Giving Until It Hurts, or Hurting Until You Give?

I was going to write today about books that have affected my life significantly, but as I sat down to do that, the doorbell rang.  And rang. Followed rapidly by hard, impetuous knocking. My curiosity aroused, I answered the door to be greeted by two young men, one of whom seemed excited to tell me about “I am a girl.” I looked at his whiskers and exclaimed “I don’t think you’re a girl.” That went right over his head, or maybe under his gesticulating arms. He wasn’t ready to hear from me: he hadn’t finished reciting the script. He told me that Victoria was the second busiest human trafficking city in Canada and that they were there to “stop it at the source”. I surveyed the front yard and said “This is NOT the source!” That knocked him off his stride for a split second, but like a true professional, or an audio recording, he got right back into it.

Once he was done, he paused like he was going to a commercial, but then I realized what he had given me WAS the commercial, and if I would get on the phone with someone to whom he would connect me, I could donate $25 and someone would match that with $100. Funny, but now that I think of it, he didn’t say $100. He said “4 to 1.” I wonder now if that can mean something else.

Well, I wasn’t about to give credit card info to someone with whom he was going to connect me. I would have no way of verifying who that was. So I asked for the website at which I could donate online.  The eagerness deflated like air going out of a balloon. If I did that, the matching funds wouldn’t apply, the youthful salesman said. That’s when I got even more suspicious. I mean, if someone was matching my donation, why would they care how the money was received. Something seemed amiss. And the whole time I was wondering how money given to some stranger on a phone was going to stop human trafficking across town.

After reviewing some online comments by people tired of the I Am A Girl nuisance, it seemed obvious that a significant part of any contribution was going to go to commissions for the fellows at the door and to the company that employs them --- commissions they wouldn’t earn if I donated online. Further, it appears that if had I played along, the $25 would have been a monthly credit card payment. And you can guess how hard it would have been to stop those payments.

But the internet search didn’t happen immediately because about 5 minutes after I thought I was done with the canvassers, the doorbell and incessant knocking began again.  This time my wife answered it. More I Am A Girl Canvassers. She is much better at getting rid of them than I.