So there I am at lunch, sitting in our conference room and enjoying some quiet time while I peruse this very publication, when a familiar figure appears waving a fistful of orange paper.
"Can you believe I got a ticket?" shouts a 60-ish alum -- let's call her "Mallory Parker" -- who still lives in town and visits the campus just about every day. Mal loves to pop in just to see what we're up to. Usually she wants to talk about old times and thumb through our yearbooks. She enjoys telling us who's dead.
"You got a ticket?" I reply. "Where?"
"On my windshield."
"Where were you parked?"
"Outside the house." As in our house, the alumni house. Evidently, Mal had left her Buick Park Avenue next to a barely visible yellow streak on the sidewalk, which signifies a no-parking zone.
"That's a city ticket," I explain. "It's not from our campus police. There isn't much I can do about it."
"Well," Mal retorts, "if I have to pay this fifty bucks, consider it my annual donation. And my last one."
Mal customarily contributes more than $50 a year -- but not much more. Still, I don't want to alienate a donor, especially a graduate who seems to have the ear of certain influential alums.
What I say next may alter our relationship forever. I need to choose my words carefully. So I chomp into the grinder (a "sub" sandwich to non-New Englanders), take a swig of Dr. Thunder, and contemplate my strategy.
First, I try to see the situation from Mal's perspective. Would I be annoyed? Sure I would. Who enjoys parking tickets? She's rightly upset.
Then again, Mal should know the parking rules by now. Yellow begets orange.
But the snow has just recently melted, finally revealing the sidewalk's true colors. Cut her some slack.
I'm conflicted.
Second, is it fair to hold the development office accountable? As I told her, the campus cops didn't issue the ticket; the city did. Mal parked on a city street, not in a campus lot, and even though this street is home to nothing but campus concerns, police still police it. We can waive a campus ticket pretty easily. Getting city hall to forgive one isn't so simple.
It's not our fault, and we can't readily fix it. Let's move on.
Third, is Mal simply blowing off steam? Time will tell, but for now I believe her intentions. There's precedent here, after all.
I've heard legendary stories of disaffected donors from various institutions dropping their alma mater from their roster of giving. One famous athlete fails to share his disposable income with his college because the administration had the temerity to tow his car when he was Big Man on Campus. He's never forgotten or forgiven, and has never given a quarter back.
Closer to home, I've spoken with lapsed donors who disapproved of some campus figure (say, a former president or a fund-raising chief) and hold a grudge to this day -- two decades, three presidents and four fund-raising chiefs later. Again, it's not our fault. Don't blame us, or the current crop of students.
At times I've attempted to reconcile with such folks, and most often I've been successful. Time has a way of salving even the most vile wounds, like the one left by a professor who wouldn't accept a late paper and dropped your grade to a B-plus. With gentle yet persistent counseling, alums can usually find closure and move on. But other resentments persist.
Fourth, with that in mind, should I bother reasoning with her now, or should I wait until she escapes the heat of anger? She's not due to make a gift until June, anyway. No, I think, let's try to nip this one before it festers. I'm in a scrappy mood.
"What do you want us to do about it?," I ask.
"Talk to somebody," Mal suggests. "Have someone take care of it. Or have the development office pay for it."
I explain we can't use donor dollars to pay for parking indiscretions. Mal's grip on the crinkled ticket gets tighter.
"This isn't how you treat a donor," she concludes in a kind of scolding manner.
She's right, to a point. But I'm stuck here. What do I say to convince Mal that her having to pay a parking ticket has nothing to do with her philanthropic giving? Ah ... just that.
"Mal, you've given consistently for years," I remind her. "Why?"
"Because I believe in the college," she replies.
"What do you mean by 'believe'"? I continue.
Mal's still annoyed but isn't waving the scrunched ticket anymore. "Well, I believe it transforms lives. You know, gives young people a chance to better themselves."
"Like it did for you," I say.
"Yeah, I guess."
Mal goes on to tell me about a couple of professors who guided her, who helped her pursue her dream of becoming a teacher. She also reveals that she came from a low-income family and couldn't have afforded college without financial aid.
"I bet some of that aid came from private donations," I added. "Even though the college didn't raise much money back then, most of what came in supported scholarships. At a place like this, it's always been our top priority."
"I suppose so," she said, clearly calming down a bit by now.
"And what if the person who donated your scholarship money had instead withheld it to protest a parking ticket?"
"It's not that simple," Mal said. "The college would have found other money."
"Yes," I countered, "it is that simple. People give because they're moved by some deeper reason. Maybe it's returning a favor. Maybe it's guilt. Maybe it's bragging rights. Maybe it's feeling part of a bigger cause or community. Maybe it's to cleanse their soul. Whatever the cause, once you find that philanthropic spirit, something as petty as a parking ticket isn't going to squelch it. If it does, I'd question your initial motivation and wonder if the ticket provided a convenient excuse to stop giving.
"If you really believe in what this place does," I continued, "you won't let a $50 ticket change your mind."
"Yeah, well, I'm still pretty peeved," she said, "but I'll probably keep giving. This ticket was my own fault, anyway. No sense in penalizing the college."
I told Mal I'd look forward to seeing her name in next year's annual report. I also suggested she move her car and, from now on, steer clear of yellow sidewalks.
