Good-Neighbor Policy

By Mark J. Drozdowski

The micropolis of Fitchburg, Mass., where I work and sometimes play, isn't exactly festooned with Fortune 500 companies. Over the past couple of decades, a number of major businesses have moved their regional operations out of the city, leaving it to cope with fewer jobs and a depleted tax base. What we do have is nonprofit organizations, and plenty of them.

Beyond my college, we have hospitals, nursing homes, museums, private schools, libraries, art galleries, social-service agencies -- the same array as other burgs, but roughly triple the number usually found in a city our size. I know because my foundation -- the college's bank -- continually receives pleas for support. Golf tournaments. Raffles. Dinners. Man of the Year banquets. Silent auctions. Noisy auctions. Many of those nonprofit groups forget that we're nonprofit, too.

Yet we do our part. As a college and foundation representative, I play in several golf tournaments each summer and fall (occupational hazard) and attend enough food functions to threaten my waistline. Call it a community service, a good-neighbor policy, or at least a way to get our own mugs in front of the local philanthropists who happen to populate those same events.

Ah, those philanthropists. This region of Massachusetts has its share, and everyone knows them. Luckily for us, they're generous, and they support many causes. Unfortunately, they seem to have a finite amount of money.

So when a social-service agency down the street called to ask for fund-raising advice, I had to think twice. Where does good neighbor end and conflict of interest begin? By givinig out information on how we do business, will I compromise my own campaign and undermine our efforts to woo the same donors?

Let me elaborate. This particular social-service agency has been in the city for more than 50 years and has a fairly high profile. A couple of years ago it launched what has become a successful capital campaign. In recent months, the campaign has stalled a bit, and agency folks are seeking ways to breathe new life into it. One of my colleagues sits on the group's board and offered my services, which I agreed to provide as something of a pro bono consultant.

On the drive over, I wondered just how uncomfortable I would be discussing potential donors we no doubt have in common. I also wondered if I was breaching some unwritten (or written) code of ethics, or being just plain stupid. Nonetheless, I figured I would talk about fund raising in broad strokes and not get into the gory details of our donors' philanthropic motives and activities.

Upon my arrival, I was greeted by the agency's "development officer" (one of her dozen or so duties), who took me on a tour of the facility. All the money being raised was earmarked for capital improvements, she told me as I made my way through the dust and debris and cursed my decision to wear a dark suit. The din of builders nailing, carpenters sawing, and foremen barking drowned out our conversation, which consisted of her pointing and shouting and my lip reading and nodding. I wanted a shower, or at least a face mask, goggles, and a jumpsuit with my name embroidered on the breast pocket.

We met up with the executive director, a pleasant and assiduous chap who proceeded to warn me about contracting black lung disease from the floating soot. Following his brief dissertation on the history of his organization, we dove into the business of raising money. He acknowledged he and his staff were relatively new to the development game and that they were essentially running the campaign absent any notion of sophisticated fund-raising tactics. That, I suppose, is where I could add value.

Truth is, they were doing just fine, having raised more than half of their goal in a short time. They had managed to corral most of the region's major donors -- the same handful of names on our wish list -- and land some hefty gifts. I was relieved to learn I wouldn't need to help them strategize about cultivating those philanthropists. No, instead I got an earful about how they had maneuvered those folks into supporting the agency's campaign, and was provided precise details about how much each gave.

That's right: I went in nervous about divulging our trade secrets and came away having learned theirs. And they didn't mind sharing, probably because they had already received their commitments.

Armed with some juicy tidbits about our prospective donors, I gladly provided a brain dump on how that agency might proceed with its campaign. I educated its people on data mining and prospect research, intending to help them vet their database more carefully and probe their top prospects. We talked about foundation support and how to get it. We tossed around ideas for engaging local companies more effectively. And we discussed the pros and cons of using campaign consultants (the ones who actually charge fees).

None of that seemed to violate any ethical concerns, at least in my mind. Primarily, I focused on the agency's unique prospect pool, its natural constituency, the people who had benefited from its services. I assumed that pool didn't overlap much with our natural constituency, our alumni.

Yes, I may have helped the agency gain support from the same local companies we solicit regularly, but we're talking about small donations, and I trust we'll continue to receive our fair share. What's more, the foundations that the agency will pursue in many cases don't support higher education.

But had they not yet received contributions from the biggest fish in their pool -- our biggest local fish -- I wouldn't have revealed our strategies, or perhaps even discussed the best ways to cultivate major donors. That would cross the line between good neighboring and conflict of interest. Or at least it escapes common sense.

I expect I will continue to help the agency with its campaign, but I won't make a habit of lending my "expertise" to other area nonprofit groups. There may not be anything wrong with such activity, technically speaking, but the concept doesn't pass my smell test. It feels funny, makes me bilious.

And, of course, I would never consult with another college, for obvious reasons. Then again, maybe they're not so obvious. In fact, many university-development professionals work part-time for consulting firms that serve higher-education clients. I'm curious about their thoughts on conflicts of interest. How can they serve multiple masters and juggle shifting priorities? Why would the home institution condone such extramural dealings?

Tell you what: Let's save that one for a future column.