Vartabedian: It’s Fundraising Time: Woe Is Me!

Sometimes I wish I were poor.

Not to the point of being destitute and on welfare, but a little financially unstable. That way, people wouldn’t bug me as much about donating my money.

Along with the fall foliage comes a rash of fundraising requests that have put my mind into a tizzy and sent my wallet reeling. I’m at wits end over it, same as many of you out there are. I can’t be alone in this vicious circle. Let’s unite and pool our resources for survival.

In the past three weeks, I’ve gotten corralled by my political party and my church, every organization to which I belong, and then some. I’ve gotten hit by a medical charity, a scientific cause, a youth endeavor.

And that’s just the Armenian side.

On the American front come other appeals. People know me. That’s one problem. They think I have suitcases of money. That’s another issue.

“You can’t support the world,” my wife says. “You’ve got to learn how to say no.”

We’re both retired and live on our savings. We’ve got family that could use an occasional hand and five grandchildren to help subsidize. So which comes first, your kids or your outside charities?

I have a hard time turning my back on a needy cause. Intuition tells me to write out a check and send it along. But the more I give, the more they want. It doesn’t take very long to give ‘til it hurts.

“Be more charitable. Don’t follow the path of least assistance,” they say. I answer that with this. “Charity was once a virtue. Now it’s an industry.” A week doesn’t go by when there isn’t a notice or two in the mail. God loves a cheerful giver but so does everyone else.

I had an aunt who was financially endowed through marriage. Because she appeared haggard and walked the streets of Boston, people left her alone, thinking she couldn’t afford a decent meal.

What they didn’t know about the woman was the disguise she was wearing. Her external appearance had little to do with her private life. And when she died and left a million, she felt like one and left her money to 10 different Armenian organizations.

Had she done it while she was alive, the woman wouldn’t have enjoyed a day’s rest from the beseechers. On the other hand, I have a relative through marriage who enjoys a rather affluent lifestyle. The more he donates, the more they want. His name usually appears among the greatest philanthropists of this era and I’m guessing the guy uses it as a tax write-off.

The raffle tickets that were once a dollar apiece are now selling for $100. Banquet tickets are no longer a bargain. And those that are come equipped with candle-lighting ceremonies and other hidden collections.

You look to see what your colleague has donated and attempt to save face by matching the amount. On the other hand, you’ve donated to more fundraisers than he has so you can afford to go a little less.

It’s become a rat race out there folks—and the rats are winning.

I know others who have struck a happy medium. They will donate to the church and nowhere else. Others will focus their priorities on the political side and forget the other organizations. And there are those who throw a dollar into the collection plate and that’s all you’ll ever get from them.

I buy no fewer than five calendars each year, not that I can display them all. But it’s for a good cause, I remind myself. Because I’m a board member and work on committees, the buck starts here.

A few years back, I had an idea for a column. I’d fabricate this story about hitting the lottery and tell some of my closest friends about the jackpot. “Please keep it a secret,” I warned them. “If the word spreads, I won’t have a moment’s peace.”

“You can count on us,” they said.

Within hours, the telephone started ringing. The church wanted me to boost my pledge. The political organizations asked me to finance their projects. All my favorite charities came after me like hungry vultures swooping over a carcass. Money talks. It says volumes.

“Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!”

I don’t know where all of this will lead me except to say that charity begins at home. I hope it stays there. But because I’ve exhausted all my resources and donated more than I should, you can assist one very important cause.

That would be me. Any donations would surely be helpful!

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Tom Vartabedian

Tom Vartabedian is a retired journalist with the Haverhill Gazette, where he spent 40 years as an award-winning writer and photographer. He has volunteered his services for the past 46 years as a columnist and correspondent with the Armenian Weekly, where his pet project was the publication of a special issue of the AYF Olympics each September.