Recently I finished graduate school, earning my doctorate after 11 short years. Now that I'm qualified to join the faculty ranks -- at least in theory -- I'm not so sure I want to. No, I'm sticking with my day job.
I'm a college fund raiser.
During my decade-long march to doctorhood, I pursued a parallel path in fund raising, landing most recently at a New England liberal-arts college. (Did you think I spent 11 years studying full-time?) I've worked mostly in corporate and foundation relations, but have dabbled with major gifts and the annual fund just to stay on my toes.
When I first entered graduate school, I set my sights squarely on a faculty career. Fund raising paid the bills (mine and the institution's) and provided valuable knowledge and good administrative experience. I never dreamed I would stay in development long, and certainly not after I finished my degree.
During those years, I came to realize a few fundamental truths about fund raising. It's a strange field, to be honest. We are not true professionals like lawyers or doctors or architects. Development is more of a vocation, like business management. No specific degrees, skills, or experience are necessary for entry. No governing body licenses and monitors fund raisers. We have no gates or gatekeepers issuing us passes and minding our actions.
The field does offer some of the trappings of a true profession, however. Fund raisers belong to several associations, including the newly renamed Association of Fundraising Professionals (even though we're not) and the Council for Advancement and Support of Education (CASE). We can point to a clearly defined career ladder, a succession of titles and responsibilities that holds fairly constant from one institution to the next, a code of ethics, and even our own lexicon and jargon. For proof of the latter, go to a CASE development conference and you'll hear terms like "moves management," "lybunts and sybunts," and the mysterious "silent phase." My institution publishes a "Giftionary" to educate the uninitiated.
Without a clear pathway into the field, it's no wonder that fund raisers come from various backgrounds. Colleagues of mine had been professors and deans, business and sales people, editors and writers, athletes and artisans. Such an eclectic mix adds spice to development staffs but perpetuates a feeling that we're all somehow misfits, rejects from other walks of life who've found solace and purpose in a new calling.
Like most others, I came to development the old-fashioned way: by accident. After a year of graduate school, I thought some time away was in order. When I asked my adviser if he knew of any job openings, he wangled me a position as a grant writer for a local college.
"Are you interested in development?" my adviser had asked. "Interested" wasn't the word that came to mind. "Ignorant" was more like it. Honestly, I had no clue about the field. I thought "development" referred to Third World maturation. When friends and family asked me during my youth what I wanted to be when I grew up, I can't remember once answering, "Why, a development officer, of course." (I do, however, recall something about left field and the Red Sox. ...) So I certainly didn't choose development; rather, it chose me.
And I'm glad it did. Odd as it may seem, development offers certain advantages that a faculty career doesn't. Were I to pursue a faculty spot, I'd need to cast my net as widely as possible, setting aside any geographic or institutional preferences I might have. That search could require drifting among various visiting or adjunct spots before coming to rest on the tenure track. In development, jobs are plentiful. Visit a few academic-employment Web sites and take a head count of how many fund-raising positions are posted. You'll find more than 100 at any given time. With so many options, I can easily define where I live and work.
Assuming lightning struck and I did land that full-time faculty job, climbing the professorial ladder could take several years. In the meantime, the pay would put me on a par with the local Wal-Mart manager. By comparison, with institutions at all levels investing in development positions and building staffs, vacancies and opportunities for rapid advancement abound. And pay? A new development officer at the assistant-director level can easily make more than $40,000, with promotion and raises just two to three years off. Within five years that individual can become a director making in excess of $75,000. For most academic fields, that salary is reserved for full professors 20-plus years into their careers.
Beyond these advantages, though, I derive satisfaction from two primary benefits: autonomy and the opportunity to make a difference. I'm not referring to the traditional sense of autonomy normally afforded professors through tenure, academic freedom, and flexible schedules. I define the term here as the ability to work with professors across departments; to learn continually about new discoveries on the frontiers of knowledge; to work with the president, provost, and trustees to set priorities and figure out how to support them; to engage people outside of campus in the life of the institution; and to match creatively and judiciously the needs of the organization with the philanthropic predilections of donors.
If I carry out my responsibilities successfully, then I can indeed make a difference. I can make a difference for the institution by helping it find a way to pay for activities that would otherwise go unsupported. Philanthropy creates new centers and institutes, fuels research, and erects buildings. Without it, our colleges and universities -- particularly private ones -- would wither.
And I certainly can make a difference for individuals. On one side of the ledger, donors seek gratification through their support for the university; I help to make that happen. On the other side, I have a rare opportunity to enhance the lives of professors and students. I recall one grant proposal I wrote years ago seeking money to start a teacher-training program for urban adults. The grant we received provided students in the program with critical scholarship dollars and an avenue for career advancement. It offered a way out and a way up. It fulfilled dreams and answered prayers. Knowing that I had a hand in creating that program fills me with a profound contentment.
So despite all of our quirks, our lack of definition, our unpredictable lineage, we merry band of misfits soldier on about our work. I happily count myself among them and have no intention to defect. Don't get me wrong -- I admire faculty members and envy them on some level. I simply prefer my lot, with or without a terminal degree. Call me doctor, but I'm staying put.
