Letter: When Compassion Becomes Comparison
Melissa Kanmacher challenges how we talk about generosity and inequality, urging that tough conversations about broken systems must not shame those who give, or those who receive.
LETTER TO THE EDITOR
Dear Editor,
I believe deeply in hard conversations. We need them to see clearly, confront uncomfortable truths, and refuse to accept a world that fails too many. I also believe, just as deeply, in civil discourse — the kind that allows disagreement without causing collateral damage.
Civil discourse came late for me. I learned to talk tough early, because toughness was required. When I finally spoke my truth, steel-cold honesty felt like the only thing I had left.
Over time, I have softened — not in belief, but in approach. I have learned to hold my critical eye in warmer light, especially when anger rises. That softening is not surrender. It is intention. And definitely a work in progress…
Francesca Dobbyn’s recent reflection on crowdfunding, compassion, and structural inequality — published publicly across various social platforms — is thoughtful, articulate, and grounded in a truth I know well: access to help is uneven, and poverty is too often met with paperwork rather than care.
That truth deserves our attention and action. And still, it stays with me — not as disagreement, but as something I need to ruminate on.
I speak from experience, not just observation. I am a survivor of childhood sexual abuse, and I’ve spent my life working in spaces meant to support people — care homes, the prison system, and with families navigating hardship. I’ve often been one of the many paper-pushers, helping people make sense of intake forms, eligibility rules, and referrals.
Over time, I’ve seen how these systems can teach compliance, how shame keeps people grateful for scraps, quiet about their needs, and afraid to ask for more.
I don’t know how many times I have told people to imagine their worst day and pour that into words. And I know that, to some degree, every agency worker requires this — again, and again, on renewal, or when a new person takes over their file. I know what it means to wait, to be told you do not qualify, to be sent elsewhere.
I’ve come to know the weight of bureaucratic suffering firsthand — the waiting, the forms, the repeated retelling of pain, and the quiet ways dignity can be chipped away by broken systems.
Perhaps that is why I am sensitive to how easily conversations about structural injustice can slide into comparison — and with it, judgment and shame.
Recently, I donated to a GoFundMe for an artist whose open, vulnerable, and exuberant presence has carried me through dark periods of my own life. Their work created space for lightness, connection, and breath when it was hard to breathe.
That is not incidental. That is contribution. That is labour of a different kind.
The generosity that surrounded them did not emerge simply from social capital. It emerged from relationships, from years of showing up, from people who had already been moved, steadied, or sustained by what they gave freely long before they needed anything in return.
The people who donated, shared, and amplified that story are real people, not just symbols in a discussion about broken systems.
They are likely the same people who volunteer, advocate, donate quietly, support food banks, show up for neighbours, and try—imperfectly—to live with care in a world that often makes care difficult.
When generosity is framed primarily as a function of privilege, something human gets flattened.
Care becomes suspect. Relationships become leverage. Giving becomes something that must be defended.
Yes, we must name inequity. Yes, we should be angry that poverty is managed rather than alleviated, that people are sent to food banks when what they need is income, to meal programs when what they need is housing. None of that is in dispute.
I keep thinking about how these conversations can make people feel judged; how generosity can be questioned, and receiving help can feel complicated, to say the least.
I have learned that shame is one of our greatest disabilities. It narrows possibility, silences truth, and teaches people to mistake their need for a moral failing. I have watched it do as much damage as any locked door or underfunded program.
Hard conversations should expand our capacity for compassion, not narrow it. They should help us see who is missing from the circle without putting those already receiving care on display as proof of anything.
We can notice the gaps in the systems around us without diminishing the real care people give. We can reflect on injustice without letting it make us harsh or judgmental toward those already receiving help. It is possible to hold anger at broken systems and gratitude for human generosity at the same time.
If anything, moments of visible generosity should strengthen, not weaken, our resolve to build systems where community and connection support survival, and where shame has no place.
Civil discourse lives in that tension, a reminder that noticing, caring, and speaking up are ways we build inclusive communities — spaces that honour generosity, honesty, and the contributions of everyone.
Sincerely,
Melissa Kanmacher
Arran-Elderslie
Letters to the Editor do not necessarily reflect the opinions or beliefs of The Owen Sound Current and its editor or publisher.