The Goodness of Strangers
Simple acts of generosity can transform the world. Let's not forget that.
In 1950, the Korean War broke out in a pre-industrial nation that was still reeling from the devastation of WWII and 35 years of Japanese occupancy and iron-fisted rule. My grandfather, like most South Korean men of fighting age, was conscripted to serve in the war, in his case serving as a sergeant in the air force. My grandmother, who was 25 at the time, fled with their four children—ages one, three, four, and six. Along with thousands of other refugees, my grandmother went south to escape the bombs and encroaching North Korean military who attacked and slaughtered civilians indiscriminately. Almost entirely on foot, my grandmother walked hundreds of miles, with four young children in tow and no final destination in sight.
In 2022, as the exhausted parent of two small children who I can barely wrangle for dinner, I literally cannot fathom how my grandmother did what she did. At one point, my grandmother became separated from her six-year-old daughter (my eldest aunt), and had no choice but to continue on without her. Through a small miracle, as my dad tells the story, my aunt just appeared one day, and the family was reunited.
This unimaginable trek continued for months. My grandmother and her kids were eventually evacuated by the US military to Jeju Island, where they spent the remaining years of the war. As many as 5 million people were killed during this “forgotten war”—more than half were civilians.
Both my parents grew up in the aftermath of this carnage. They lived in pre-industrial, post-war conditions that I do not even pretend to understand, and which words like “poverty” and “disadvantaged” don’t seem to adequately, or even remotely, describe.
My mom’s dad died during the war when she was just one, leaving her effectively orphaned. It was a time when a single woman with a baby had no options, so my grandmother abandoned my mom in order to start a new life with a new husband, pretending that she was single and childless, not a recent widow. It was the only way.
Because of the circumstances, my mom’s prospects for a better life were dim. My dad’s were not much better. They were “third world” kids growing up around rusted-out Soviet tanks and artillery shells, in a social stratum where going to college was about as feasible as going to the moon.
The goodness of strangers changed everything.
Through an international aid program, my dad was able to reenroll in and finish high school, and then eventually go college. (As in much of the world, “public school” in South Korea in the 1950s was something that had to be paid for, meaning only the well-off could attend.) His benefactor, as he learned, was an elementary school teacher in the Midwest. Similarly, my mom was able to attend high school and then nursing school because of the generosity of an elderly woman in New York City who happened to meet a distant uncle of mine who was, of all things, a news broadcaster for a Korean-language radio station in Manhattan.
Without this monthly assistance from total strangers—which lasted for years—my parents would not have been educated. They would not have been able to come to the United States in 1972. They would not have been able to raise two kids, affording them material and social advantages they could not have imagined for themselves as children. And I would not be here writing these words, raising two kids of my own, in one of the great cities of the modern industrialized world.
In short, I owe a life-long debt to two women I have never met, who embraced the power of direct cash transfers—no strings attached—to total strangers who just happened to be dealt a worse hand in the wheel-of-fortune of life.
Why has giving money away become so hard?
Somehow, the spirit behind this simple yet transformational act of generosity has been utterly perverted by the nonprofit industrial complex in America. Now, everything is bogged down by bureaucracy, paternalistic oversight, politics, and the machinations of boards of trustees.
My parents did not need to fill out any reports or provide impact metrics to their benefactors. Their continued funding was not dependent upon submitting receipts or detailed accounts of how the money was spent. There were no checks and balances. Instead, my parents sent a Christmas card or letter once in a while, telling a stranger on the other side of the world what they were up to. But mostly, they just spent the money as they saw fit, putting it to use to better themselves and improve the prospects for their unborn children and grandchildren. This was a relationship built on generosity, trust, and faith.
As someone working in the nonprofit sector, I find myself scratching my head at how differently everything works now.
Instead of generosity, I see a lot of stinginess. “You asked for $50,000, but we will only give you $10,000.”
Instead of trust, I hear a lot of suspicion, surveillance, and policing. “Your final report is one month overdue. Failure to comply with reporting requirements will result in ineligibility for future funding.”
Instead of faith, I hear a lot of cynicism. “Your organization is not ready for this level of funding. We need to see a few more years of operations before we can consider you.”
What the hell happened? Why is it so hard to give away money now? It shouldn’t be this hard. And quite frankly, it’s not. People have made it hard by overthinking what should be a straightforward act of transferring money from point A to point B. Especially now with digital financial tools, you can move money—and large amounts of it—with just a few clicks. We’ve made this whole philanthropy thing way too complicated.
Keep It Simple
I get it. It hurts to give away money. As much as I’m loath to admit it, every time I make a charitable donation or hand a few bucks to someone on the street, I feel the sting. In the moment, my desire to help overrides my selfishness, and my relative privilege allows me to make these donations with minimal suffering. But it is still a net loss for me. I give up some money so that someone else can have a bit more.
I don’t work at a foundation, and I’m not a wealthy donor or philanthropist with buildings named after me. But I cannot imagine that giving away money at these larger scales is fundamentally different. There’s more at stake, perhaps—not just in terms of money, but also in terms of social capital, egos, laws, and politics. Setting all of that aside, though, the core act is still the same as what the women who supported my parents did: transferring cash.
Glimmers of progress
If we look around, we do see some signs of progress. Public and private funders are removing barriers to receiving funding. Some foundations are actively revising their funding priorities, with at least the professed intention to better support disinvested communities. And there’s increasing interest in guaranteed basic income, including several pilot programs that put cash directly into people’s hands with almost no restrictions.
Unfortunately, these glimmers of progress are still few and far between. In the aggregate, they are nowhere near enough. And it’s not just about foundations. We need businesses, government, and individuals to also embody this simple idea that giving away cash is the best way to empower people. Forget about giving people “a seat at the table.” Give them the tools to build their own table—or a house, or a village, or whatever the hell they want—as they see fit.
Give people cash, and get out of the f’n way.
Some perspective from the annals of history
History has a way of imbuing your life with a sense of meaning. It provides a narrative to an otherwise disordered existence. Seeing yourself and your world through an historical lens has the power to provide a different kind of perspective that is lacking when your worldview is limited to the here and now.
Personally, I try to think about the generosity of others that has made my life possible. Two women in particular have transformed not just my parents’ lives, but multiple generations to come. Viewed in this light, my achievements are not mine alone—not by a long shot—and remembering this helps me to do my part in supporting others.
As the child of immigrants who had no hope of going to college, let alone building a prosperous life in America, I am grateful. My entire life should be an act of gratitude, because I owe so much to so many other people. When we embrace this spirit of gratitude, giving away money is not so hard. It becomes our duty. It becomes an act of joy and an act of love.
But I am only one person, and the organization I run, Full Spectrum Features, is just one small arts nonprofit. We are a drop in the bucket of the larger social justice landscape, and we have comparatively little power to effect any real change given our size and limited resources.
Imagine what we could do if we collectively committed to doing our work with generosity, trust, and faith. What would our world look like if everyone—from small nonprofits to local government to private foundations—stopped the nonsense and just did what is right? In our heart of hearts, we all know what that is.
It’s not that hard in the end: Give people cash, and get out of the f’n way.