Friday, October 05, 2007
Pledging My Support
When it comes to public giving, national cultures vary widely. The US is traditionally a nation of generous givers, still characterized by that “spirit of mutual helpfulness” remarked on by Alexis de Toqueville in his 1835 book, “Democracy in America.” Unlike my compatriots in the UK, who expect the state to provide a broad range of goods and services paid for through taxes, most Americans prefer their taxes low and their government small. Where the state and marketplace do not provide, there American volunteerism and philanthropy step in, funding projects as diverse as food pantries and symphony halls.
Philanthropy in the US involves $300 billion dollars each year. That’s three dollars followed by 11 zeros. It’s a vast amount of money, nearly 2% of the Gross Domestic Product. National participation in giving is extensive: Roughly three quarters of all Americans donate money to charity each year, usually to emergency aid, to their place of worship and it’s projects, or to a local group to which they have personal ties.
But giving isn’t just about dollars. Bill Clinton’s new book on the subject catalogues the variety of gifts folks can contribute to the public good. He describes cases where people can donate time and skills as well as cash to causes they believe in. The book may be Bill’s come-lately bid for elder statesman gravitas, and it does feature some transparent Hillary-hyping, but it is an inspiring read all the same. As the book’s subtitle says, “each of us can change the world.”
Clinton instances the story of Oseola McCarty, who at the age of eighty-seven gave $150,000 to the University of Southern Mississippi to endow a scholarship for African American students. Ms. McCarty had dropped out of school in sixth grade to tend her sick aunt, and then worked for seventy-five years as a laundress. She lived frugally and eventually saved enough money to give other black students the educational opportunities she missed.
In addition to helping the needy, voluntary donations of time and money support the arts and culture, in distinctively American ways.
A couple of weeks ago, I went to matinee of a musical celebrating the life and tunes of Buddy Holly at the recently restored Civic Theatre in South Bend. As the chords of “That’ll be the Day” rose from the stage into the fresh painted dome of the former Masonic Temple, I checked the donors listed in the programme. Nine pages of names spelled out an impressive alliance of public agencies, corporate and individual private donors that restored this handsome building in the heart of downtown.
As to mass media, when I first landed in America, I found it weird you could buy a TV without a license. In the UK, that venerable cultural institution, the British Broadcasting Corporation, is financed by annual license fees paid by all TV viewers, even those who never watch the Beeb. The license is a chunk of change, about 270 bucks a year, but as a result, Miss Marple never has to halt her investigations for a commercial break.
In the UK, Brits fondly think of the BBC as “Auntie,” not Big Brother. However, since the idea of state subsidised mass media sets most Americans on Red Alert, public radio and TV here have developed other fundraising models. In line with the American culture of putting your private monies where your mouth is, public media appeal directly to their audience for funding. The public radio fund-drive is the grown up version of the roadside lemonade stand to support your local sports team.
So, when the WVPE fund drive starts up, don’t turn off the radio. Go to the phone or the internet and make a pledge to support the station you care about. It’s the American thing to do.
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A random selection from more than 300 Michiana Chronicles -- refresh the browser to see another set:
Joe Chaney -- More essays by Joe
Louise Collins -- Pledging My Support / More essays by Louise
April Lidinsky -- More essays by April
Jonathan Nashel -- More essays by Jonathan
Jeff Nixa -- More essays by Jeff
Ken Smith -- More essays by Ken
Jeanette Saddler Taylor -- More essays by Jeanette
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About the series
Michiana Chronicles is a series of radio essays by Jonathan Nashel, Louise Collins, Joe Chaney, Jeanette Saddler Taylor, Jeff Nixa, April Lidinsky, and Ken Smith.
Michiana is the region of north-central Indiana and southern Michigan roughly centered on South Bend, Indiana.
Michiana Chronicles airs on Fridays at 7:35 a.m. and 12:30 p.m. on WVPE (88.1 FM), the home of public radio in Elkhart / South Bend, Indiana.
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Recent pieces
Celebrating Magna Charta Day -- Runnymede, the site of the signing of the Magna Charta, loomed right up there in my imagination with Stonehenge: a couple of historical sites that had captured my interest early on. I can still see surly, pimply-faced, bad King John in some old movie being strongly urged, that is coerced, into signing this document where he promised to behave: “The Lion in Winter,” I think. By Jeanette Saddler Taylor.
Life on the Default Setting -- That foam cup will still reside in the county landfill when our great grandchildren are driving their offspring in a nuclear-powered mini-van to gymnastics classes on the moon. "Will you look at those kids jump!" By then the landfill will be the tallest manmade feature in north-central Indiana, visible from earth orbit. Astronauts will steer their sleek ships by the neon glow of all our waste. By Ken Smith.
It’s a Long, Long, Road from May to December -- Over the years Kurt Weill’s music has inspired a legion of devotees who want to be a part of his creepy luster. Some fifty years after Weill’s death Lou Reed took a stab at getting in on this kind of cool. Now, Lou is just about as cool as there is too. In the 1960s he co-founded the rock band, The Velvet Underground, and as the story goes, only a couple of thousand copies of their first album were sold, but everyone who listened to it formed their own band. The man gives new meaning to having no vocal range, and yet conveys everything that needed to be said. By Jonathan Nashel.
Pomp and Happenstance -- Truly, the moments in our lives that really deserve a brass band and velvet robes and a basso profundo voice saying “Something BIG has happened here!” are most often happenstance, unexpected. Maybe you’ve had the experience of reading a novel or seeing a film that shifts you, profoundly, to another axis – that peoples your interior with ideas or characters that become guides – or cautionary figures – for the rest of your life. Or maybe you’ve had a conversation with someone that suddenly made your world slide sideways as you questioned your faith – or gained a new sense of it. Those are moments that warrant pomp and circumstance, but they often pass quietly, despite their transformative legacy. By April Lidinsky.
A Kid and a Rock -- But every night I come home, the kid is hammering on the rock. He’s like a little John Henry. Small stones dislodged and fell to the dirt but then larger ones emerged, and eventually the worst one of all: a granite field stone the size of a pumpkin embedded in there till the end of the world. “This is hard,” he said. “Yeah, it is,” I said, watching the woman glare at me from hell. I left town for vacation. Two weeks. I was carrying an armload of sleeping bags back around the house when I stopped. The concrete monster was gone. Just a circle of rock dust in its place, littered with stones and in the center, the big granite pumpkin. I smiled. He did it. Dang. I’m going to go hug that kid. Buy them both a pizza or something. By Jeff Nixa.
True to Type -- We talk about what we are reading, what we have read, what we’ve read about reading (God bless the Sunday New York Times Book Review section!) and what we are planning to read next. Standing in front of the bookcase, my daughter-in-law, Nancy, and I were having one of those discussions. I think that she was holding Bobbie Ann Mason’s Clear Springs; she flipped to the back and saw the page that tells which font was used in printing the book and a bit of history about that font. Nancy said, “I can’t believe that they waste a page putting that in there. Nobody cares about that!” Danger! A big, evil-mother-in-law-trap just waiting to ensnare me there! Recognizing it in time, I pulled the shreds of my seldom-worn garment of tact around myself and did not blurt out, “Are you nuts! That’s a great thing! I love it when they put that in! It’s like frosting on a cookie; it makes it ever so much better!” By Jeanette Saddler Taylor.
Jump Ball at the Hoosier Primary -- I can’t believe it! At long last, Indiana matters during the national campaign season. We’re in the news every day. We Hoosiers have been crafty, too, not tipping our hand as to whom we favor. We’ve made Indiana a real battleground state, forcing the candidates to pour ad dollars into our communities in a despairing sort of Vegas binge. Here in the second congressional district, we’re a battleground within a battleground. And permit me to announce loudly that I’m an “undecided voter.” You guessed it: a battleground within a battleground within a battleground, the center of a political universe in which not knowing what you want makes you royalty. By Joe Chaney.
Doing Algebra -- I’m doing quite a bit of algebra these days, helping our young mathematician solve homework problems. I last took algebra from Mr. Webb way back in the year 19-mumble-mumble, when President Nixon was still lovingly adding names to his enemies list. My strongest memory from Mr. Webb’s class was that he never learned his students’ names. He called everyone Babe. No matter who you were, he’d say, “Babe, put the next problem on the board. Thanks, Babe.” But he must have been a pretty good teacher, because after a quick refresher I can solve a basic problem. And so for the moment I still have a role to play in our teen’s life. By Ken Smith.
Skirting the Issue -- Now, Land’s End and other sensible clothiers exploit this swimsuit anxiety brilliantly to play on both the intelligence and self-loathing of grown-up women. For one thing, you practically have to have your Ph.D. in Swimsuit-ology to wade through the thick catalogues hitting mailboxes now, with bold headlines promising “Flattering Solutions” – implying every body is a problem. In fact, you can shop by “anxiety zones,” choosing which body part you think most needs to be slimmed, supported, disguised, and, somehow, covered, all while revealing more than most of us care to face in full-length mirrors, fully clothed. By April Lidinsky.
Baby, It’s Cold Inside -- After you see these photos you will probably wonder what we can do to prevent every single last iceberg from melting away and becoming history. Here, I confess, I have no idea. I’ve heard it all before: lower carbon footprints, drive hybrids, recycle with abandon, hate the oil companies, love to read in the dark, you name it. And you know what: none of this is going to bring back these icebergs or grow new ones or do anything to stop our relentless destruction of the earth, let alone quell the naysayers on global warming. I recently heard on NPR that an iceberg the size of Connecticut just broke apart and is melting away. Now, I’ve been in Connecticut many times and I still can’t wrap my head around this little fun fact. What can possibly be the size of a state? By Jonathan Nashel.
Pledge drive feature—Daddy Daughter Dance -- During the Spring 2008 pledge drive, WVPE listeners got a chance to hear one of last year's most popular pieces, Jeff Nixa's story of the Daddy Daughter Dance: There’s a little girl over there, eleven years old, sitting alone in her new dress at the daddy daughter dance. She looks like she’s eating her two cookies. But she’s really watching the other girls dancing under the balloons with the men. “May I have this dance?” I ask the girl. She gets busy with her cookies. “Not now, dad.” (Read the rest). By Michiana Chronicles.
A Green Witch -- I sipped on my Pepsi, we chatted, and at some point I said, “So what do you do?” She held up a finger and swallowed a bite of Sloppy Joe. ‘Oh,” she said, “I’m a witch.” Now, at this point a lot of my fellow ministry types would pray for the Lord’s protection and suddenly remember the bible study they were supposed to be at. But I kind of like the witches I’ve met. Women who belong to the nature-based religion called Wicca. By Jeff Nixa.
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