Spending is not caring. Spending is what politicians do instead

Host: The city was still half-asleep. A gray, wet morning hung over the skyline, heavy with drizzle and the faint metallic smell of rain-soaked concrete. Outside the café window, buses splashed through puddles, and the soft murmur of engines filled the air like a slow heartbeat.

Inside, the café was nearly empty — just the low hum of a coffee machine and the occasional clink of a spoon against porcelain.

At a corner table, Jack sat in his usual seat, tie slightly loosened, his notebook open beside a half-finished cup. Across from him, Jeeny arrived — umbrella folded, hair damp, eyes bright with purpose.

She dropped into her seat, shaking off the rain, and smiled faintly.

Jeeny: “Grover Norquist once said, ‘Spending is not caring. Spending is what politicians do instead of caring. Spending more does not guarantee success. Politicians like to measure spending because it’s easier than measuring actual metrics of accomplishment.’”

Host: Jack chuckled — a low, weary sound — and leaned back in his chair. The steam from his coffee drifted up between them like a faint fog.

Jack: “Ah, Norquist. The man who turned cynicism into arithmetic.”

Jeeny: “You call it cynicism. I call it truth.”

Jack: “Truth, huh? The kind that sounds noble until you realize it’s just a way of cutting corners? Sometimes spending is caring, Jeeny. Try telling a single mother on food stamps that the problem is too much compassion.”

Jeeny: “That’s not what he meant, Jack. He’s saying money isn’t love. You can’t throw cash at a problem and pretend you’ve solved it.”

Jack: “Maybe. But sometimes cash is the solution. Kids don’t eat principles.”

Jeeny: “But they do grow up on examples. And when their leaders equate budget increases with progress, they stop measuring the real impact.”

Host: The rain pressed harder against the windows now — a constant whisper, as though the sky itself was taking sides in their argument.

Jack rubbed his temples, his voice sharpening.

Jack: “So what, you think compassion should come without resources? You can’t build hospitals with empathy. You need funds.”

Jeeny: “Funds, yes. But funds with purpose. There’s a difference between investing in change and spending to look like you care.”

Jack: “And who decides that difference? Politicians? Voters? Philosophers in cafés?”

Jeeny: “People who measure outcomes, not optics. That’s what Norquist meant — we keep mistaking motion for progress. Look at education spending, health care, even defense. We keep spending more, but do we accomplish more?”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked steadily, like a metronome to their debate. Outside, the first commuters hurried by — faces hidden beneath umbrellas, eyes down, all marching toward unseen destinations.

Jeeny’s tone softened slightly.

Jeeny: “Do you remember after the 2008 financial crisis? Billions spent on bailouts, ‘stimulus,’ rescues. The politicians called it compassion — saving jobs, saving families. But what did it really save? The banks, mostly. The system. The people at the bottom barely got a thread.”

Jack: “You think doing nothing would’ve been better?”

Jeeny: “No. But I think pretending to care with money instead of reform was cowardice.”

Jack: “Maybe. But sometimes cowardice keeps the ship from sinking.”

Jeeny: “Or keeps the rot below deck where no one sees it.”

Host: Jack looked at her for a long moment, then leaned forward, elbows on the table. His eyes — gray and steady — carried that familiar mixture of frustration and reluctant admiration.

Jack: “You sound like a revolutionary with a spreadsheet.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Someone has to be.”

Host: The café door opened, letting in a gust of cold air and the sound of rain. A man in a suit hurried in, shook off his coat, and glanced at the clock — clearly late for something that paid better than ideals.

Jack watched him for a moment before turning back.

Jack: “So, tell me, Jeeny. What does caring look like, then, if it’s not in dollars?”

Jeeny: “Accountability. Empathy that measures its own impact. Leaders who visit the shelters they fund, who read the test scores their policies affect, who actually see the people behind the numbers.”

Jack: “That’s cute. But empathy doesn’t scale. Governments deal in millions, not moments.”

Jeeny: “That’s the problem. The more they scale, the less they feel. Bureaucracy turns hearts into calculators.”

Jack: “You can’t run a nation on feelings.”

Jeeny: “And you can’t build one without them.”

Host: The steam between their cups began to thin, the air cooling with the rain’s persistence. Jeeny’s eyes were fierce now, her voice low but unwavering.

Jeeny: “You know what’s easy, Jack? Signing checks. What’s hard is measuring results. But it’s easier to say, ‘We spent this much,’ than to admit, ‘We accomplished this little.’”

Jack: “You think politicians don’t know that?”

Jeeny: “I think they’ve built an entire career out of pretending they don’t.”

Host: Jack exhaled slowly, tracing a finger along the rim of his cup. The rain outside softened, the storm beginning to tire.

Jack: “You make it sound like money corrupts every good intention.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Money exposes which intentions were real to begin with.”

Jack: “And what about the people who need that money? The programs, the teachers, the clinics?”

Jeeny: “They deserve better than symbolic spending. They deserve measurable outcomes. The difference between charity and change is whether you stick around to see what your money did.”

Jack: “So you’d rather we stopped spending until we’ve solved compassion?”

Jeeny: “I’d rather we started caring before we start spending.”

Host: Silence stretched — the kind that hums with unresolved truths. Jack looked down at the ink stains on his fingers, a quiet metaphor for the compromises of intellect.

Jack: “You always think heart and numbers can coexist. But the real world doesn’t work that cleanly.”

Jeeny: “No. But that doesn’t mean we should stop trying.”

Jack: “And when trying fails?”

Jeeny: “Then at least we’ll know we measured more than receipts.”

Host: A distant thunder rumbled — not angry, just weary. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, each drop deliberate, reflective.

Jeeny closed her notebook. Jack leaned back, his expression softer now, the fire in his words dimmed to a thoughtful ember.

Jack: “You know, my father used to say something similar. He was a contractor for the city — built schools, repaired roads. He always said, ‘Budgets show what people say they value. But effort shows what they actually do.’”

Jeeny: “Then he understood perfectly.”

Jack: “He also said caring doesn’t pay the bills.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But indifference costs more.”

Host: Jack smiled faintly — that rare kind of smile that comes when cynicism concedes, if only for a heartbeat.

Jack: “You really think caring can be quantified?”

Jeeny: “No. But the results of caring can.”

Jack: “So you want moral accountants.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Just honest ones.”

Host: The sky began to lighten. A soft gold broke through the clouds, the kind that feels like forgiveness. The rain stopped completely, leaving behind the clean scent of renewal — and the faint sound of tires splashing through shallow puddles.

Jeeny stood, sliding her notebook into her bag.

Jeeny: “You know, Norquist might’ve been cynical. But maybe his point wasn’t to condemn spending. Maybe it was to remind us that real compassion takes more work than writing checks.”

Jack: “And more patience than politics allows.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the first act of caring is slowing down enough to see the people behind the numbers.”

Jack: “And the second act?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “To do something that actually changes them.”

Host: She walked toward the door, her footsteps quiet but certain. Jack watched her go, his reflection still visible in the café window — thoughtful, faint, layered with the morning light.

Outside, the clouds broke open fully. A beam of sunlight hit the wet pavement, scattering into a thousand points of silver light.

And in that fragile brightness, it was clear:

Caring wasn’t counted in dollars,
but in impact,
in presence,
in the unseen weight of what still mattered after the money ran out.

That — the quiet math of empathy —
was the only metric worth measuring.