‘Make-a-Wrist’ Foundation: Rubber bracelets, reduced to a fashion symbol, cheapen the spirit of giving

Who would’ve thought that a cancer-surviving bicycle superhero would start a preppy fad that would take over college campuses and the world in general? Not me. No offense to the great man who beats the crap out of those Europeans at their own game, but Lance Armstrong’s idea to raise money for cancer research was a bit under-thought.

That’s because Americans have a problem just simply donating to a good cause. We only give away money with strings attached, with guarantees of some kind of reward, monetary (ironic huh?) or otherwise. Thus, in our giving, we are not really giving.

We ask for tax write-offs. We want little gifts or prizes like oversized white T-shirts with tacky logos on them. Or we want our name magic markered on a construction paper heart cut-out to be displayed for all to see at the nearby Hardee’s. I’m surprised at mass every Sunday the parishioners at the Sacred Heart don’t ask for a receipt after they add their crumpled one-dollar bills to the collection basket (I have, however, seen folks make change).

It’s not really a true donation if you want something in return. And it’s not really a true donation if you want recognition, if you want a pat on the back from your friend or neighbor. You’re supposed to do it out of the kindness of your heart, out of love or pity for your fellow brother or sister on earth – all that mushy stuff.

You gotta give because you want to, just for the sake of giving – or because you’re afraid that homeless guy with the cardboard sign knows where you live and is tired of you driving to school every morning with BS excuses about spending all your cash on Slurpees at the 7-11 (he knows you’re full of it, and he’s gonna get you.)

Which brings me back to my main quarrel with my fellow colleagues at the great VCU, to whom all these articles over my 4 years here are of course first and foremost dedicated.

My friends, aren’t the pastel-colored golf shirts with popped collars enough? Do you really think the yellow rubber wrist bands add that many points to your coolness level that it’s worth it to exploit Mr. Lance and all the other cancer survivors by keeping that thing on for fashion’s sake?

I’m sorry, but I just have a feeling that it has lost all its legitimate meaning when it sparks 90 other different-colored wrist bands like the gorgeous Intercultural Festival blue-and-neon-green version so brilliantly devised by the hard-working folks over at ICF headquarters.

I think, too, that everyone who congratulated you for your altruistic heart probably found your kindness awe-inspiring only the first 96 days you wore that elastic piece of crap. Besides, how comfortable can it be? I know if I wore one of those things it would get caught on all my Italian arm hair and would sting like a mother every time it snagged one of those suckers.

Before I go, I do want to formally acknowledge all those who gave to the cancer fund and tell you thank you. But, personally, if I were you, I would have given Lance 20 stinking dollars instead of just one, and tell him to keep the freakin’ rubber band. I don’t need it.

Alex Marra may be reached at marraam@vcu.edu.