Idol Thoughts

I’ll let you in on a little secret but you have to promise not to tell anyone: I’m a huge fan of American Idol.

I’ve watched the show from the start. My wife heard about this acerbic Brit named Simon Cowell and wanted to check him out. So I tuned in out of curiosity and haven’t missed an episode since. Tuesday and Wednesday nights are sacred in our household -- even my daughters, ages 6 and 5, are hooked. (My 3-year-old son couldn’t care less.)

My colleagues know about my affliction, though they don’t suffer it well. I try my best to engage them in Idol chitchat, but they have never heard of Clay, Fantasia, Kelly, Taylor, or even Sanjaya. (Well, some of them have heard of Sanjaya.) My director of development will wave his hand and shoo me out of his office at the mere mention of theme nights or voting results. Others smile and nod, waiting for me to stop. It’s so hard to dish when no one else knows the dishees.

It’s all such pablum to some people, especially those who dismiss every reality show as garbage. But a recent Idol episode revealed a soul beneath the glitzy facade, and made me think about the challenges we face as educational fund raisers.

Every Tuesday, millions of people call to vote for their favorite performers, hoping they will return to croon the following week. Each vote tosses a few pennies into the Idol bank, which already swells with corporate sponsorships. When upwards of 30 million people vote each week, the piggy bank grows substantially. With all of those pennies rolling around, the producers thought it was time to share the wealth.

Enter “Idol Gives Back,” a star-studded, confetti-soaked, two-night extravaganza with a mission of raising money for charity. The money would support children’s aid and related causes in Africa and here in the United States. Idol promised to dedicate a portion of its voting haul to such charities and exhorted major corporations to join in. A record 70 million votes were cast. Companies lined up to contribute, as did celebrities. Americans called in pledges. All told, the effort raised more than $70-million.

Was it a publicity gimmick? Sure. A counterattack to quell the anti-Idol establishment? Probably. A shameless attempt to woo new viewers? Maybe.

But it worked.

It was a master lesson in grassroots philanthropy, and for one reason -- the show reached into your chest cavity, clenched your heart, and squeezed it until you finished dialing the phone. The show sold raw emotion and compelled you to give. It knew which chords to strike.

Cue scene: Idol judge Simon and host Ryan Seacrest visit an African tract of land the size of Central Park that is home to 1.2 million people. Two kids, ages 12 and 7, live alone in a hut no bigger than a walk-in closet. Their parents are dead. They weep as they recount life as impoverished orphans.

Cue scene: An after-school shelter in Los Angeles provides youth refuge from the city streets. One girl, about 10, bursts into tears as she tells Idol judge Paula Abdul how hard life is for her and her mom. Paula wells up and hugs her.

Cue scene: Another African village is home to a family with several small children. There’s no dad. The mother is dying of AIDS. Simon and Ryan help the woman into a car headed for a hospital. We’re told she died two days later.

Cue scene: Randy Jackson, the third Idol judge, visits New Orleans and talks with Hurricane Katrina survivors. They are trying to rebuild, but money is scarce. How could America forsake them?, they wonder. Randy assures them everything will be all right.

And on. And on. We experience two hours of gut-wrenching footage, and we’re moved -- despite our misgivings about sensationalism, gimmickry, or blatant promotion. We are told of malaria and mosquito nets, and we give. We see dilapidated schools, and we give. We learn that $30 will feed an African family for a week, and we give $30. Just ask my wife.

So I watched with amazement, teared up from time to time, and wondered. I wondered how we in higher education can evoke such emotions. How can we reach beyond the intellect and find that visceral core where true philanthropy exists? How can we compete with organizations that excel at that?

Believe me, I’ve tried. Sometimes it’s easy, depending on the stories we have at our disposal. Scholarship stories can motivate donors, for certain. Memorial funds, especially those established for beloved faculty or staff members, inspire people to give. Medical and nursing schools have an easier time of it. Who can’t appreciate applied research or patient care? Likewise for education schools; everyone has a favorite teacher to thank.

But what about the more mundane elements of our existence? Ever see someone shed a tear over an endowed chair? What about a faculty-development fund or a smart classroom or a racquetball court or the alumni magazine? Decisions to support such purposes are governed by logic, or ego, or duty, or the simple desire to give back. Or maybe guilt, but not the same guilt we feel over starving children.

Go ahead and argue that donors have many motivations, not all of which are shallow. Maybe some do weep when writing the check to name a lecture hall. Maybe they are dedicating the facility to their parents, and the transaction taps deeper emotions. We are, you may say, in the business of helping human beings, so can’t we tug heartstrings while appealing rationally?

I think that’s our challenge. And I don’t believe we’re doing our jobs well enough. The stats don’t lie -- only 12 percent of alumni, nationwide, support their alma maters. That doesn’t mean only 12 percent of college graduates give to charities. They just don’t always give to us. I am guessing they give to health organizations, children’s aid, religious groups, and anyone else capable of connecting emotionally.

We may never succeed at stirring feelings the way children’s charities do, though the stories we tell and the results we demonstrate can move people. We just have to continue uncovering those good stories and finding better ways of telling them. Call this preaching to the choir, but sometimes it’s necessary to attune our voices.