We’ve all seen the commercials where it’s illustrated for us that kindness inspires further kind behavior in others, whether it is bestowed upon us or even just seen. Imagine . . . someone dropping a stack of newspapers on the floor and you help pick them up, that person then holds the heavy mall doors open for a mother and her gaggle of children, later the mother helps direct a man as he backs his car into a parking space, that man will reach his hand between two elevator doors and keep them open for one more person to ride, that one person ends up giving back the few seconds they caught up in time by giving up the cab they caught to an elderly couple, or so the story goes.

It’s hard to say whether commercials like this have affected how we behave. If they have, I think that’s great. It’s mind control, but I think it’s fantastic. But perhaps we’re just kindhearted in nature and commercials like these make us feel good because we too want to be a part of this scheme of “just pass it on” kindness.

With my fridge at home empty I stopped into a 7-Eleven to pick up some sodas, without which my world does not feel right. I hesitated because I didn’t want to carry anything heavy with my feet swelling in my ridiculously painful but stunning Jessica Simpson pumps. (Lesson: Just like we do not buy music from Starbuck’s, we should never buy shoes from a singer. At least Starbucks makes good coffee! Oh SNAP!) I only bought the few sodas that could successfully make the journey back to my apartment.

As I made strides out of the store I noticed a small, old, Afro-American man, dressed in blackened colors and covered in a dust that clung to his clothes and skin. He was pushing a barrel of a cart, loaded down with packages of his own making, parcels covered in plastic, some in fabric, so heavy that the contents bulged over the wheels and handle bars so that they couldn’t be seen. It was as though this tiny man was pushing a huge buggy that was attached to his arms at a mule like pace. Everything about him was worn, but every step he made forward was purposeful.

I thought about the cold sodas I’d just bought, I thought of him pushing that heavy cart, the sodas, the cart . . .would he like one? If so which kind? Would he mind that it was diet? I realized I didn’t have time to deliberate over my silly queries, I turned around, walked back to him and handed him the first soda I pulled out of the bag, a diet 7-Up. He stumbled for a moment and struggled to place the bottle somewhere on his carefully constructed mobile pile.

As soon as I turned back to my walk home a skinny man smoking a cigarette stopped to ask me something, something about what I had just given the man. Was he going to ask me about my good deed and maybe be nurtured by my kindness into kindness of his own doing? So I removed one of my head phones to listen to him, “Have you got one of what you gave that guy for me?” he said, leaning heavily into me.
“No!” I scowled. This man was clean-shaven, had brushed hair, wore a collared shirt, smelled odorless and was just hanging around outside a bar, smoking a cigarette. He didn't even look homeless to me.
“Why not?” he persevered.
“Because he didn’t ask!” I barked back readjusting my headphone into my ear as I stormed off, visibly shaking my head side to side.

He’d ruined it for me. He killed the buzz you get from doing something nice for someone else. I hadn’t done this to feel good about myself nor did I “deserve” to feel good, but from my little act of altruism I did not expect to walk away feeling bitter and resentful. Hitting the grey cement with my hurt feelings and feet, I felt lonely and alone inside my headphones. I felt truly helpless because I was helpless to really help anyone else, I was helpless to make any real difference because people like skinny smoking man could make my efforts null and void because I could never give enough. I would never have a bag of sodas big enough to be able to hand out to every thirsty man and woman out there. I felt like the anger and disappointment of all the thirsts I couldn’t satisfy was a taste too bitter to be washed away by my one measly bottle of soda. How had helping made me hate myself?

It was up to me to realize that the beauty was to be found in that moment when my mind connected the sight of the stress in the mans tiny arms pushing against the contents of his world, with the cold bottles of soda hanging from the bag on my wrist. The real kindness was not visible because it happened inside my head when I made the decision to do what I was thinking about. My enjoyment took place in the time it took to stop, turn, reach into the bag and hand him the drink. “Here,” and I didn’t wait to hear a response, in fact my headphones were still on. So for me it all took place to beautiful music, this intimate human dance and it was all mine. It wasn’t part of TV commercial, it was my life and it was real.