The Fund Raiser and the Elephant

An ancient Indian parable tells the story of several blind men and an elephant. By touching only one part of the elephant, each man interpreted the beast from a distinct perspective and formed a biased, incomplete picture in his own mind. Only by pulling together these diverse interpretations could one form a complete picture of the elephant.

These days, I’m wrestling with an elephant of my own. More specifically, I’m planning a capital campaign and writing a case statement -- an articulation of campuswide needs and an invitation for philanthropic support. And while I certainly wouldn’t characterize everyone across campus as “blind,” I would argue that many bring to the exercise limited and often conflicting perspectives. So I have become the Elephant Man, keeping people mindful of the big picture.

Along the way, I’ve been classifying folks into three camps. (A former boss once told me that every aspect of life can be divided into three parts, so this seems right.) The first group knows how to identify needs and to translate them into grant opportunities. These savvy professors and administrators appreciate how donors of all stripes think. They understand packaging. They have a keen sense of proportion, focused strongly on their own part of the elephant but aware of others forming the whole. They’re easy to work with and often become partners in fund-raising ventures. When sniffing around campus for potential projects, I tend to gravitate to these people because they make my job easier. Sadly, too few of them exist, yet others can be educated to think similarly.

People in the second group have a slight case of megalomania. I give them credit for thinking big, but they think too big. These folks want new buildings or at least new wings. They want endowed chairs, and lots of them. Heck, what’s a few million dollars among friends? They want the latest technological gizmos that even NASA would deem lavish. And they want money for pet projects they couldn’t possibly find time to manage, let alone attract grants for. A few years ago, at another institution, an engineering professor hounded me for months to find prospects for his potential venture: a $10-million earthquake research center -- in New England. Despite my musings about such a center being more appropriate for, say, Cal Tech, where they, you know, have earthquakes, he pressed on. I finally asked the provost to intercede and wrench this pit bull from my cuff.

Obviously, people in this group lack a sense of proportion, evidently not understanding the zero-sum notion that as their slice of the campaign pie increases, others must correspondingly decrease. They also tend to focus obsessively on their own areas, be they departments or administrative units. And their wish lists exceed the entire campaign goal. My job here is to temper aspirations and point out that we must leave room for others to be represented in the campaign. By discussing campuswide needs, I let them feel other parts of the elephant. Most grudgingly understand.

At the same time, while I doubt my tempering will quash their entrepreneurial spirit, I must be careful not to redirect it. After all, I don’t want too many “cowboys” riding off on their own in search of money. We need to remain partners in the venture, lest they circumvent our office, sending proposals and contacting donors without our knowledge. I can attest firsthand that such activity can lead to embarrassing situations; on more than one occasion I’ve learned from a potential donor, in person, that someone from my own campus had beaten me to the solicitation punch. Ouch. So while we fund raisers cannot be viewed as gate-keepers, we must always remain traffic cops.

The third group is less dangerous, though just as troubling. These faculty and staff members commonly display one of two tendencies, or both. First, they think small. For them, a significant gift would provide $200 for travel to a conference. Ask them about technology and they’ll tell you they need a new printer cartridge. Mention a seven-figure endowment and their eyes pop. Second, they have little idea how to package needs, instead focusing on items that couldn’t possibly attract philanthropic support. When I spoke with one department chairman about his priorities, he rattled off an inventory of concerns that included new furniture covering and carpets, upgraded window treatments for the faculty lounge, and a revamped air-conditioning system. I sighed. Donors won’t pay for new carpets, I told him, nor do they necessarily care about the condition of a couch. But they might give you $10,000 to name the lounge, letting you use the money for those unsaleable purposes.

With this group, my job is to raise sights and expectations while repackaging needs. I encourage them to put their palms on the elephant, not just their pinkies. They may remain provincial, but at least they’ll receive their fair share. I’ll ask them, for instance, how they’d spend $5-million if given the opportunity. That usually opens their minds to possibilities. And I focus them on priorities that present steak and sizzle in equal parts. For every donor interested in establishing a research endowment, there’s another eager to attach his name to the foyer of the new performing-arts center.

Where do students fit in? As you might expect, most land in the latter two categories, but I’ve been surprised to find more falling on the cautious side of the continuum. To be sure, some think big, asking for a new campus center or a concert hall large enough to attract Limp Bizkit. That I’d expect. But more often than not, they’re concerned with what affects their daily lives. One student group’s catalog included requests for filling potholes, repainting lines in the parking lot, fixing a broken heater in the dorm, and putting new shower curtains in the third floor bathroom. I imagined we could fill a lot of potholes with the campaign tally.

So I offer more appropriate suggestions. What about scholarships? “Gee,” they reply, “can we get people to pay for those?” Evidently they assume financial assistance comes only from federal sources or the college’s coffers. What about more professors? How about money for library improvements, newer computers, better equipment in the labs? Yeah, sure, they’d take all of that. Of course, I assure them those other issues will be addressed in due course by the institution’s capital budget.

Armed with the information gathered from various quarters, I’ve begun to piece together the campaign elephant, a patchwork pachyderm. My notes for the case statement read like a three-ton lump of clay that requires shaping, hewing, and etching to transform it into something appropriate for donor consumption. It’s my duty to provide perspective and balance to what everyone has offered, though I certainly will defer to campus leadership to make final judgments.

Assuming that I do a good job, everyone will nod in agreement upon seeing the eventual product. They’ll recognize the elephant and their own point of contact. And once we all see our collective goals clearly, we’ll be ready to tromp ahead in unison.