Charity

I am more than only a little black notebook, because she picked me. She glanced over the “Seize the Day” and the “Daily Planner” notebooks – paused momentarily at the “Dream Big” notebook. She must have liked the words “Give More Than You Take” tattooed on me, because her expression softened when she saw me, and she purchased me. She must have intended for me a great purpose, because she chose me to start a journey with some money in my covers and her name on my first page. She must have trusted in me to deliver her dreams, because her smile was dazzling and bright as she handed me to a pair of new hands; a new owner. I learned charity as she waved goodbye and didn’t turn back.

---

I learned awe and disbelief when Alicia hesitantly plucked the ten dollar bill from my gutter and scratched her name on a fresh line “Alicia -$10”. She had bet everything on the job interview, and that cup of coffee she could suddenly afford changed her posture, her smile, and her voice. Three months later, the pressure of the nib exuded confidence as she penned into the next line “Alicia +$15”. She slid the bills over her name and slowly folded my ivory pages over it like saying farewell to a friend. I could feel, while she pressed my covers closed as if to iron out the wrinkles of the money, that Alicia closed another chapter in her life.

I learned overwhelming happiness when Kevin realized the one-hundred dollar bills were real. Hastily, he scribbled on the next empty line “Kevin -$400” and called the landlord. Two years later, he sealed the last box of his belongings and set me on top as grandly as if I was placed on a podium. As his wife addressed the movers, his gratitude flowed from the pen to my page, “Kevin & Lindsay +$1000”. Compared to the growing heap of dollar bills I would deliver from owner to owner, that single cheque weighed heavier between my pages. I wondered if the cheque felt empty with its “Pay To The Order Of” line left blank. I could feel, while Kevin pulled my elastic over my covers to safeguard my passengers of time, that I was once again a portable and discreet secret everyone is grateful for but would unlikely admit to.

I learned greed when Danny snatched the cheque and left me open for his ceiling to judge me for hours, no, for days. Then, I found myself under the living room sofa and befriended forgotten dust bunnies, socks, coins, and pen caps. Seven years later, he dusted off my yellowing pages and found the line reserved for his name. I felt his defeat seep into me as he wrote “Danny -$3000”, but also a sense of accomplishment through each stroke as he penned “Danny +$3500” on the next line. He held me deliberately but delicately, as if my tired pages and his cheque would fall out, while he introduced me to my new owner. I could feel, while her hands greeted my small worn spine and black leather covers with uncertainty, that she would teach me something new to remember.

---

I laid open and bare, exposing my purpose, my secrets, and all who have ever known me. My spine was bent uncomfortably, exposing the evidence of repair time and again. She turned me over to look at my cracking black skin, gingerly brushed her fingers over my tattoo that reads “Give More Than You Take”. She placed her palm over me like she didn't want to be reminded.

I remember her name, I knew her. On one of my less blemished pages, she wrote “Vanitha -$10,000” when she took the cheque from me and filled in her name as the recipient. The pandemic had taken many things from Vanitha, and this was all I could give her. Eight months later, I was her only companion as she finished her goodbyes with her child through a video call. I was her only witness to her final breath. I hadn’t learned this emotion yet. It was raw, and it was heavy.

I wish I remembered every person who ever owned me. How did my journey begin? Who gave me my purpose, and why did they do it? I don’t remember. Their names are smudged and faded as many fingers grazed over each line of my earliest pages and eyes skimmed the rest, marveling, pondering, smiling, laughing, thanking, crying. Each time I thirstily drank their emotions, and another name bled out just a little more into illegibility. When my pages dry again, I remember a little less.

I remembered Vanitha. My ribbon bookmark and elastic were gone, my spine was layered with glue and tape, my tattoo was amateurly retouched, my pages were far from my youthful pristine ivory, but it would be many years before “Vanitha -$10,000” fade from my memory. She centred me on row 14 of page 121, and I had nearly 119 more blank pages to fill. But those pages stayed blank.

Her child carried her will in his heart, but the pandemic afforded him no opportunity to put any money between my leather covers and write a new entry on my lines. I will never know his name. I was crushed under the weight of his conscience while he stared at me, through me, through row 14 of page 121. “Vanitha -$10,000” helped to barely pay off his medical bills and recover from the coronavirus, but money could not save everybody. I learned grief, guilt, and regret when my unnamed owner put me into a shoebox with dozens of photographs, and packed me into the furthest corner of the closet.

---

I want to say every name entered on my pages had a plan and a purpose. Their names throbbed on my lines as I slept with the muted photographs, and slowly pressured me to ask a question I had fervently avoided.

What was my name?

Was my purpose my own? I am only 240 pages of faint lines on recycled ivory paper. I am so small, so bland, so thin… my importance is weightless.

My covers were stained so I was almost-but-not-quite black. My edges were deteriorating so I was nearly-but-not-quite straight. My elastic left me so I was-once-but-no-longer secure. My owners were slowly fading from my lines so I was sort-of-but-not-really memorable.

What was my name?

“Give More Than You Take”. My tattoo was decorated, amended, over and over and over with black, blue, silver, pencil, pen, marker, care, worship, and devotion. They remembered “Give More Than You Take”, they remembered my purpose, and they remembered me.

What was my name?

Charity.

No, that wasn’t it. What was my name? What was my purpose?

“Give More Than You Take”.

No, that was my name. No, that was also my purpose. No, my purpose was charity. No, my purpose is charity. No, that was her purpose, not mine. Wait, who was she? Who am I? I am only a little black notebook. No, I am more than only a little black notebook. What is “more”? I need to learn “more”. I need to learn.

Somebody teach me. Somebody. Teach. Me. Somebody. Me.

Somebody find me.

---

I learned hope when Emily found me. I learned disappointment when Abigail uncrumpled a single five dollar bill. But I could feel, while they spoke fondly of Grandma Vanitha, an innocent and eager pride scrawled deeply into “Abigail & Emily +$5”. They sat perfectly comfortably, directly below “Vanitha -$10,000”. They took nothing, yet gave everything they owned. They gave five dollars and tales of their grandmother’s love. They gave skinship to my timeworn leather covers and breathed into my musky pages. They gave opportunity to row 15 of page 121. They gave me to “Tyler +$10”.

Tyler did not take, but he gave the ten dollars meant for a pack of trading cards. I learned curiosity when Tyler introduced his friends to my tattoo and my 121 pages of fading owners. I learned admiration when jaws gaped and eyes wetted for a Grandma Vanitha they did not know. I learned influence when one by one, the children forewent their packs of trading cards and replenished my scarce gutter with five and ten dollar bills. I learned camaraderie when they quickly filled my lines “Alex +$10”, “Reese +$10”, “Mihaela +$10”, “Gerald +$10”... I learned confusion when I no longer understood who my owner was.

I am “Give More Than You Take” but no one took. “Bernadette +$50”, “Peihong +$300”, “Shonna +$10”, “Kyra +$100”... I learned adaptation when I accommodated the mound of bills by bending and stretching my leather until instead I resolved to rest atop them and Vanitha’s photographs in my shoebox home.

I am “Give More Than You Take” but “Phoebe +$250” asked “Mona +$500” who the money should be given to, rather than who should take it. I learned empathy when I received a new ribbon bookmark that shone through the heart of me and signaled life between my proud stale pages.

I am “Give More Than You Take” but “Abigail & Emily +$5” and “Tyler +$10” came back to me with children of their own. They matured into “Abigail & Melissa +$500” and “Emily & Tyler +$800”. Hazy photographs, memories, bills, cheques, aspiration, and I threatened to burst the shoebox at its seams. I learned liberty when we were moved into a spacious donation box that had windows for walls so that I will never again be left in the dark.

I am “Give More Than You Take” but “Natalya +$2000” thanked me as she recalled her parents Emily and Tyler, their long happy lives, and their hopes for the generations to come. I learned helplessness when she asked me to carry inspiration forever forward, but I could give her nothing.

I am “Give More Than You Take” but “Kay +$100” completed my last line on my last page and still, no one took. Line 23 of page 240 marked a collective sum of $20,000, generations of giving without taking, and my blurred memory of “Vanitha -$10,000”.

I learned fulfillment when I was taken out of the donation box. I was gallantly displayed over the box that was my home to keep watch over my friends; my dollar bills and Vanitha’s photographs. My covers were tattered, stained, and discoloured. My tattoo was improved, over and over and over with light, dark, hues, graphite, ink, paint, respect, unity, and dedication. My pages were nearly-but-not-quite straight, crowded with names with purpose and without purpose, names of every owner – not-owner – every hand to have touched me, every heart to have been moved by me, by my forgotten founders, by money, by memory... by Vanitha. I learned solidarity when nameless eyes and nameless hearts approached me, smiled at me, smiled at the box below me, and slid money into the box without writing anything in me.

I learned contentment when I no longer minded the nameless hearts giving without taking from the box I watched over, or how I received $20,000 by line 23 of page 240. I learned satisfaction when I remembered Vanitha but not my purpose, and it felt right. I learned that I am more than my name, more than my purpose, more than give and take.