The Fund Raiser

Death of a Fund Raiser

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By Mark J. Drozdowski

I pulled into the pub's nearly empty parking lot and found my friend Don's red Chevy Blazer right off. I'd promised to meet him after work at a watering hole roughly equidistant between our two campuses. He had something on his mind and wanted my advice, so I, never one to miss an opportunity to dispense pellets of wisdom, was eager to oblige.

Don was sitting at a booth toward the back and waved as he saw me come in. The half-empty glass in front of him indicated that he'd gotten a head start on happy hour. It also portended the tone of our conversation.

"You hear that Arthur Miller just died?" he asked as I slid into the booth.

"I did. What about it?"

"Well, he ain't really dead. His spirit is alive and well and thriving in me. That's because I'm a living, breathing, sickening manifestation of Willy Loman. You, my friend, are looking at a pathetic loser."

I didn't take that as a sign of a happy man.

"I can't stand my job and my career anymore," he continued. "I feel like I've fallen into the miasmic pit of fund raising, a Hotel California that won't let me check out and move on to something new. I'm trapped and can't do a damn thing about it."

Now, I knew Don to be rather melodramatic at times, but this was more over the top than anything I recalled. He was a sensible fellow, at least as I remembered him early in our careers, when we were earning our fund-raising stripes together in a fairly large development operation. He had risen through the ranks at a few other institutions and most recently landed a plum job at a private college. We had kept in touch over the years, often using perfunctory conferences as an excuse to reconnect and dish about former colleagues.

"You're probably just burned out," I said, trying not to sound too much like Dr. Phil. "It happens to all of us."

"No, it's more than that," Don replied. "I'm really at the end of my rope. I need a sea change. Maybe I. ..."

Don paused to take another sip from his 16-ounce mug, affording me the chance to flash back to a scene from Seinfeld. George Costanza had just lost his job selling real estate and was sitting in Jerry's apartment, legs crossed under the coffee table, wistfully thinking aloud about what might come next. "I like sports," George said. "Maybe I could become the general manager of a baseball team."

So I was prepared for anything. But Don didn't have ready answers, outrageous or otherwise.

"Maybe I should instead resign myself to the fact that I'm gonna do this for the next 25 stinking years until I retire," Don said, finishing his thought.

Time for a different tactic.

"What if you won $5-million and never had to worry about money again?" I asked him, invoking an old trick of getting people to reveal the essence of what they truly want to do with their lives.

He'd obviously heard this before and didn't take the bait. "I'd lie on the beach, sip coconut milk, and have beautiful women fan me with palm fronds."

"I don't see many job descriptions like that," I replied. "What if hedonism weren't your sole objective?"

"Maybe I'd teach," Don said. "I've always thought I'd like to try it."

"There you go," I said. "It's certainly an option."

"Not exactly," he retorted. "I only have a master's degree, and you always hear people with Ph.D.'s whining about not getting jobs. So what are my odds? And I don't want to spend the next five years earning a doctorate while I'm still doing this. I'm ready for a change now."

"You might try teaching at a community college or a private school," I offered, struggling to stay positive despite his naysaying. "At least give adjuncting a whirl to see if you like it."

"That wouldn't solve the real problem, which is my day job," Don said. "But it does speak to a larger issue -- money. I can't afford to cut my income in half by taking a teaching job, or any other job that doesn't pay as well. That's what I mean by 'trapped.' Sure, I'd like to try something completely different, but I can't start over on the bottom or even middle rung of some other career ladder. I have a pretty big mortgage, car payments, and student loans. So I literally can't afford a change."

"What about consulting?" I suggested. "You can make even more money, and you don't actually have to do any fund raising. You just tell others how to do it."

"Too much travel," Don countered. "I have two young children and a wife who appreciates my being home. All that running around would kill me and maybe my marriage."

Another 32 ounces plunked down.

"How about a hobby?" I asked, which elicited nothing but a grimace.

"Move to Florida!" I said. "If you can't change your career, at least change your climate."

"I like snow."

"Look," I said, becoming somewhat exasperated, "you have transferable skills. You're a good manager, you understand organizational dynamics, you know about budgets and fiscal responsibility, you communicate well, and you're good at fostering and maintaining professional relationships. Lots of jobs require those abilities. Just be confident and sell yourself that way."

"Transferable skills," he snorted. "People in this field always talk about how we have transferable skills that make us marketable to other industries. Well, I haven't seen it. Everyone I know who's fallen into fund raising hasn't been able to get out. All I have to offer is a good personality."

"Even that's debatable at this point," I quipped.

"Seriously," I continued, "it sounds like you've lost your passion for academe. Maybe you should try raising money for another kind of organization. What moves you? How about a children's organization or a hospital? An art museum? An advocacy group? Any of those float your boat?"

"More of the same," he said. "Same processes, same interaction with difficult donors, same goals and objectives, same everything -- just a different nonprofit."

"You're giving up too quickly," I said. "Meet with a career counselor. Or flip through your alumni magazine and find people doing interesting things. Talk to them. Network. Explore options you haven't thought about. You never know what might turn up.

"But above all, stay positive. Don't convey this defeatist attitude to friends or potential employers. People don't want someone like that around. It'll kill morale. I know, because you're depressing the hell out of me."

"You're right," Don admitted. "Sometimes I can't help feeling sorry for myself. I have a stable job, make good money, work in a collegial environment, and live in a great town. Yet I have this nagging feeling that I'm stuck in a professional rut. Maybe it's just a midlife crisis."

"Get a convertible," I suggested.

"Good thinking," he said, smiling. "Want another?"

"Nah, I'd better be going. I also have a wife and kids who appreciate my being home."

Minutes later I drove away, hopeful that I'd helped a friend but bothered by a simple question: Was he right?