Snow fell lightly as I waited in the showroom for the salesman to return with keys to the car I was about to test drive. "This thing have power steering?" I joked, symbolically kicking the tire as Otto unlocked the car. "Yeah, sure," he replied, obviously not amused.
I jumped into the driver's seat, adjusted the controls and mirrors, and we took off. It was late December, and I was testing not only the car but the theory that this was the best time of year to shop for one. Customer traffic is light and the sales staff is desperate to meet monthly and yearly quotas. I figured I'd get a great deal.
"Naw, that's just a myth," Otto said, exploding my theory.
By contrast, I explained, the end of December does hold special meaning in my field. For many fund raisers, it's the busiest time of the year. Donors are eager to make gifts in time to realize tax benefits for that year, and we're eager to remind them. Development offices therefore witness a flurry of activity as January 1 approaches.
"So what's fund raising really like?" Otto asked.
I was intrigued by his curiosity. On the most basic level, I said, I'm the liaison between the college and donors: I visit alumni and other prospects, attempting to persuade them to contribute money. Simple enough. But I delved deeper on finer points about research, describing how we try to determine who might have the resources and inclination to make significant gifts. I talked about "moves management" -- that series of orchestrated steps turning suspects to prospects to donors. I talked about the psychology of cultivation and solicitation strategies. I spoke of the importance of stewardship, of treating donors well once they've given to help ensure future giving. And I spoke of volunteer recruitment, the process of engaging others to help identify and solicit donors.
"That sounds a lot like what I do," Otto said, glancing over to see my response and check the speedometer.
"What do you mean?" I replied, secretly wanting to shift gears and find another topic. I knew where he was steering the conversation and I began to squirm. What's on the radio? I thought.
Seizing the opportunity, Otto proceeded to describe his line of work. He talked about how, at base, he meets with customers and tries to persuade them to buy his product. But he, too, probed the finer aspects. He talked about the intricacies of market research, of using demographics and psychographics to profile people most likely to buy certain autos. He talked about the selling process -- identifying customers, attracting them to the showroom, engaging them in a test drive, and "incenting" them to buy. He spoke of keeping in touch with customers after they've purchased the car, encouraging their future business. And he mentioned the value of word-of-mouth advertising, of using others to help him attract additional customers.
"I suppose we are somewhat alike," I admitted, choking back the desire to point out that a similar comparison would equate astronauts with taxi drivers because they both pilot conveyances.
After all, I'm not a salesman.
Yet as we drove, I had noticed his sales pitch, how he enumerated the car's features and benefits in light of the competition. He smoothly described in intricate detail, the inner workings of all-wheel drive, antilock brakes, and limited-slip differential. I pictured myself similarly situated in front of a foundation program officer discussing the merits of a new academic program, touting how it would exceed what the "competition" had already accomplished.
But our jobs are not the same, I reassured myself. And I'm not a salesman.
Or am I?
Should college development officers, in fact, think of themselves as a collective sales force representing higher education? Sure, we broker financial transactions and bring in money, but there's so much more to it, right? But then why do ads seeking development officers frequently suggest that "relevant experience" in sales and marketing might be an appropriate background? Could I pack in higher education and head for the nearest dealership and make a seamless transition into selling cars? More pointedly, could Otto successfully assume a university development position?
To be sure, both pursuits exhibit an element of science. Colleges are complex organizations; cars are complex machinery. Development involves an understanding of endowments, gift-planning vehicles, tax strategies, faculty research, and the landscape of higher education. In the auto industry, sales involves knowledge of engines, drivetrains, the arrays of features and options, and the various makes and models populating the road.
And both have an element of art. They entail cultivating and maintaining relationships. They entail matching people with products -- in Otto's case, cars; in mine, students and faculty, programs and projects. They entail persuasion and tact and a sense of when and how to move people along the path from attention to influence to sale. And they entail people skills and communication skills.
So strip away its connotations, and car sales -- or sales of any commodity, for that matter -- resembles development work.
But wait ... it's not the same. Our motives are different; we're more altruistic. Our product -- education -- is a purpose, not an object. We represent people and ideas, not iron and rubber. We are driven by a higher calling, not by the bottom line. We don't advocate employing underhanded strategies to "incent" people to part with money. We don't offer spurious specials or free rust protection with an endowed chair. We don't work for commissions, and don't realize direct financial benefits on a percentage basis. We are not, as the stereotype might have it, the sales force of higher education. Pulling off the highway convinced by my epiphany, I smiled and quietly intoned in my best Charlton Heston when fending off the apes, "I am not a salesman!"
Minutes later, we returned to the dealership. "Thanks for the ride and the conversation," I said.
"My pleasure. So what do you think?"
"Nice car," I admitted. "Let me give it some thought."
In many ways, I already had.
