Not long ago I had lunch with a former colleague who most recently was provost at a small college. He's interviewing for college presidencies around the country and wanted my advice on a few matters. I was curious to hear about his experiences and eager to dish about mutual friends.
Following a few gossipy appetizers, we settled into the main course. "I've come to one conclusion about presidential-search committees," he said. "They're not looking for me. They're looking for, well, you."
Moi?
"Yeah," he continued. "I've come away from these interviews convinced that boards don't want academics anymore. They want fund raisers. Did you see this week's Chronicle?"
Indeed I had. He was referring to its survey of college presidents, which revealed that fund raising absorbs a good deal of presidents' attention. Fifty-two percent of the campus chief executives surveyed said they participate in fund-raising activities daily, and about 43 percent said they meet with the chief development or advancement officer every day.
At the same time, 18 percent admitted they weren't properly prepared to deal with the demands of fund raising, while 15 percent called it their single greatest challenge. An accompanying article in the same issue discussed the growing number of fund raisers rising to presidencies.
"Committee members aren't so interested in my academic background," my colleague lamented. "They want to know how many 'asks' I've made and how much money I've brought in over the years. Seriously, the more I heard, the more I thought about you."
I was flattered, I suppose. And he was right. On paper, I have many of the characteristics that form the emerging presidency. I'm a white male with 15 years of fund-raising experience. I've taught and written widely on higher education, and hold a doctorate in that field. A recent study showed that roughly 44 percent of presidents hold degrees in education or higher education, making it by far the most common area of study.
One of my former advisers told me that people who write about higher education, as he did, catch the attention of trustees, who assume we know something about the subject beyond our own institutions. Add to all that my Ivy League pedigree (three degrees) along with my sparkling personality and you have the makings of a prototype. Thinking aloud about my profile, I began to see his point.
My colleague, who holds a Ph.D. in English, rose through the faculty ranks and deanships to become provost. None of that seemed to matter to search committees more interested in whether, and how, he had wooed major donors.
"I'm witnessing firsthand the seismic shift from the academic to the advancement president," he said. "Everyone is concerned about money, and rightfully so. But there's more to financial success than fund raising. What about increasing enrollment, enhancing retention, cutting costs, and streamlining operations? Those are just as important as raising big gifts. Yet committees dwell more on development, as if private giving is a panacea.
"And what really riles me," he fumed, "is that these committees don't even frame the questions correctly. They don't ask how we'd recruit and retain fund raisers or how we'd work with the development office or how we'd engage volunteers. They don't pose broad questions about the president's role in advancement, particularly during a capital campaign, or ask us how we tell an institution's story. Committees want to know how much we've raised and how much they'll potentially realize if they hire us. But it's not that simple."
"How do you respond?" I asked.
"I talk about how I've worked with fund raisers on proposals to foundations, how I've negotiated with corporate executives, and how I've been part of teams involved in soliciting major gifts," he replied. "It all sounds pretty good until they hear from a vice president for advancement who's been directly responsible for raising tens of millions of dollars. I can't compete with that."
"Well," I said, trying to broach the question delicately, "don't you think that's due to the nature of the places you're interviewing with? I mean, they're all tuition-driven, private colleges with tiny endowments. They're desperate to raise more money and want a leader to show them the way. I bet you wouldn't find that emphasis at more prestigious schools."
Which leads me back to my situation. Truth be told, I've rarely thought of myself as presidential material, even though another adviser once said I should tell my parents I was "preparing to become a college president" when they asked -- for the 95th time -- what a doctorate in education would do for me.
I am, as I mentioned, a product of the Ivy League, where campus leaders are normally esteemed scholars with Ph.D.'s in the arts and sciences, or former deans of law or medical schools. I don't see that in the mirror. As a student of higher education, I studied legendary presidents, philosopher-kings who ruled Johns Hopkins, Cornell, Chicago and Yale. None of them had been director of major gifts. Harvard, if I remember correctly, had a penchant for chemists. Sporting that knowledge, I never assumed an advancement career was the perfect springboard to the presidency.
Now perhaps it is, at least among the kinds of institutions where my colleague was a candidate. He can't aspire to be president of an Ivy or a prestigious liberal-arts college, where his ability to lead the academic side of the house would serve him better during interviews. Because of his own pedigree -- at good, but not stellar, institutions -- and the caliber of colleges he's served, he's seemingly stuck at the lower end of the institutional food chain, where his experience doesn't match what committees are seeking.
He agreed, and speculated about his future.
"One college I interviewed with just appointed its provost as vice president for advancement," he grumbled. "He's trying to position himself for a presidency. Maybe I need to consider such a move."
"I'd say that's probably a wise decision for him but not for his institution," I replied. "I don't think you'll find many opportunities like that. You're better off focusing on colleges that want an academic president. Or maybe you should look for another provost job and work your way up that ladder."
"Not a bad idea," he said. "And what about you? Does this inspire you to consider a presidency? How about throwing your hat in the ring? Seems like the climate is right."
"Maybe some day," I said, "but that's too far down the road for me to worry about right now. I don't have the requisite years of leadership experience, and I just started a job I find tremendously challenging. Plus, I'm used to dealing with donors, but I'm not ready to contend with the various constituencies who'd be tugging at me for attention. Honestly, I'm having too much fun doing what I'm doing now." I had a capital campaign to run and it was time to get back to work.
Back at my desk, I thumbed through The Chronicle's presidential-survey issue one more time. President? Me? No, not yet. Not just yet.
