The Right Words

In five years, where does your organization want to be? That’s a question every nonprofit should be able to answer, but I suspect that for most, if they’ve considered the question at all, the answers they’ve come up with are sketchy at best.

It’s not that these organizations don’t have the ability to envision, or the desire to plan. They do but so many of us are completely focused on keeping our heads above water and getting to land that we don’t bother to think about which part of the beach we’d like to land on.

Fundraising ends up being a lot like that, too. We may consider how much we need to get through the year, but we don’t consider what it will take to allow us to do what we want to do next year.

This focus on survival rather than vision and growth may be why so many volunteers have a problem fundraising. No matter how you couch it, asking someone to help you keep the doors open feels a lot like begging.

”Give me a script,” Board members say, but it’s not about the right words. It is about clarity on what the call is supposed to accomplish.

For years, I sold insurance—life, health, disability. In order to sell insurance, of course, I had to get in front of people and talk with them about my product line. I had no natural constituency, so I spent a lot of time cold calling. I knew the odds were dismal—I could count on one in every hundred becoming a client. And it wasn’t one for each 100 calls I made, but one, over time, for every hundred. So sometimes I would make literally a thousand calls before I hit pay dirt.

As any sane person would, I hated it. But my kid really did need new shoes, so I persevered. And I discovered a few interesting things. The main one was the odds were about the same whether I used the professionally prepared scripts my agency offered, talking about building wealth and security and such, or whether I simply cut the chase and said, “Hi, I sell insurance.”

Along with that, I discovered that the appointments I did get were much smoother when we—the people with whom I was meeting and me—were on the same page. When they knew I sold insurance, it was easy: that’s what they were interested in and why they had agreed to the meeting. There were no misunderstandings or crossed wires.

Fundraising is not insurance. And you may not be calling to get an appointment. You might not even be cold calling. So, who am I calling? And why?

Is this a friend—to me, to someone on the Board, to the organization? Am I calling to thank them for past support, invite them to something, or yes, ask for an appointment? What outcomes I am hoping for? Do I simply want to make them feel good, introduce myself, begin cultivation, connect them a little more closely to us?

The who, why and what will tell me how I will approach this person.

Remember, when you call, you have literally seconds to get someone’s attention. That’s why when I trained students to call alumni I would recommend that their first sentence be “Hi, I am a student at (Your Alma Mater)” and then say “my name is….” Their name would not mean anything to the alumni, but the fact that they are a student and the name of the Alma Mater would grab attention.

So, “Hi, it’s Janet,” to my friend assures that I will get my say; “John Jones suggested I call you,” will reach John Jones’ contacts, and “I’m calling from (the organization you care about)” will push the person you are calling to listen.

But if this call is to a person who I know about but they don’t know me, my organization, or anyone else involved with the organization, this may be a very cold and difficult call indeed.

In these cases, I try to use what information I may have about the person to get the person’s attention. Generally, I make the first contact via letter or—increasingly—email. In the letter, I explain who I am and why I am contacting them. And then I tell them what I want and close with the comment that I will be calling in the next few to days to arrange for a meeting.

Here, especially, keeping the doors open to an organization they are not tied to is not terribly compelling. Nor, frankly is letting us continue to do what we are doing at the same level we have been doing it. If that’s all you want, you don’t need new supporters.

Rather than offering your Board members scripts for phone calls or face to face meetings, engage with them in a conversation about where you want the organization to be next year, the year after that and the year after that. If you did get there, what would that mean? How would the world—the world that your organization impacts—be changed? How many more people would benefit from the good you do?

If you dream enough—and then make concrete plans to make those dreams come true—believe me, you won’t need scripts to get your passion across. And since you won’t be asking people to dig deep to help maintain the status quo, you may very well find that whatever words you use, as long as you convey the mission and the goals, you will be as articulate as necessary.

Janet Levine is a consultant who focuses on increasing productivity for nonprofit organizations, their staff and volunteers. She can be reached at janet@janetlevineconsulting.com. Gets Grants!, an online grantwriting class is is available at www.janetlevineconsulting.com/classes.html.

Busy, Busy

by Janet Levine

Clichés, I have found, generally turn out to be true. Like the one about the asking the busiest person you know to do the thing you really need to get done. But make sure it is truly a busy person and not just someone who says he or she is busy all the time.

Those people are all too busy telling you how busy they are to get even their things done, let alone yours. They are the same people, I’ve noticed, whose problems are bigger than yours, and whose successes overshadow yours by a mile. Everything about them tends to be bigger, better, more important.

That’s irritating enough when it is true. But in my experience, their hangnail is far more grievous than your amputation and the fact that they have to meet someone for dinner trumps your needing to feed 15 people.

It’s their self-importance—and by definition your unimportance that really grates. Recently, I asked a client to approve a blurb. A 238-word blurb. He informed three days later via email that he was too busy to read the blurb. It took him 2,779 words to tell me how busy he was and why his busy-ness made it impossible for him to read my blurb and approve it (or not).

Is it just me or can you see how reading the blurb would have HAD to taken less time than writing his busy missive? And why did he think that I would have the time to read all of his 2,779 words? But then, to those people, the rest of us are always chopped liver.

Why I’m Voting NO on Proposition 8

The message below about Proposition 8 (on the November '08 ballot in California), has been sent out widely by Brenda Star Adams, who lives in San Francisco. Brenda is my goddaughter and namesake, and the daughter of Chris and Fran. I'm very proud of this young woman and I hope that her story touches you as it did me.

-- Brenda Knepper

------------------------------------------------

Important Message from Brenda Star Adams

My name is Brenda and I am the daughter of lesbian parents. I am writing this message in hopes that if there are those of you out there questioning whether or not to vote against Proposition 8, that you listen to my story and understand exactly who proposition 8 would effect.

I am 28 years old. I am an attorney working for a nonprofit organization in the bay area, helping low income tenants avoid homelessness. My husband, Matt, is also an attorney working on mostly civil rights cases. We have been married almost two years and have an adorable but emotionally challenged dog named Abe.

My parents are Fran and Chris. My biological mom is Chris, and Fran is my "second" mom. They met when I was two years old. When I was around 11 years old my parents announced they had to talk to me about something very important. They looked incredibly somber. I got very upset and yelled "Are you getting a divorce??" Which they thought was hilarious because the real news was that they decided to make their commitment official after 10 years of being together with a small ceremony. As a child, it felt like they had been married all along so it made no difference to me. I was just happy they weren't separating! But of course their ceremony was not official, because in 1992 lesbian couples could not be married in the eyes of the law.

On July 30, 2008, however, after the California Supreme Court decided that prohibiting CIVIL marriage between a same-sex couple violates the Equal Protection Clause of our Constitution, my parents WERE officially married at City Hall. The best part about their wedding was not the service, not the flowers, not the limo. The best part was that when I got to their house to accompany them to the ceremony, they were both a nervous wreck! They had not expected to be so nervous and to feel so excited after 26 years. It was as if they had convinced themselves their entire relationship that they didn't really need the state to recognize them as a couple, because they HAD to believe that, and as soon as it was available to them and truly happening, they realized how much it really did mean to them. They realized how long they had been waiting for the moment to commit themselves in law to each other for the rest of their lives.

The ceremony was beautiful. Simple, and beautiful, just like my parents. You may be wondering, What is it like to grow up with lesbian parents? I cannot tell you how many times I have been asked that question. My answer is always the same - totally normal, and probably much like a typical heterosexual household. Fran is the disciplinarian - without her I would be a completely spoiled brat. Chris is the pushover. I can pretty much get her to agree to anything (although I try to use restraint!) Like many mothers, Chris taught me the meaning of kindness. To not sweat the small stuff. The immense power of love over hate. Above all else, she taught me to always listen to my intuition and to follow my heart. Fran taught me the meaning of responsibility. The value of my word – that if I promise to do something, I must unquestionably do it. And of course the importance of honesty and integrity. Chris taught me through her wise words and never-ending love – she is one of those mothers like a sage on top of a hill – she always knows exactly the right thing to say just when you need to hear it the most. Fran, on the other hand, taught by example. She is beyond a doubt the most honest person I have ever known, and merely expects out of others what she expects of herself. I have spent my life with her voice in my head, and it has pushed me to constantly try to be the best person I can be. Both of my parents love me completely, and unconditionally, like most parents do. In this respect they are completely normal. But in reality they are not normal – they are exceptional. And I often wonder what I have done to deserve such amazing parents.

I know that it is hard to discern the truth amongst all the propaganda, TV ads, and emails about Proposition 8. But the truth is that the Supreme Court decision does not mean that gay marriage must be taught in schools. It does not mean that churches and synagogues and mosques must conduct gay marriages or else lose their tax exemptions. It doesn't mean any of that – those are just tactics used to scare those of you who are unsure into believing the worst. The truth is, all the court said is that the state cannot discriminate against people like my parents who have chosen each other as life partners. I think we have all at one time or another hoped that one day we might be blessed enough to find someone to share our lives with, raise our children with, grow old together with. Some of us have dreamed since little girls of our wedding day, what dress we would wear, what our vows would say. And some of us have never wanted to get married – and that is the choice that each of us has the privilege to make. But my husband and I are no more deserving of the right to make that choice than my parents. None of us are.

All I ask is that, as you sit down and try to determine how you will vote on November 4th, you consider my family and vote NO on proposition 8. I do not know if I can bear to watch us take a step back when we have come so far forward. And I really don't think I can bear to see my parents robbed of the happiest day of their life together.

Regardless of how you vote, thank you for taking the time to read my message. I truly appreciate it.

Defining Moments

by Janet Levine

I’m sitting in the Family and Friends Support Group. I should be empathizing, sympathizing, supporting the addicts in the room and, especially, the addict in my life. Instead, I simply want to whack them.

”Get on with your lives,” I want to scream. Stop loving your addiction. But that, I have come to realize, is my fantasy. Theirs is a very different dream.

My sister tells me how she knows few, well two—her husband, me—people who can break their addictions alone. She wonders why, and I think back to the Family and Friends group. They not only love their addictions, they define themselves by them.

When I was first trying to stop drinking, I went to several AA meetings. I hated them. I did not want to stand up and introduce myself as an alcoholic. I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life “recovering.” I wasn’t in denial. I was well aware of the fact that I had a drinking problem. But being an alcoholic seemed to me akin to being a teacher, a doctor, a salesperson. It was a definition. It told people who you were, what you did, how your saw yourself. And I did not see myself in that way.

So I stopped drinking—and no, it wasn’t all that easy. I pushed alcohol off the stage of my life, and decided that I would never, ever, ever let it back on. And when I wanted a drink, when I craved the feelings that alcohol brought me, oh well. I just could not, would not take that drink.

It wasn’t the only way to do it. It may not even be the best way to do it. Getting help from professionals is surely a smarter way than my insistence on going it alone. But the professional can only help the addict get where he or she really, truly, honestly wants to go. The addict in my life says all the right things, but doesn’t match his actions to his words. I don’t believe that he wants to go to sobriety yet.

It’s scary looking at the world through clear lenses. There is pain and fear and rejection and unhappiness. There is also warmth and security and acceptance and joy.

A friend who had far more reason than most to blunt her pain with drugs or booze says she got through by simply putting one foot in front of the other. Nothing heroic, just doing it, every day. While she wouldn’t, I define her as a hero.

I’m back in the group, looking and listening to too many people who don’t want to give up their addictions. They may stop drinking or taking drugs eventually, but most will cling to the persona of the alcoholic or addict. I am annoyed and disappointed with myself that I am so judgmental and yet, as I sit here, listening to their stories, I realize that this, too, is a defining moment.

I cannot chose their side; I’ve been there and it is not a place to which I will ever return. I also know that I can’t say anything. My very words would be suspect. Only they can chose how they want to be defined. Perhaps above all, that is the choice that shapes a person’s life.

Off With Their Heads

by Janet Levine

I’ve long been a fierce opponent of the death penalty. No matter how horrific the crime, I’ve always been a believer that if you lay down with dogs you get up with flies. In other words, killing someone for his or her crime makes you no better than the criminal. But lately, I’ve been having some second thoughts.

Yesterday, while walking through the Parco Monte Mario in Rome where I am traveling—already on edge from the visual assault of all the graffiti, everywhere in this Eternal City—I found myself both elated by the beauty and distraught over the vandalism, the litter and yes, that ever-present graffiti.

These people should be shot, I thought. Alas, it wasn’t the first time such a thought has occurred to me. In LA where I live, I frequently find myself appalled and worse at the blatant disregard for our city. I live around a park, and despite the presence of trash pails every few feet, in the mornings when I take my dogs for a walk, I am constantly confronted and affronted by the debris: fast food wrappers, bottles, cigarette butts, and assorted other trash.

At least at home there is an effort to clean things up. And over the past dozen years, the graffiti issue has lessened. Still, it wears on me.

Perhaps if the graffiti were pretty. Or interesting. At the very least, if it didn’t obscure interesting architectural lines or information it would be helpful to have. But none of the above is true, and so I find my thoughts turning as ugly as what I am finding so abhorrent. And what can you say about the wanton destruction of lampposts, park benches, windows, and more?

In Rome, the problem seems to be worse. My husband calls this the “land of the broken escalator.” It is also the land of parks overgrown with weeds (or when some particular point has been reached, weed-whacked into a barren desert), beautiful buildings gone to ruin, abandoned appliances and defaced walls.

I feel something shrivel inside of me. Worse, I am angry. I want to punish them. I think it is the selfishness, the arrogance, perhaps the pure spitefulness that makes my blood boil. And again I think about how appropriate it would be to deface them, these perpetrators of such heinous visual aggression. Death, I think, may be justified.

Ah, I know I am overreacting. Execution does seem a bit excessive. And what, really, would it solve? Maybe, I think, whack off their hands so they can no longer destroy. Or take out their eyes, so they can see no beauty. But they don’t see it now, so that would not stop the destruction.

What would be onerous enough to give these destroyers pause? I run through the usual punishments, rejecting all. And then, and then I know. It would be perfect. Make them clean up the mess they’ve made.

The Naming

by Janet Levine

The minutes of the committee meeting came via email at 10 am that Monday morning. We hadn’t gotten together for quite a while, so I was surprised by their appearance, but when I read the list of attendees, I realized I must have missed a meeting. Paul, the chair, attended, of course. As did Sally, Deb, John and Graham. And someone named Martha Lewis. I didn’t know a Martha Lewis, but the campus was large and I didn’t know everyone. I wondered what she did.
A woman named Martha Lewis would, I decided, do something substantial. Probably from the business office. Financial. I could picture here, this Martha Lewis. A large, solid-looking woman. Her no-nonsense clothes would be blocky and mostly brown. She’d have oxford-type shoes at the end of her stocky legs and her hair would tidy. Martha Lewis, I just knew, would be red faced and wear no makeup.

At first, I just skimmed the minutes. There really was no point in reading them carefully. Committee meetings were solame. Everyone talked around the issues, too afraid to take a concrete stand on anything. But then, suddenly, I found myself nodding and murmuring little sounds of assent. This Martha was taking a stand. She was saying meaningful things. Things I wish I had the gumption to say. I would, I realized, have to rethink this Martha Lewis. The woman, after all, made sense. She was reasonable but not priggish about it. There was a flair in her ideas and her sense of humor shone through.

All right. She was, yes, definitely tall, but not really large. Her clothes were comfortable, but not mannish or dull. Stylish, but not slavish. Her make-up—and I now saw that she must wear some—was tasteful, bringing out her best features. Her honey-colored hair would frame her strong face, lightly brush the high cheekbones and her un-furrowed forehead, bringing out the color of her clear, direct eyes. Martha Lewis, I was now convinced, was a woman to reckon with. A woman I wanted to know. A woman I wanted to be like. I would have to ask Paul to introduce us.

Paul, however, just laughed when I asked about Martha Lewis.
"I guess,” he said, “I can see how someone could mistype and get Lewis from Levine. But how in the hell do you get Martha out of Janet?

I almost choked on my coffee. I was Martha Lewis? I said sensible, substantive things? With a sense of humor, no less. Could I really be a woman to reckon with, just as Martha Lewis had been?

For a nanosecond I felt the power. I sat up straighter, my shoulders flung back. Then it passed and I slumped down in my chair. They were, then, my words. Words that would lack the heft and weight of what would have been spoken by a Martha Lewis.

Completely forgetting my first impression, I fixated on the final Martha Lewis of my imagination. “Martha,” I was sure, gave those words dignity. “Lewis” added an arrogance that was somehow compelling. If you googled Martha Lewis, you wouldn’t get 517,000 hits as you did with Janet Levine. People wouldn’t call you monthly to ask if you were the Martha Lewis who…like they called me.

If only my parents had given me a substantial, uncommon Martha-like name. If only my first husband hadn’t had such a common last name. If only I had had the right name then, like Stanley Kowalski, I coulda been a contender.

David's Gift

Brenda: My adopted brother, David, killed himself in February after struggling for many years with alcohol addiction. Unfortunately, the anguish and despair that drives someone to such an act is compounded by isolation that often prevents others from knowing how serious the situation has become until it is too late. His mother, Sally, died a couple years ago very unexpectedly and her death took a heavy toll on the family. I wrote this essay in an attempt to find some meaning in these terrible losses.

David’s Gift
by Brenda Knepper

My stepmother, Sally, once told me that she had a near-death experience during surgery when she was a young adult. During the experience, she said she hovered above her unconscious body observing what was happening below. Even though she seldom set foot in church, she believed that she had a soul and that there was something beyond this life; she believed in an afterlife. Who or what was the “her” that was doing the observing and was not located in her body?

I choose to believe that life goes on after this physical existence and that we are all moving towards reconciliation with a healing and loving God and a “peace that surpasses all understanding” – some of us slower than others, some by more direct paths, some by very wandering paths, and some by paths that may look like the wrong path.

I choose to believe that God was waiting for David with an open heart and outstretched arms, along with David’s mother, his aunt, grandparents and others who love him. I believe that there was healing waiting for David that was not possible on earth.

Megan Kanka and Polly Klass were children whose abduction and murder caused laws to be changed and organizations to come into being that have helped to prevent other children from suffering their same fate. They were seven and twelve when their lives ended and their true missions were revealed. I choose to believe that with David’s suicide, his mission in life was revealed – his life and death now dramatically serve as an example and catalyst for me and others to learn everything we can about how to stop cycles of abuse, provide support for loved ones and their families who suffer from substance addictions and depression, and prevent suicide from ever happening again in our families.

From the very night that I heard of David’s death, I have been taking a critical look at my relationship with my son. I ask myself what isn’t working, what works, where can I get additional support, and what should my role be in empowering him to lead a full and responsible and joyful life? One of David’s gifts to me is to understand more fully that how we love and support each other may be a matter of life and death.

While we are saddened that the light of David’s personality was dimmed by the battles that he and his family endured, we can hold on to the good times – when his true self came through – hopefully calling on those memories to help ease the shock, anger and sorrow of his death. David had many friends! He had the gift of an outgoing friendliness and charm that attracted lots of people to him over his lifetime. He was engaging, fun, and connected with others. He had also developed impeccable skills in the trades. I remember younger days – long days at the swimming pool in Georgia when we first met Sally and her boys. Both David and his brother, Don, were lively and bright-eyed guys; they are my adopted brothers even though we have been present in each other’s lives infrequently. I have always told people that I’m the eldest and only girl with six younger brothers.

The last time I saw David, I admired the beautiful flagstone patio that he had built at the back of the house in South Carolina and was surprised at how he instantly connected with my eight-year-old son, taking him on a long hike in the woods with the dog. I could see in David a person who might have made a good father, if he had not had to struggle with, what we can only see in hindsight, a terminal illness.

When one door closes, others open. While honoring the terrible grief that my Dad and Don have experienced with the tremendous losses of those most close to them, I hope that there is some comfort in the deepening connections and renewed relationships with the rest of the family that have resulted from these life changes. I know my other brothers feel the same as I – we are very grateful to have our Dad and Don more closely in our lives.

David left behind a note asking that his ashes be spread off the Gulf Coast of Florida where his Mom’s were spread. He signed his short note, “Love, David.” I choose to believe that David sincerely meant the very last two words that he chose to write – with everything his heart and soul had to give in those final moments. His life and love have been offered up, to learn from and to perhaps save the lives of others. Maybe David’s gift to you is different, but that is David’s gift to me.