The Fund Raiser

Anatomy of a Gift

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By Mark J. Drozdowski

Some people say fund raisers thrive on rejection. That's ridiculous. We just learn to appreciate it.

But it's true that development officers, especially those in the grants game, hear "no" so frequently that we begin to believe foundations take direction from David Spade's Capital One commercials. Competition for dollars is fierce, and even top colleges employing experienced grant-seekers strike out more often than not.

To be sure, each of us gets his fair share of slam dunks. My institution has strong relationships with a few foundations, for which my solicitation strategy consists of a polite letter reminding them to open their checkbooks. Board members in key places and the luck of proximity certainly help.

Those, unfortunately, are the exceptions. You know that slamming-door sound when someone exits your instant-message kiosk? It's an apt metaphor. Sometimes, following yet another carefully orchestrated ding, I want to pack it all in, feeling like Sisyphus flattened to the boulder as it inexorably careers down the mountain.

Other times, I find just enough positive reinforcement to make me want to stick around.

Take, for instance, my latest attempt to land foundation money. Several months ago, a faculty member in our education department approached me with an idea for "e-portfolios." Our students, like those at countless other colleges, are required to compile portfolios documenting their progress. It's like keeping a scrapbook, college style, and students are supposed to demonstrate intellectual growth over four years.

But these paper-and-binder portfolios have certain limitations: They become rather unwieldy beasts after a few years of stuffing, and they can't accommodate every manner of content, like work in the graphic arts or in video production. Electronic portfolios can. This professor had been inspired by a conference presentation and wanted our college to make the transition.

Of course, that costs money.

So he came to me for help. I told him to write a brief concept paper outlining what the project entailed, how it could benefit students, and what the associated costs might be. In turn, I'd try to hunt down likely foundation prospects.

My initial research uncovered no great leads, and I let the idea percolate a bit while I went about other business. Meanwhile, the professor did his best to craft a concept paper. While cogent, it left too many questions unanswered and didn't read at all like a request for money.

I also figured that we couldn't attract dollars for a project limited to one small department, so I sought to expand our project collegewide. Yes, that meant we'd need more money, but I thought the idea would sell better.

To that end, I cobbled together a committee of folks to help me shape a proposal. It was summer and corralling people proved difficult. Our one meeting landed in the middle of my vacation, but I came in nonetheless.

At our meeting we tossed around ideas and gained a fair amount of clarity and direction. Then I asked the key question: Who was going to write this thing? Blank stares. Finally everyone broke out in simultaneous laughter, nodding to each other in appreciation of a good joke. Why, you, silly. You're the grant writer. Do your job.

Lucky me. It's not that I shun work, mind you, but I always prefer to have faculty members or relevant administrators write the first draft. They know the material far better than I do. I can shape and package a proposal, but the guts have to come from the experts. Naturally, some don't see it that way. I remember assisting a physics professor with a proposal while I was working at a research university. I started our conversation with, "Let's assume, just for argument's sake, that I know nothing about nanotechnology." Now I had to learn everything about e-portfolios.

So I dug in, visiting demonstration Web sites, reading journal articles, interviewing people who'd established a system of e-portfolios on their campuses. I had to ferret out just what we'd do with these gizmos.

The application would be paramount; a foundation wouldn't be eager to help us purchase new technology unless we could speak to its ability to improve teaching and learning. I asked people how the tool would aid advising, and how it would support faculty development and student evaluations. Before long I was an e-portfolio junkie.

Still, I hadn't found a likely prospect -- until serendipity struck. The mail brought an annual report from a midsize foundation that supports small colleges in New England. Turning to Page 3, I began perusing last year's grant recipients. One had received a grant for ... you guessed it: e-portfolios. And to boot, the foundation's grants fell squarely in the range we were looking for. What luck.

Now that I had a bona fide prospect, I set about turning 483 pages of notes on e-portfolios into a two-page letter of inquiry outlining our request. About a week later I received a phone call from the program officer. The foundation was inviting a full proposal. First hurdle: check.

I shared a couple of drafts with my fellow committee members, and once a version passed muster with everyone, we sent it in with fingers crossed.

Shortly thereafter came phone call No. 2. The foundation liked our proposal and wanted to conduct a site visit. That meant the whole board would be coming to evaluate us and our ideas. It was time to pull in the president and other top brass, all of whom wholeheartedly endorsed our efforts.

We staged a couple of dress rehearsals to ensure that our formal presentation would go smoothly. We wanted to avoid any technology gaffes, thinking we'd never convince the foundation board of our technological prowess if we couldn't get a laptop and PowerPoint to work.

Thankfully, everything worked just fine. Our presentation confirmed our understanding of the tool and its applications, and faculty members from various disciplines spoke to the myriad benefits that e-portfolios would provide.

As we expected, board members asked probing questions and demonstrated an equal sophistication about these issues. Some of their concerns struck us as a bit odd; one trustee, for example, wanted to know why our budget contained so many rounded numbers. Those were cost projections, we told him, and we hadn't figured them to the penny. Who does?

After the presentation and questions (and lunch), the board dismissed us from our own conference room and conducted a closed-door session. Minutes later, the program officer emerged to tell me that things had gone well and that the trustees were impressed. She did, though, ask me to write a follow-up letter addressing some remaining questions and concerns.

I fired it off the next day. I had to wait a few weeks for the verdict, and I'd marked the day of the board's meeting on my e-calendar. The program officer told me to call her the following day to learn our fate.

In the meantime, people across the campus asked me how I thought it had gone. Would we get the grant? It was a sure thing, right? They'd never put us through all that and say "sorry," would they? I told folks I thought things had gone about as well as expected, but that we shouldn't start spending the money just yet.

The fateful day came and I called as scheduled. Good news! the program officer said. We received the grant.

Sort of.

The board had lopped off a few items and would let us pay for our own software maintenance, thank you very much, but the rest of the cash would be forthcoming. Jubilation reigned throughout the land as we toasted ourselves with Dom Perignon and hugged and cried. Well, not exactly. But we were pretty darn happy.

All told, our windfall turned out to be just shy of $200,000. That's not a ton of money, but it's important money because we didn't have it. Without the grant, our e-portfolio plans would have lain stagnant.

And that's fund raising at its best: finding private (or government) dollars to support something your institution truly wants to do but can't afford, regardless of the cost. That's how we in development prove our worth and make a difference.

Sometimes this gig seems so easy.

Postscript: Last fall, as one of my columns documented, we New Englanders were praying for a pennant. Now our prayers have been answered, and then some. Expect the region to experience a spike in philanthropic giving that should last, oh, about 86 years.