musings on altruism
fallacy or not, the path forward is found in the in-and-out of self
12 years ago, roughly a year out of college, I was on my laptop idly scrolling through my Facebook feed when I saw a post from one of my former housemates.
My stomach dropped.
He had regretfully broken the news that his dog had cancer, and he had created a GoFundMe to raise money for her treatment.
This housemate and I never really had the best relationship. We weren’t adversarial by any means. It never got too contentious. The vibe between us was always just ever so slightly askew, like a framed canvas a bit off-center that we could never manage to straighten out.
And then at the end of our lease, I was woefully late on my last electricity bill, and that plus our awkward fit made me an easy mark for him to unload on.
Once I had finally gotten around to pay him back, that was that. We were to never hear from each other again.
Technically, that remains true to this day. That post on Facebook wasn’t sent directly to me, but I felt compelled to help in any way I could. So I clicked on the GoFundMe page, I looked through it — most people had donated $5, $10, $20 — and without any deliberation, I got my debit card and I typed in my payment information.
$200 is the amount I contributed.
To feel good as the result of a good act is closer to a byproduct of said act than any conscious manufacturing of pride in oneself.
I didn’t do this so that the GoFundMe faithful would think, “My god, this Patrick guy is so generous,” or, “Wow, this Patrick guy must be really well off.” I wasn’t. I still am not (sadly).
Nor did I do it in hopes that maybe this guy would reach out and thank me for being so kind and thoughtful, that we would make amends, that our shaky history would actually reach an amicable end. I didn’t care about any of that. All I cared about was doing whatever I could to give that dog her best chance at beating an ugly disease and winning back the splendors of life.
Did I feel good about giving that much? Of course I did. Was that the motivation behind my decision to donate $200? Not at all.
This is a popular debate around the idea of altruism, which is commonly defined as a selfless concern for and commitment to the welfare of others. Some believe that all good acts are done because they make us feel good, pointing to the feelings of nobility that come with any and all acts of philanthropy.
But the counter to that notion is this: we can’t help it if noble acts make us feel noble, and as long as we are acting without the anticipation of such feelings, then we are acting altruistically. To feel good as the result of a good act is closer to a byproduct of said act than any conscious manufacturing of pride in oneself.
To go further back, when I was a teenager I would frequent the gas station down the block. This was around the time that I had started to develop severe depression and anxiety, or as I like to call it, “growing up”.
I would walk into the station’s convenience store and load up on all of my favorite coping foods, then pay with all the cash I had in my pocket, and any change I got back went directly into the donation jar on the counter. Sometimes it was several dollars worth.
Again, the reason I did this was not to feel good, but because it seemed like the right thing to do. That said, depression especially can bring about feelings of general apathy, and I’ve often wondered if the reason I was willing to part with the rest of my money was because I just didn’t care to keep it.
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Was I less interested in hearing the cashier remark, “Wow, you’re such a good dude,” and more so hoping that they might ask me, “Hey, is everything all right?”
I don’t know, I feel like unconsciously there was maybe a yearning there that said more than just the the simple act of dropping cash into a jar. And when it comes to altruism, it really isn’t supposed to say anything.
In written communication, we have these subordinating conjunctions like “because”, “so that”, etc.
“I donated this money, because I don’t want people to go starving” or “so that this dog beats cancer” or “because I don’t care about money.”
Altruism doesn’t allow for that line of dependent thought. It ends with a period, or rather it is the period.
No words, no instinct or interest to say anything. Lacking expressiveness, as if every word I write right now is further repudiation of altruism and its formality.
If altruism were a poem, it wouldn’t be. The ink would never even kiss the page. It would end before it ever had the chance to begin.
To be willing to give, but to also be willing to put yourself first when deliberating on just how much you’re willing to give.
Sometimes I think about altruism as a conceivably feelingless thing, an empty practice of sorts. When you put it that way, it sounds almost anti-human. By nature we are driven by feelings, no matter how small. And even if depression isn’t necessarily the driving force that other emotional states manage to be, does it not still carry some amount of energy?
Even if depression is considered negative energy, if we were to quantify it — say happiness = +1 joules and unhappiness = -1 joules — you can still put a number to it. So in a sense, my act of altruism at the gas station was driven by something. Even if it was a sad thing or a bad thing that just so happened to facilitate something good.
I don’t know if that still counts as altruism. But what I do know is the more money I gave away, the less I took care of myself, and the further and further I lagged behind until the disconnect between my mind, body, and soul became that of different area codes. A depersonalization of sorts.
If pure altruism is to act purely outside of yourself, then you’re leaving yourself behind. It feels more like a form of self-abandonment than anything. Of course, this coming from someone with a more liberal, individualistic way of thinking — other circles that emphasize things like ego death might feel and think differently.
But I think, going back to the disheveled teen and the jar, if the person I am today were to do it all over again, I would put half of my change in that jar and the other half right back in my pocket. I would make a compromise between the good act and doing what I feel is best for me — in that case, saving money.
Maybe that’s not altruistic, but in my view it’s the best of both worlds. And sometimes it is that balance of selflessness and selfishness that is the most self-sustaining practice.
To be able to consider the welfare of others and act on it, but with forethought in doing what’s also best for you so as not to leave yourself behind, so as not to put yourself in some kind of deficit.
To be willing to give, but to also be willing to put yourself first when deliberating on just how much you’re willing to give.
I don’t see that as entirely selfish, because in that instance, when thinking about yourself, you are also thinking about others as well. And to me, that’s the pinnacle of free will: to be able to do both at once, to give proper thought and care to both, to where you and the world around you might intersect, where everything can become aligned.
In a sense, it’s transactional and that’s the biggest no-no when it comes to the tenets of altruism. But it’s a resounding yes-yes when it comes to how you choose to nurture the relationship between you and everyone else, to make an educated decision on the best possible outcome, that which optimally serves you both.
Maybe that’s not altruism, but it’s good regardless.
Maybe it’s not righteous, but it feels right.
And feeling is good. Yes?
