WHEN THE CORONAVIRUS caused many businesses to hit pause in March 2020, Kirsten Schaffer, the executive director of Women In Film, an organization that advances the careers of women in the screen industries, sent out a survey to find out how WIF members were faring. Some of the answers disturbed her. “The women told us things like, ‘I was just about to start a show that was going to cover my rent for a year, but it was canceled,’” Schaffer recalls. “‘I don’t know how I’m possibly going to go back to work, because I’ve got three kids at home.’ And ‘I don’t know if I’ll even have money for food.’”

That lit a spark inside of her. Schaffer, along with WIF Board President Amy Baer and their colleages, knew they wanted to raise money to provide grants to women who needed financial help in the short term. But they also considered the fact that while countless women were out of work, so was everybody else in the screen industry. Could they start an initiative to upend the entertainment-industry tradition of hiring the same familiar people, often men, over and over again? “This is an opportunity to disrupt the pattern,” Schaffer says.

The organization launched the “Hire Her Back” multimedia campaign and fund in partnership with New York Women In Film & Television and Women In Film & Television Atlanta, with a mission to increase the presence of women in all aspects of the field. “Our message is: When we get back to work, hire women,” Schaffer says. “Hire women who’ve worked for you before. Hire women who’ve never worked for you. Hire women who are coming into the pipeline. Hire women who look different than you. Hire women.”

The project prioritizes women of color, who have been hit particularly hard during the pandemic. “The numbers of women of color who are in decision-making positions, in any positions at all, are abysmal,” Schaffer says. “And the only way that’s going to change is by getting more women into the pipeline.”

WIF plans to help do that by encouraging its members to recommend one another and contribute to a database of competitive candidates for opportunities in their respective fields. “We’ll ask people to point to women they think should be getting hired, women they know who are editors or cinematographers or directors, and to uplift their colleagues,” Schaffer says. Then WIF and its partners will distribute lists to hiring entities for new productions.

The campaign is raising money through a “donate” button at womeninfilm.org. “Our target is to get to a half-million dollars and give out $1,000 grants,” Schaffer says. The site includes a simple PayPal option. “The easier it is to click and have all the information in one place, the more likely you are to get a donation,” she says.

WIF plans to start awarding the grants in August to help women return to work as productions rev up again. Not only are women underemployed, Schaffer points out, but they also often face unique stressors as primary caregivers, which can affect which jobs they can take. “These funds will help with child care or something else the recipient needs to be able to get back into the work force,” she says. “Our ultimate goal is to achieve parity on the job and transform culture.”

The “Hire Her Back” grants will also serve as a reminder that WIF members are not alone on their journey during these turbulent times. “I want women to feel hope,” Schaffer says.

IN LATE MAY, when tear gas blanketed antiracism protesters in Los Angeles and rubber bullets pierced their skin, Kendall Mayhew knew what she had to do. Days earlier, she had completed community medic training by Mutual Aid L.A., a grassroots collective that she’d helped create, so she and other team members rushed to the scene near Pan Pacific Park.

They helped injured protesters who were suffering from panic attacks, then provided first aid to a young demonstrator who was bleeding. “He was shot multiple times and had an open wound that required stitches, at least, maybe staples,” says Mayhew, a co-founder of Ground Game L.A., the nonprofit organization that spawned Mutual Aid L.A., which helps organize material support for disadvantaged families and individuals in Los Angeles. “We got him to safety and sanitized his wounds before we took him to the hospital.”

Mutual Aid L.A. was a mere two months old at that time, but it was already making significant changes in people’s lives. Back in March, organizers at Ground Game L.A. — which included a woman who had been a combat medic in Iraq — had felt that the government’s response on Covid-19 testing, medical care and housing for the sick would be insufficient for those in need. And because of systemic racism, those who needed it most were disproportionately from Black communities.

“Covid was a light switch,” says Kait Ziegler, an organizer and human rights activist in Los Angeles who helped create the mutual aid project. “If you don't have living wages, don’t have good health care and don’t have all of your needs met, then Covid just compounded certain types of economic and social factors. Mutual aid was the answer to that.”

Ziegler set her mind on a seemingly unrealistic fund-raising goal: “I wanted to raise $100,000,” she recalls. The next day, Ziegler, Mayhew and other organizers talked through their ideas, which led them to create Mutual Aid L.A., inspired by a similar group in Seattle. Ziegler developed an online form for people to indicate whether they needed help or could offer help. The group also added a “donate” button, which included a PayPal option to make it easy to contribute and process cash distributions when people, for example, “need money to pay their electric bills and keep their water on,” Mayhew says.

The word quickly traveled, and Mutual Aid L.A. mobilized the volunteers to help those who were asking for assistance. Astoundingly, many people in the greater Los Angeles area contributed, and the group quickly surpassed its moonshot fund-raising goal. By mid-June it had received over $318,000.

Mutual Aid L.A. immediately started pouring money back into the community through grocery deliveries, direct cash assistance, job search and unemployment support, tenant rights guidance, homelessness outreach, emotional support, and other efforts carried out by more than 500 volunteers. The network, Mayhew says, lets people know, “Hey, you are not alone.”

Material donations also rolled in, including a half-million face masks. “People have been extremely generous with their time, talent and treasure,” Mayhew says.

The group has assisted thousands of people since the pandemic began. During the antiracism marches, Mutual Aid L.A.’s medics treated protesters’ injuries and gave out protective gear, while Ground Game L.A. distributed information about bail funds for those who had been arrested.

With Black, brown, immigrant and poor communities disproportionately affected by poverty, environmental racism and inadequate medical care, the fight for justice will continue. “Covid-19 has shined a light more brightly on L.A., revealing that it is not a beautiful place for most people to live,” Ziegler says. “The weather is nice, but people are dying from poverty, and are being criminalized and brutalized on the streets. Lasting change is only going to come from the community.”

Through Mutual Aid L.A. and Ground Game L.A., volunteers continue to step forward, bonded by this desire to improve their community. “We know that everyday people are capable of extraordinary acts of leadership,” Mayhew says. “When people own their own dignity and destiny, they can do anything.”

FEW PLACES IN THE WORLD compare with Marie’s Crisis piano bar in New York City. “It is an institution,” says Dan Daly, a longtime pianist at Marie’s. This West Village mainstay has welcomed large L.G.B.T.Q. crowds for nightly show-tune singalongs for at least the past half-century. “It has an energy that just doesn’t exist anywhere else,” he says.

When the pandemic forced the bar to close its doors to customers in March, Marie’s singers, pianists and one accordion player started to live-stream show tunes from their homes. And even from afar, the regulars remained loyal. They not only engaged with the videos on Marie’s private Facebook group but also used PayPal as a virtual tip jar to help support the musicians, door people and bartenders who normally worked those same shifts at Marie’s Crisis. “Their generosity has been amazing,” Daly says.

At first the business closures seemed like a temporary inconvenience, says David Bishop, a doorman and singer at Marie’s. But then his colleague Marc Castelli, a singing server and musical-theater actor, died from complications related to Covid-19. “That was very sobering and horrifying,” Bishop says. “The coronavirus was suddenly very personal for us. It took away someone we all loved.”

The Marie’s Crisis community comforted one another online, sharing memories of Castelli and finding solace in favorite songs. “We stayed a family through all of this,” Daly says.

That family has expanded over the past few months as more people pop in and sing along from their homes around the globe. The Facebook group has grown to almost 30,000 followers. “Every now and then complete strangers respond with such openness and support, not just financially but also emotionally,” says Drew Wutke, a Marie’s Crisis musician. “They say things like, ‘Thank you for doing this. It’s what I needed. Today felt so hard, and now it feels better.’”

As antiracism protests pulsed through the nation, Marie’s posted information about how people could support the cause, and some performers contributed a portion of their tips to related organizations. “We know it’s important to have downtime and it’s important to bring joy,” Bishop says. “But we also wanted to be sure we are acknowledging the privilege that we have to be able to continue to perform, even while there’s so much unrest and so much injustice.”

When the 50th anniversary Pride Parade was canceled in New York, the crew from Marie’s felt another jolt. “None of us ever imagined we would still be home in June,” Bishop says. Marie’s Crisis is now looking ahead, trying to sort out how best to reopen its small bar, perhaps with a limited number of patrons. For now, the live-streaming will continue.

If someone wants to join Marie’s Facebook group, they’re asked only one question: “What’s your favorite show tune?” That’s a question frequently posed to the pianists themselves. “Today, I’d answer with the old classic ‘Over the Rainbow,’” Wutke says. “Marie’s is built on a history of being a gay bar that courageously created a safe space to gather. And that song is about courageously looking forward, being willing to go through the storm to see what’s on the other side. It’s good for my soul, and I hope it has the same effect on everybody as we sing it together.”

LIKE MANY OWNERS of small brick-and-mortar businesses, Larisa Olson of the Chantilly Lace lingerie shop in Wilmette, Ill., has developed a very close relationship with her clients. “The whole idea behind a boutique is that you’re selling in person and you know the people in your neighborhood,” Olson says. But in March, she says, the coronavirus temporarily disrupted that bond. “When every business had to close their doors, a lot of retailers felt stuck.”

The severity of the pandemic quickly sank in as more people fell sick and many hospital employees began working overtime. Olson knew medical workers on the front lines, so she sent them some goodie bags from her shop to try to make them feel better after long shifts. “It was mostly comforting stuff, like sleepwear and robes,” she says. “The nurses were really happy.”

Shortly afterward, a friend of Olson’s mentioned that she also wanted to give a nurse a thank you present but didn’t know any personally. “She said, ‘I’d give a $50 gift,’” Olson recalls. “That’s how the idea for the Comfort Project was born.”

To start the project, Olson added an option to her website that allowed customers to sponsor gifts for hospital workers, along with a PayPal link. “Then I sent it out in a newsletter to all my customers, and there was a really positive response,” Olson says. “I got a ton of sponsorships.”

Olson hand-delivered the gifts to Covid-19 wards at her local hospitals. She stapled notes onto each bag, saying “You’re a rock star!” along with the first name and last initial of the person who paid for the gift. “It is a nod to the person who sponsored the bag,” Olson says, “and it personalizes it a little bit.”

The hospital employees reacted with pure joy, often sending her photos of themselves opening their bags. “It’s like a party for them,” Olson says. “They were getting a lot of food donations, but these are gifts they can keep and wear when they’re trying to unwind.”

She also spoke at a webinar to teach other small businesses how they can make their own Comfort Projects to say thank you to frontline workers with items from their own shops. “If they let their customers sponsor the bags rather than just giving them away, that gets the community involved,” Olson says. “This is a way for people to help others while staying home.” She estimates that more than 30 businesses have created Comfort Projects.

When Olson briefly ran out of stock to fill her bags, her Chantilly Lace vendors stepped up to help. “I’ve had a lot of partners from the industry who have contributed,” Olson says. “It’s allowed me to keep the project going.”

Olson has delivered 580 bags so far. And even though the number of new Covid-19 cases has decreased, Olson plans to continue to make drop-offs until all her local frontline employees get a thank you bag. “They deserve it,” she says. “And every time they wear the gifts, they’re going to remember, ‘This person in this town cared enough to sponsor this for me.’”

SEVEN YEARS AGO, Simone Gordon reached a point of desperation. “I felt defeated,” says Gordon, who is now 33. She had to quit her job at a New Jersey restaurant to take care of her toddler son who was diagnosed with nonverbal autism. She didn’t have enough money to buy essential items, and local social-service lists repeatedly led to dead ends. Feeling hopeless, she put out a plea for help on social media. Four charitable women responded.

“Within minutes, they were asking how they could ship me diapers, food and formula,” Gordon says. The women even paid off her $795 debt for community college so Gordon could resume nursing classes.

Their kindness moved Gordon so much, she made it her mission to show others the same generosity. “I said to the women who helped me, ‘If you’re doing all this for me, a stranger, then I want to create something big, too, to help women of color,’” Gordon recalls.

She started fund-raising on her own social media accounts to help “Black and brown” single mothers seeking food, clothing, medicine, education or domestic violence counseling. To her surprise, people all around the United States — and even some in the United Kingdom and beyond — contributed their money and time. When Gordon raised funds to help a woman in Maryland facing eviction, the recipient was so grateful, she dubbed Gordon the “Black Fairy Godmother.” “She said I was the one who saved her,” Gordon says.

Gordon started using the moniker on social media, where she asked her followers to purchase necessities for specific women in need, or to contribute directly to their PayPal or Venmo accounts. A team of 12 volunteers helped her vet the requests for help that poured in. “I focus on women of color because our poverty rates are the highest,” Gordon says, adding that some of the women she helps have low education levels. “For me to put them in G.E.D. programs, it’s like they’re winning the lottery.”

In March, as the coronavirus pandemic took hold and Gordon struggled to pay her own bills, attend online college classes and take care of her son, the number of help requests surged. “How can I turn away someone asking for food?” Gordon says. She mobilized her network of 20,000 social media followers to deliver groceries, feminine supplies, baby formula and more. “Since March 20th, we have raised over $150,000 and helped 67 families,” she says.

The Black Fairy Godmother Foundation, which Gordon started in 2019, uses PayPal to make it easy for people to contribute. “It’s the best way for me and my team to keep track of the amounts being sent to each family,” Gordon says. Using PayPal also helps her team to quickly assist domestic violence victims, she says. “In the middle of the night when a woman is trying to run, we can send funds for a hotel.”

In May, she won a Webby Special Achievement Award for using social media to assist women of color severely impacted by Covid-19. She hopes to one day open transitional housing for women who are fleeing domestic violence or have lost their housing. Her goal is to bring mental, physical and financial stability to these women. “I love helping and healing people,” she says. “That’s my passion.”

Gordon expects to graduate from nursing school next year. But that won’t slow her generosity. Asked when she will retire as the “Black Fairy Godmother,” she answers, “When I take my last breath.”

IN MARCH, the musician Sean Tillmann was on the road with his band, Heart Bones, when the coronavirus started shutting down the United States. “We had to cancel tour dates and get home to Minneapolis really quickly,” says Tillmann, whose stage name is Har Mar Superstar.

The Twin Cities has long been known for its vibrant music scene, but as venues closed their doors, many musicians, bartenders, bouncers, cooks and waiters lost their main sources of income. The renowned performance space First Avenue even had to postpone its 50th anniversary kickoff concert featuring Heart Bones. “We were all freaking out, trying to figure out what the next thing was going to be,” Tillmann says.

Tillmann’s fiancée, Laura Hauser, a schoolteacher with a gift for drawing, took to social media, offering illustrated thank you notes to anyone who donated to local musicians. People delighted in the drawings they received. “This made us want to use art to positively help our community,” Hauser says.

While out for a walk, the couple came up with the idea for Coloring Books for a Cause: They would commission local artists to help create music-related coloring books, which would provide a welcome distraction for families suddenly required to stay home, and then they’d give most of the proceeds to out-of-work people in the music industry. “Parents were homeschooling their kids,” Tillmann says. “We figured coloring books could offer an hour away from the insanity.”

Local artists Stacey Combs and Michael Gaughan immediately jumped on board, and the group created “The Big Coloring Book of First Avenue” within a week. “Everybody was riding that wave of energy,” Tillmann says.

SOMETIMES A SINGLE SOCIAL MEDIA POST can spark genius and generosity from the other side of the globe. That’s what happened in March when Katherine Li Johnson, an art dealer in Tunis who grew up in Queens, N.Y., posted an Instagram story about a friend who was 3D printing face shields to protect Tunisians against the coronavirus.

Shortly after the post went up, one of Johnson’s high school classmates, Dara Krausankas, who is based in Los Angeles but was social distancing back on the East Coast, commented simply, “Hey, I think we can actually do similar things here in New York.”

A few days later, Johnson, Krausankas and another high school friend, Kaity Wong, used social media to launch the organization New York Calling, with a goal to affordably 3D print headband frames and translucent plastic face shields for frontline medical workers. “It was about, How do we help people as fast as possible?” Wong says.

On their website, the trio included options for people to contribute using PayPal or Venmo, hoping to raise $5,000. The women were astonished when they reached their goal overnight. Some people even offered to volunteer in person wearing protective gear. “We were very grateful for how generous people were,” Wong says.

New York Calling expanded rapidly to include nine team members, five volunteers and access to six 3D printers. About a week after the launch, in a team group chat someone shared a photo featuring newborns in a Thai hospital wearing face shields. “We all commented, ‘Oh my God, this is so cute,’” Krausankas says. Then a very pregnant friend, Jamie Diamond, asked if New York Calling could make a shield for her baby. “We said, ‘OK, we have to make this happen,’” Krausankas says. “She used it for her newborn and loved it.”

The cycle of generosity continued. Diamond’s father, Wayne Diamond, an actor, posted about New York Calling, offering to create personalized videos and songs for people who donated. “We raised a lot of money from that,” Krausankas says. “It was like a random act of kindness. He asked nothing from us and just owned it.”

Small businesses around the United States also helped the organization, including a CBD oil company in the Hudson Valley, a Pilates instructor in Los Angeles and a vintage reseller in Connecticut. “They donated proceeds from sales and promos they ran for us,” Johnson says.

A month into the initiative, New York Calling had raised $15,000 and distributed 3,000 face shields for adults and newborns. The frontline recipients sometimes shed tears during drop-offs. “It’s a really difficult time,” Krausankas says. “So the emotion is very, very present whether it’s happy or sad.”

This experience has also deeply affected the three friends. “The work of others continues to inspire us,” Wong says. “It’s reassuring to know that everyday folks are building solidarity amid chaos and reimagining a way forward.”