The Reluctant Road Warrior

By Mark J. Drozdowski

"It's probably your travel reimbursement," my wife said as she tore open the envelope from my would-be employer.

"Sure," I said over the phone. "What else could it be?"

"Dear Mark, thank you for your interest . . ."

She paused.

"Yeah?" I prodded.

"It's a rejection letter."

"Oh, come on!" I laughed. "Seriously, it's just the check, right?"

"No," she replied. "You didn't get the job."

She proceeded to read the letter aloud. It was your standard fare about the number and quality of applicants, followed by well wishes for a fruitful career. Just not there.

I couldn't imagine what had gone wrong.

The letter arrived about a week after my second campus visit. The university had arranged a real-estate tour for my wife and me, which we assumed was an obvious sign that things were moving along well. That trip also involved meeting with faculty members and having lunch with an associate dean, whose constant use of the future tense ("You'll enjoy meeting the chairman of our annual fund") suggested the outcome was a foregone conclusion. My first visit went equally well (hence the second interview). Or so I thought.

My initial reaction to the rejection letter wasn't disappointment but fear. Was someone sabotaging me? Did one of my references give me a bad rap? If so, who, and why? And would I continue to experience rejection on the market as a result?

Instead of speculating, I called the human-resources director, who had organized my visits. I expressed my disappointment and asked if anything in particular led to this decision.

"The teaching," he replied.

Ah, the teaching, I thought. I began to understand.

Evidently, the search committee, the faculty, the dean, the vice president, the custodial staff, and the waitress at Starbucks objected to my designs on teaching a course.

Let me elaborate. The position was head of development for a school of education. That school offers a program in higher-education administration. I hold a doctorate in that field. Wouldn't it be nice, I said, to perhaps teach a course on fund raising and advancement, an area in which many doctoral students in higher education are interested? Yes, they all said, it would indeed be nice.

At least that's what they told me. I broached the topic with the dean during my first interview. She asked what attracted me to the position. I told her it was the combination of building a program, working with talented colleagues, advancing a school with which I had a natural affinity, and perhaps developing a course down the road. I certainly didn't lead with the teaching angle, nor did I dwell on it very long.

In fact, throughout the conversations I had with several folks over those two visits, I spoke of my interest in teaching for about five minutes total. I was careful to add that I would pursue such an opportunity only if the culture of the school permitted administrators to teach. It did, said everyone, including the faculty group I saw on my return visit. At no point did I see raised eyebrows or encounter any consternation. Had the dean demurred in the slightest, I wouldn't have mentioned it again.

So I was surprised by the news, but the more I thought about my interview experience, the more it made sense. Although the school was seeking a director of development, it really wanted a major-gifts officer -- a "road warrior," as the hiring committee put it, who would canvass the country, tirelessly shaking down people for donations.

Evidently I didn't match that prototype. More to the point, I didn't match any prototype. One interviewer asked why I hadn't pursued a faculty career. Another inquired if I would be interested in a communications position. A few wondered aloud what would become of my various freelance writing gigs. I would keep them, I said.

Yes, my background includes marketing communications along with fund raising. Yes, I've taught as an adjunct for a few years. Yes, I've edited two alumni magazines. And yes, I maintain a vigorous freelance writing career "on the side."

So what? I've never attempted to hide those experiences; rather, I highlight them to demonstrate that I'm a more complete package with many things to offer a potential employer. I bill myself as an advancement officer, not just a development officer, because it's silly to suggest that fund raisers aren't in the marketing and alumni-relations business, and that alumni relations and marketing folks don't support the fund-raising function. The more you comprehend those integrated tasks, the better.

My strategy on the market: Here was someone who could not only raise money but could elevate the communications efforts (the school doesn't have a full-time communications officer) and even enhance the curriculum with a new course. Well, that strategy backfired. The school didn't want a well-rounded campus citizen, despite its initial interest. It wanted a road warrior.

And it's easy to see why. Time equals money. In the minds of those on the hiring committee, the more I strayed from the business at hand -- fund raising -- the less money I would raise. They may have even quantified things. Let's say I could potentially bring in $1-million a year. If I spent 5 percent of my time teaching and preparing to teach, that would equate to $50,000 lost. Another 5 percent writing for alumni publications? Another fifty grand. Simplistic, yes, but not entirely unfounded. Get out there and get us some cash, the faculty members thought. Leave the teaching and writing to us.

Fine. But how long do road warriors last before they burn out? Would someone with multiple connections to the institution -- in the classroom as well as across advancement functions -- enjoy a more diverse set of experiences and perhaps stick around a bit longer? And why is it anathema to conceive of a fund raiser spending time on anything other than raising money?

Many administrators I know teach part time. Most faculty members are expected to contribute to campus and community life and to pursue research interests. Variety keeps people engaged.

So don't compartmentalize fund raisers and judge our worth only by how much money we bring in, how many proposals we write, or how much time we spend on the road. Give us some latitude to pursue other interests as they pertain to campus citizenship. Let us fashion a transformational existence, not merely a transactional one. Let us teach a course if we're qualified, or write a feature story for the alumni magazine. If that makes us happier, we might even raise more money as a result.

In the end, I'm glad I didn't get the position. I wouldn't have been content as a road warrior, and my performance would have proved it. I suppose there are plenty of people comfortable in that role, and I do hope they find one. Meanwhile, I'm starting a new job as executive director of development for a Massachusetts college. It's a much better fit and a pleasant conclusion to what has been a bumpy ride on the career carousel.