Misunderstood

I recently caught my mother praising me behind my back about how I recently brought back tea for our two workmen, and how good it was that I could pity the less fortunate. It had me shaking my head about how badly my mother misjudged me.

Now understand this: my mother considers herself a Good Samaritan. She's always being nice to "the working class", particularly those working at our house, occasionally cooking or buying food for them because "I feel so sorry for them that they would never get to taste [name of food] otherwise", or "I don't understand why some people would want to discriminate against others who are in a lower social class when they should pity them." I will reserve my judgment on this matter, save that I do at times feel that there is perhaps also an element of Magmanimous Superiority Complex there somewhere.

The truth of the matter is that I do not feel sorry for people. I don't write big cheques for wildlife funds, or pledge yearly donations to the local kidney foundation. I tend to ignore panhandlers and charity muggers who assault me on the street - although this is in part due to the fact that a number of people "raising money for charity" are actually swindlers. I don't volunteer at soup kitchens. On a rational, logical basis, I can understand why people with diseases, those who have faced calamity, or those mired in drudgery are in undesirable situations; I can even understand the need of some people to extend aid to such people, and I have done so myself on various occasions because everybody else is doing it, and it's the right thing to do. But I feel nothing on an emotional level. My heart does not bleed for people; I do not cry my eyes out when I hear about disasters killing hundreds half a world away; tragedies do not move me. And I certainly don't do charitable things for people like bring them tea just because I feel sorry for them, because I don't.

What I do possess, however, is the natural tendency to befriend anybody who is good and decent at heart, regardless of social distinction. I don't care if it's the dustwoman or the odd-job guy or the local politician's son; it's not a person's place in the social hierarchy that matters, but their moral character. What my mother has effectively mistaken for charity is simply my way of expressing friendship, in the same manner that I would occasionally say, "It's my treat" to a friend I'm out with, or get something for someone when there's no occasion for it. Just because.

In this case I simply thought they'd enjoy a chicken ham and cheese foccacia sandwich.