Fundraising: Truth or Technique?

Fundraising:  Truth or Technique?

Keywords:  fundraising, association management
About 900 Words

(first printed in Connections as "What about fundraising?"  2012)

            A couple of years ago, I wrote a column in which I made a bold statement and put out a challenge for anyone to fix it.  The statement was, “there are only four ways in this world to make a living:  1) grow/hunt your own food, 2) sell something, 3) beg, or 4) steal.” That was it, and I challenged anyone to come up with another method of making a living. 

            Someone must have been cleaning out old magazines or finally purging their electronic archive, for as a follow up to that challenge it has now been brought to my attention that there may be a fifth way of making a living:  fundraising.  Well, kinda sorta, is my well-thought-out response. 

            Fundraising is not a new category so much as it is a hybrid of selling and begging.  Sometimes it’s more selling than begging (e.g., strategic partnerships) and sometimes it’s more begging than selling (e.g., anonymous scholarships), but it’s definitely a hybrid of the two.

            No matter which side it swings toward, selling or begging, fundraising should consist of two major elements:  a truth, and “techniques” which surround that truth.   Recently, I learned of a major association which suddenly--after the IRS started poking around-- decided it needed to embark on fundraising.  Apparently it earned so much of its revenue (and we’re talking tens of millions) in selling a simple product that it needed to diversify its revenue stream, and hence a sudden interest in fundraising (once the funds are raised, then they’ll find a cause toward which to apply the funds).  This doesn’t smack of a great truth to me. 

             Most not-for-profit organizations, however, do have a truth they can tell about for fundraising purposes.  Once there’s a truth to be had, it’s a matter of technique from then on.  This “technique” is where the art and science of communication and association management come in.  

            First, there is the technique of how to tell the organization’s “truth.”  This includes how to articulate the message, the branding of the organization, the position in the competitive landscape, and all those things from Marketing 101, 204, and 402 (nah skip 402, they threw lots of unnecessary calculus in that one just to make it seem like a science).  The take-away is that the technique of telling the truth is important.

            Secondly, there is great technique in targeting the audience.  You have to have the right people to hear your truth (no matter how well you tell it).  Here is where lists, contacts, networking, and old-fashioned research come in (better bring back a few things from Marketing 402 after all).

            Thirdly, there’s the technique of tracking the responses.  This is pure experimental science.  I’ve seen groups track whether the response is higher from mailings with the window on the right side of the envelope vs. the left side (hint, one looks more like an invoice, and the other like a friendly letter).  We all get solicitations with free customized labels in them, with handwritten notes, with attention-grabbing stickies, etc.  You can bet the response is tracked on every variation of these add-ons.  Even these techniques have techniques.   

             Fourthly, the triumphs must be told.  What’s the old joke, “are there sports cars in the Bible?---Sure, when David slew Goliath his triumph was heard throughout the land.”  There’s a lot of technique in how to tell about triumphs.  Just ask the lottery commission; they hoist up the lottery’s triumphant winner as something attainable for all of us to see—despite the 600 gillion-to-one odds (they have to be big on telling triumph, for if they told the real truth the lottery would be renamed an idiot tax).  

            Lastly, there’s technique in thanking the fundraising participant, the donor.  Usually, simple and timely messages are best here.  Notes from the benefactor and others involved and in some cases public acknowledgement are all part of the thanking technique.  Opinions differ, but I don’t like it when they ask for another donation while they’re still thanking me for the previous time.  Bad technique.   Or maybe not, depending on what the tracking indicates.     

      

To summarize, it’s easy to describe fundraising.  There are a Truth and the ensuing Techniques of:

-         telling the truth

-         targeting the telling of the truth to the right audience

-         tracking the targets’ responses to that telling

-         telling the triumph, and

-         thanking those who took part. 

           

The more the sponsor/donor gets in a tangible return for the fundraising exchange, the more it is like sales.  The less the sponsor/donor gets in the form of a measurable return, the less it is like sales and the more it is like begging.

There you have it. It may seem more a matter of using proper technique than it is a matter of enacting a truth.  Both are interesting, and knowing all about those techniques is what keeps the non-profit executive necessary.  Or is it?   I’m not too sure about the triumph verse with David and Goliath, but I’m certain that in the long run the old adage is correct:  “it’s the truth that will set us free,”  Or is it the technique?   

Go Take a Hike

Go Take a Hike
(Keywords:  human interest, family hiking)
Length:  <1000 words

Go Take a Hike

(first printed in GSAE magazine 2011)

One crisp, sunny weekend day, I decided to tackle Nature Deficit Disorder head on by piling the family into the mini-van and heading up to the north Georgia mountains to the Appalachian Trail.  I grew up hiking on the Trail with my dad, so there’s no reason my kids shouldn’t enjoy the same adventure. 

“You’re not wearing those socks, are you, Dad?” came the critique from the almost teenage daughter, “I’m not going if you’re wearing those socks.”

“What?”  I said, “these are my best hiking socks.  I paid good money for these socks.”

“Don’t debate it, just make her get in the car,” came her mother’s coaching as we finally got in the car. 

“My hiking shoes are way too tight.  Maybe they shrunk when they got wet,” I heard a complaint coming from the normally agreeable, outdoor-loving son. 

“What?” I said, “they fit a few weeks ago when you camping with the Scouts.”

“They do outgrow their stuff, you know.  They can’t just wear it until it disintegrates like you do,” came more coaching.  We sent him back in for shoes of some type that might fit.

“Seems like we just went to REI,” I had just said the wrong thing.

“Yes, you bought you stuff,” said the daughter, and instead of coaching from the shotgun seat, I just heard a quiet um-hmmm.

“We’ve got water, a day pack with snacks—which I’m happy to carry—and a camera.  I think we’ve got everything we need for an easy day hike,” I said with confidence, and we were finally underway.

There soon followed dissention in the back seat:   “Noooo, we watched that last time.  It’s my turn to pick,” said one sibling to the next.  Apparently, the movie selection for the car ride was not going smoothly.

“When I was a kid, we had to cooperate in the car and count cows or play the license plate alphabet game or even 20 questions,” I said, playing to an audience of sighs and rolling eyes. 

“Fine.  I’ll just listen to something much better, if you want to watch that,” said sister to brother as she exchanged her in-car audio headsets for her personal ear buds hooked up to a different device.   There was then peace.  At least until he unplugged her ear buds for reasons known only to the species of annoying little brother.  My wife soon sorted it all out with great alacrity as I drove blissfully along.  It was quiet; all in the backseat ended up watching something on the official in-car screen.

I didn’t leave well enough alone and said, “hey, why don’t you all skip the movie and look at this beautiful scenery?”  Not even an acknowledgement from the crew in TV land.   Maybe kids spend so much time in the car these days shuttling back and forth that this is the sedative we’ve created for them to deal with it.  Or maybe we parents sedate them to sedate ourselves.  Who knows? 

“OK, we’re here,” I announced, after we’d traveled the time it takes for one movie and the two arguments which go with it.

“We can get on the Trail not too far from here,” I said, and we got the gear together and headed over to the Trail.  My wife took the daypack, fearing I would smash the snacks, and I took the water.

“Which way?” asked my daughter when we reached the Trail.

“Well, it starts in Georgia and goes all the way to Maine.  We’re in Georgia—which way do you think we go?” I replied.  Why couldn’t I just have pointed.

“How should I know what state we’re in?  I’ve been watching movies,” my daughter said.  And then a shock came over her face,  “We’re going all the way to Maine?  Today?”

“No.  That’s two thousand miles and takes several months,”  I said.

“Oooh, we’ll miss school,” said the son.  “Wait.  That means baseball and swim practice too.  Nope, won’t work.”

“I guess we should go north,” said my daughter, “which way is that?”  Her brother, the Scout, then pointed to the handy compass atop his aluminum telescoping hiking stick.  And off they went.  We parents trailed behind.  It soon turned steep, and my wife said the burn sort of felt like aerobics class.  The daypack was passed to me.

We caught up to the kids who were playing in a creek.  Their shoes and socks were stacked neatly on a rock.  There was great glee; they had cornered a crayfish.  We let them play.  I revised my secret plan of reaching Plumorchard Gap shelter.  I had only wanted to make it to there just to see again the special camping place my late father and I had shared.

“They’re sweet.  Why don’t you take a picture of that?” my wife asked as my son held a crayfish for his sister to name and pet.  I would have, but the camera was apparently still in the car instead of the daypack.  I then tried the camera on the cell phone, and it passed for a photo.  We kept going on the Trail and took a break for lunch at a scenic overlook.

“Is this what America looked like in 1491?” my daughter asked.  There was nothing but rolling forests, slightly speckled with the beginnings of fall foliage as far as the eye could see; there was no sign at all of human activity. 

“Yes, I suppose this was exactly what it looked like,” I said.  About that time another hiker passed by.  She volunteered to take a picture of the four of us with my cell phone.  We continued hiking, but not much farther realizing it was time to start heading back. 

When we reached the car and started the trip home, the kids were quiet.  I tilted the rearview mirror a little to see them:  one asleep and the other with heavy eyelids.  My daughter caught me looking at her, and said, “don’t worry, we’ll make it to Plumorchard Gap next time.”  I didn’t know she even knew about that place. 

As we headed back down the road, I glanced back and saw my daughter watching the wilderness out the window.  Her grandfather and I had camped along that Trail as had generations and generations before us.  As a species and as a family, we suffer when we leave it too far behind.

(c)Copyright 2011 JP Harrison.  All rights reserved.

Key Policies Are Easy to Remember

Key Policies Are Easy to Remember
(Keywords:  human interest, travel, France)
Length <1000 words

Key Policies Are Easy to Remember

(first printed in GSAE Magazine. ©Copyright  John P. Harrison)

          

            On behalf of my employer, I used to travel a lot to the corners of the globe.  Nowadays, it’s usually just as advantageous to conduct business from Atlanta, but I ventured back to Europe to be our French-speaking representative at an exhibition recently in France.  Having lived four years in Europe and two years in the Middle East, I’m pretty jaded about travel; still, remembering to take in a new sight is a key to keeping it fresh.  Here’s what happened.

First,  I came to speak French by a fortunate exchange my mother made when I was about five years old.  We lived in an apartment in Atlanta, and a French teacher lived next door.  My mom taught the French teacher tennis, and the French teacher taught me rudimentary French.  It sparked a liking for language, and I followed up with more study later on.

So, 40-some odd years later, I’m doing my thing in the south of France, conducting business and fitting in successfully.  I’ve come to realize that you know you’re speaking a language well when the locals quit telling you how well you’re speaking their language.  They just accept you and get on with business.  After all, isn’t the object to blend right in and get things done?

I thought as much.  I even stayed at an out-of-the-way old hotel that the savvy French visitor might choose.  It was an old mansion, converted into an inexpensive and very quaint hotel of about 40 rooms.  It’s a good walk of almost a mile to the convention center, but it beat staying in a generic business hotel, both in cost and atmosphere.

I headed out of the hotel for the convention center.  I had on my dark European-made suit, I knew my route, I spoke the language, I was not standing out.  I walked past a beautiful Gothic church and noticed a poor woman with babe in arms begging on the church steps.  My step was brisk, and by the time I remembered my personal policy on street giving, I was well past her. 

Every one from the richer countries develops a personal policy or philosophy on how to treat the person begging on the street. Even not developing a philosophy is still a philosophy.  In my earlier phase of life as a frequent traveler, I came up with something that worked for me.  My policy was something like this:  I don’t give to people begging on the street, but instead make a trip to a local Cathedral and put an amount in the little box that’s labeled “for the poor” and then get on with my travels.  The risk of giving to the poor this way—in terms of time, fraud, or misuse—seems much less than giving directly to a street person.  In short, I’m depending on the non-profit intermediary and don’t really have to get involved or risk being overcome by a crowd of beggars.

Soon I arrived at the convention center, went straight to our stand to prepare for the day, and sacré bleu, I had left the key to our stand’s cabinet that contained all the samples at the hotel.  So an even brisker walk back to the hotel to retrieve the forgotten key.  The poor beggar woman and baby on the church steps were but a blur this time; I was trying to minimize lost time. 

I got to the hotel and went up to the front desk to ask the clerk for my key (they still used the clunky skeleton keys – no keycards to swipe here).  But in front of me at the counter was a doddering little old lady.  Grandma was asking the receptionist in English about the breakfast possibilities.  Now this lady was 80 plus if she was a day, and from her manner of speech, she was from the South (of the US).  It wasn’t going well, for the old guy at the desk spoke no English.   Let’s hurry this along, I thought; so I stepped in to assist.

“Ma’am,” I said, remembering the part of the world I really came from, “I know a little restaurant right down the street that has a good breakfast deal for five and a half Euros – about the best you can find around here.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” she smiled, “now tell me how to get there, if you don’t mind, young man.”

I gave her the directions quickly, got my key from the desk, hiked up to the room, and, alas, the clerk had given me the wrong key.  Down the stairs again, return the wrong key, double check for the right key, back up four flights of stairs—and, by the way, these stairs were large enough and grand enough that they could have been used in the filming of Gone With the Wind.  I recover the key to the exhibit stand, go back down the stairs and out the door.   By the time I headed out of the hotel, the little old Southern lady was no where in sight.  Apparently she had already shuffled to her destination. 

I headed back toward the convention center, past the church—the beggar woman and child were no longer there—and past the little restaurant with the breakfast special.  My walk was quick, and I only shot a brief glance toward the restaurant.  It wouldn’t hurt to see if grandma had indeed gotten there for breakfast, I thought. 

I stopped in my tracks.  She was there alright.  She was sitting at a table, eating with the beggar woman and the baby.  Grandma’s personal street giving policy looked a lot more efficient than mine.   The three of them sharing a meal in that corner café is the sight I remember from that trip to France.

©Copyright 2007 John P. Harrison.  All rights reserved.