to Charity?

I racked my brain and came up with Weak Idea #1, something along the lines of…if my heroine could’ve relied on some sort of safety net (i.e. charity!), then maybe she wouldn’t have ended up on an airplane bound for the Isle of Night, where a coven of ancient vampires recruits young women to become Watchers, an elite group trained as agents, ambassadors, and sometimes assassins for them.

Meh. Boooring.

Time to bring out the big guns. At that point, I did what any smart person would do and asked Martha. (Because Martha knows, like, everything.)

V: So next week’s theme is charity. What should I blog about? (Cue me, wearing a pleasantly optimistic expression, waiting for Martha’s trademark wisdom to blow me away.)

Martha: You could do something clever and funny, like make up a vampire charity.

V: That does sound clever and funny! (Thinks a moment. Realizes how hard that sounds.) But I cannnn’t. (Hopefully I didn’t whine that last part too much, but only Martha could say for sure.)

Here’s where the panic set in. And with panic came the ludicrous, the ridiculous. I thought…I could look “charity” up in the dictionary and link the definition to my book in a witty, thoughtful way!

Nah. Too much of a stretch.

Or, I could refer to the lesser-used definition, which is mercy, which is something the vampires on my island don’t show. Particularly when they make the recruits compete against each other…and failure means death.

Not quite.

Or—ooh!—I got it…I could take the word c-h-a-r-i-t-y and write some pithy thing for each letter!!

Cue big shoulder slump, realizing that, when panicked, apparently I resort to that part of my brain best suited to fourth-grade homework problem solving.

Really nervous now, I decide to do what I always do when I hit this point. I consult with my critique partner, Kate Perry. Kate is a Kung Fu Master—like, literally, a full-on, red-sashed Kung Fu Master, whom you can see in action as the body double in my awesome



book trailer (because remember, this is still about me promoting my new book, ISLE OF NIGHT—in stores now!) Anyway, Kate is very calm and always has sage advice.

V: I have to do a blog about charity and I need help I don’t know what to blog about tell me what to do and how on earth do I link charity back to vampires?? (Do you hear the panic in my voice?)

Kate: Charity? That makes me think of Chaz Bono.

(This does nothing to ease my panic. Doesn’t she see how urgent this issue is?)

V: That’s Chastity. My topic is charity.

Kate: Hm. Interesting.

V: Well?

(The panic is intensifying now.)

Kate: Just do an interview-style post like the ones I do.

A-ha!! The author shouts in triumph! High-fives self! Thank you, Kate! An interview-style blog it is.

Only, hell, I just noticed…I’m closing in on 800 words, which is getting to be too long for your average blog post (since, as you can see, I’ve become something of a pro at these by now), which means it’s time to wrap it up.

So, to sum, this was a blog about Charity.

Also, I’d love it if you checked out my new book, ISLE OF NIGHT.

And hey, I’d be thrilled to send today’s winner a signed copy…which some might call downright charitable.

Paying it Forward

by Lisa Hughey

As most of you have figured out, this subject is very near and dear to my heart. The act of doing something for someone you don’t even know seems to be the ultimate gift. There’s no expectation of gratitude or reciprocation. The whole point of charity is to open your heart and receive the gift of satisfaction. And know that somewhere, you have made a difference.

My daughter and I are members of National Charity League. A fantastic organization whose mission is twofold, encouraging mothers and daughters to spend time together while involved in philanthropy in their local community.


I had never heard of NCL until my daughter was about ten. Some friends joined and started telling me about all the great experiences they had while serving the community. It sounded right up my alley, so when my daughter was old enough, we joined.

There is definitely a sorority aspect to the organization. There are rules, and minimum hours, and meetings all of which are designed for the participants to get the most out of the organization. We are in our third year and have done some pretty cool things.

We worked the Relay for Life, an American Cancer Society 24 hour walk-a-thon to raise money for cancer research.

Relay teams walk around the clock, most teams have a specific person that they walk to remember (or to celebrate their survival). The cancer survivors wear specially-colored t-shirts and walk right along with everyone else. It was one of the most memorable four hours we have spent together, ever.

Last year we contributed 50 hours of community service together (100 total) and then my daughter worked another 15 hours. I’m pretty proud of that.

We’ve sorted food at the food bank, tagged donations at the local hospice thrift store, sorted and packed books bound for the Phillippines, watched golf holes for a hole in one to support an organization that offers transitional housing for homeless families, made blankets for babies at the crisis center, stuffed stockings for kids in our county whose only gifts might be those stockings, Adopted a Family at the holidays, cared for cats at the county animal shelter, helped developmentally challenged and disabled kids play baseball, worked as Santa’s aide at the local museum, wrote cards to the troops, donated toiletries for female soldiers serving overseas. I’m sure there’s more I’ve forgotten.

It’s been an amazing few years and I never would have been involved in so many different things if not for this organization. It turns out some people don’t think much of NCL. I was really surprised to find that out. They poo-poo the organization without truly understanding. They assume that we are only out for community service to put on my daughter’s college resume or that we don’t really work.

What I’ve found couldn’t be further from the truth. We’ve gotten to connect with mothers and daughters who have a passion for making a difference. Most of the women put in many, many hours to enrich the experience for all of us. And I am beyond proud to a part of such a great organization and thrilled that I’m passing on my love of service to my daughter.

Lisa


ps. One other thing that we did was buy and pack boxes of food to be distributed in case of a natural disaster or an emergency.

If you google emergency food boxes you might be able to find something similar in your own community.

A Charitable Attitude

L.G.C. Smith

When I was growing up, my parents practiced the old custom of tithing. A tenth of the household income was given to a combination of the church and various worthy causes. They taught me to set aside ten percent of my allowance for similar charitable giving. It didn’t matter how much or how little you had, you still made a point to think about and give something to those who had less. It was annoying sometimes—kids tend to want what they want and not think about others when there are Barbie clothes to buy—but in retrospect, it was great life training.

Later, when I was in high school, suffering the miserable caprices of my hormone-addled peers, it occurred to me that there were other aspects to charity besides just giving time and money to good programs and people. There was the attitude thing.

I was not inclined to have a charitable attitude. I was more inclined to be resentful.

I resented my parents for being clueless and forcing me to live under their harsh and punitive regime. I resented the fact that my younger siblings were never held to the same rigorous behavior standards that I was, and that as the oldest, I was always the guinea pig. “Oh,” my mom would say after letting my sisters get their ears pierced when they were eleven when I’d had to wait until I was fourteen, “I realized pierced ears don’t make pre-teens look like prostitutes, after all.” Why didn’t she listen to me when I said exactly that when I was eleven? And twelve? And thirteen? Arg.

I resented my younger sibs because they got privileges and nice things earlier and with less effort that I did. I resented them for using up all the family resources that should have been mine by right of primogeniture: our parents’ time and attention, clothes money, Christmas presents, the budget for European travel. I resented them for wrecking my stuff—I have a Barbie car story of my own, Juliet, but it isn’t as noble as yours. Let’s just say that the words ‘Barbie convertible’ can still cue histrionics in stressful family moments. I resented one sister, in particular, for telling her ninth grade French class, in which I was the TA, that I didn’t know what the word ‘dildo’ meant. Dear God. The humiliation.

I resented the jocks for being cute and making me lust after them because they never looked at me. I resented the rah-rahs for being cuter than I was and flirting with boys. I resented not knowing how to flirt. I resented not being sent to an exclusive boarding school in Switzerland where intellectual curiosity would be valued at least a little more than it was in suburban California. I resented how awful I looked in Gunne Sax dresses. Broad shoulders and a short neck are not well-served by ruffles and poofy sleeves. I resented—well, pretty much everything.

At some point in my overly earnest self-appraisals, it occurred to me that this was something I might consider changing if I didn’t want to enter my twenties as an angry, bitter curmudgeon, old before my time, and permanently sour. I decided to cultivate a charitable attitude.

Fortunately, this isn’t all that hard to do. When people misjudged me, hurt my feelings, or in any way failed to see and acknowledge my general awesomeness, I learned to let it go. I thought about what might have been going on in their day to make them mean and horrible. I decided to reserve judgment about their worth and their estimation of mine. I could always come back later, pronounce their doom and resent the besneezus out of them if I felt like it.

That didn’t happen. Much. And I started to look at people and see what they were good at and what made them anxious, what they liked and how they wanted to be perceived. And I started to say nice things when I noticed them, like “You sang that solo beautifully,” even when I wasn’t thrilled that they sang it better than I did. When people seemed mean and awful to me, I looked for something good in them, and I mentioned it when I found it.

Probably the most important people to whom I applied my new found tolerance and charitable attitude were my parents, sisters and brother. They were also the hardest ones to make it work with, but I tried really, really hard. And now, decades later when my siblings and parents are my best friends, I still try. It isn’t as hard. Most of the time. It can still be a challenge, but it’s worth the effort.

So for me, charity often takes the form of offering an open mind and heart to those closest to me, as well as the occasional open wallet and open hand offered to those less fortunate. It’s an everyday thing. And it beats the heck out of resentment and anger.

A More Charitable Heart

--Adrienne Miller

If I ever found a genie in a bottle, my wishes would probably go like this. First, I would wish for beautiful singing voice, cause mine is terrible. Second, I would wish for just a little artistic talent, because, well , I stink at that too. And last, I would wish for a more charitable heart.

The problem is even my reasons for this last wish are selfish.

I am a grudge holder. A bad one. I'm still holding tight to grudges that are going into their second decade. It's not something I'm proud of. I know it's petty and kind of silly, but I just can't seem to help it. Big hurts, little slights, they're all the same to me. And I've got a long memory.

The kicker is, I know that no good comes from holding grudges. I am rationally aware that the only person I am hurting by holding them is myself.

It's like that old saying. Holding a grudge is like taking poison and hoping the other person will die.

My brain, of course, knows this. My heart, it seems, does not.

That's why I wish I could be more like those charitable people who are able to summon sympathy  for those who have done them wrong. It must be lovely to be one of those people who can forgive and let go so easily. They must live lighter lives than the rest of us.

I guess I'll never know until I find that magic lamp.

Of Barbie Convertibles and Rebuilding Together

I was a weird kid.

(pauses for gasps of shock and disbelief from reading audience).

One example: In an early act of self-conscious, self-righteous charity, I gave away my prized Barbie car. This wasn’t just any car. It was a convertible, pink, so cool. Our Barbies went to Diane Wilton’s pool/ocean in style, I can tell you that.
I gave it away because there was a toy drive, and while I had old toys to give, I believed the act of giving wouldn’t count unless I gave away something I really wanted. I thought it wasn’t true charity unless it involved self-sacrifice. Unfortunately, everyone remained suspicious of my motives. My parents decided I was fickle, that I no longer wanted the Barbie-oh-so-cool convertible Christmas gift for which I had begged so strenuously. Diane Wilton was pretty sore, too – how were the girls going to get to the beach party? At least one of my sisters told me I was stupid, that my sacrifice didn’t mean anything (she wanted to play with it, too). Martyr-like, I cried over my loss, resenting it bitterly.

Though I believe my motives were pure (ish), I now realize that except in extreme cases, charity is best expressed through all-around positive experiences rather than bitter self-sacrifice. Find something you love to do, somewhere your time and energy and money can be put to good use, not only for the recipient, but for yourself.

For six years I worked with a program called Rebuilding Together (it used to be the more poetically titled Christmas in April-- the name was changed to be more inclusive). Rebuilding Together is a program that performs repairs and upgrades on the houses of elderly and disabled homeowners who can't afford to keep their homes up. Here’s the really great part: though the program operates year-round collecting funds and identifying needy homeowners, the volunteer work dates are limited. Usually all of the hands-on labor takes place over one (sometimes two) weekends in April.
(above, me being trained by my Dad at an early age)
As “house captain” I was involved since January, getting to know the homeowner, inspecting the house, identifying needs, prioritizing jobs. Health and safety concerns are primary, of course, but usually we also tried to spruce up the place with new paint, cleaning, and gardening. After months of prep and planning, came…

Workday. I’ve never been to a barn-raising, but a Rebuilding Together Workday has that same uplifting, almost spiritual feeling of accomplishment through community. On workday, scores of volunteers arrive, consuming donated bagels and coffee before choosing their jobs, receiving instruction, and toiling away like demons. Experienced trades-people tackle plumbing and electrical issues, while folks with more enthusiasm than skills dig vegetable beds, or learn the basics of exterior painting.

Working together for a single day, seventy people can get one whole hell of a lot done. A new roof. Windows repaired. Old linoleum stripped, new floor applied. Walls washed, spackled, painted. Water heaters strapped and blanketed. Rotting porches replaced. Leaky faucets fixed. Locks changed, hinges oiled, slick walkways made safe.

It’s an incredibly exhausting day: occasional skirmishes break out, and mistakes are made. We once had a fraternity show up to perform community service work as punishment for a drunken party – they arrived hung-over and still buzzed, lacking any understanding of the true mission of the project. They mowed through the donated cookies and fruit, and then wanted me to sign off on their community service form.

But by and large, the before-and-after photos of the projects (none of which I have available on my computer, unfortunately) show the beauty of the day. Exhausted, dirty, smiling faces. Homeowners overwhelmed with relief and gratitude. A whole lot of folks with new skills and knowledge about house building and repair. Plus, the overall good feeling of having done something of value for another person.

This year, though I won’t be House Captain, I’ll at least volunteer for the day, or two. I’ll put on my overalls, grab a paintbrush or hammer, get good and dirty, and help a neighbor out. Because I can, and it feels good.

For all I know, my early act of Barbie-car sacrifice did lead to some karmic payback –I’ve had a wonderful life, full of luck and fabulous opportunities. But as my eight-year-old self would have pointed out, I wasn’t doing it for payback. Charity is performed for its own sake…and yet it does pay back. In so very many ways.

Charity Begins at Home

There’s a thing I want to do, and it’s something I’m completely terrified of doing. I want to be a hospice volunteer.

Three years ago my mother died. In the last month of her life (perhaps just the last three weeks—it blends together in my memory like a hideous nightmare), she was able to be home, surrounded by her three daughters. Looking back, I'm not sure how we all managed to take the time off work. None of us worked flexible jobs. But we were there, all the time. We were there up till the very end.

Two things made that time bearable: the fact that we were in it together, and the fact that every day a hospice care worker came by.

Now, the nurse didn’t come every day. He or she stopped by once every four or five days. At first, this didn't feel like enough. We wanted them there all the time. We were terrified. I work 911 for a living, and we’d been told that now 911 wasn’t an option. They gave us a sticker to put on our phone that said In Case Of Emergency, Do Not Call 911. Call Hospice Nurse For Advice. We were, for the first time in our lives, completely alone, beyond help. It was up to us.

But every day, someone came by. An older woman who talked too much and said strange things about crystals came twice a week—she was an odd duck, but she knew how to wash my mother’s hair without hurting her, something we hadn’t been able to figure out. Another person came just to help around the house. The chaplain came by. Mom didn’t want to pray with him because he wasn’t her minister, but I talked to him in the garden, which was what I needed.

They made us feel not so alone.

One night, I helped my mother to the bathroom, using my arms to support all her weight. I dropped her—either that or she slipped one way as I went the other—all I knew was that her head hit the doorjamb with a gigantic thud. A goose egg formed almost instantly, and I was sick to my stomach. Mom didn’t even notice it had happened, and no one else was awake in the house. I couldn't, wouldn't, wake them. My first instinct was to—what else?—call 911. But I couldn’t.

So I called the nurse. She soothed my nerves, telling me yes, it would bruise, but if her breathing remained the same then I didn’t even need to do anything for it. She was dying, for Chrissakes, what did a bruise matter? (Okay, she didn’t say that. But I took that away from it.) She made me feel better. “It happens,” she said. “You’re doing everything you can, and you’re doing it right.”

That was what we needed then, so desperately. We needed people who weren’t too uncomfortable to look us in the eye. People who didn’t burst into tears as soon as they came out of her room. People who could ask us how we were, to whom we could tell the whole truth. Unvarnished.

It’s almost a cliché, isn’t it? That hospice workers are angels? But they are. I want to be one. I have a new job, and a little more time on my hands. I’m looking into it this week.