The Office Fundraiser Quotes

It was December 15, 2012, the day after twenty-year-old Adam Lanza fatally shot twenty children between six and seven years old, as well as six adult staff members, at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut. I remember thinking, Maybe if all the mothers in the world crawled on their hands and knees toward those parents in Newtown, we could take some of the pain away. We could spread their pain across all of our hearts. I would do it. Can’t we find a way to hold some of it for them? I’ll take my share. Even if it adds sadness to all my days. My friends and I didn’t rush to start a fund that day. We didn’t storm the principal’s office at our kids’ school asking for increased security measures. We didn’t call politicians or post on Facebook. We would do all that in the days to come. But the day right after the shooting, we just sat together with nothing but the sound of occasional weeping cutting through the silence. Leaning in to our shared pain and fear comforted us. Being alone in the midst of a widely reported trauma, watching endless hours of twenty-four-hour news or reading countless articles on the Internet, is the quickest way for anxiety and fear to tiptoe into your heart and plant their roots of secondary trauma. That day after the mass killing, I chose to cry with my friends, then I headed to church to cry with strangers. I couldn’t have known then that in 2017 I would speak at a fund-raiser for the Resiliency Center of Newtown and spend time sitting with a group of parents whose children were killed at Sandy Hook. What I’ve learned through my work and what I heard that night in Newtown makes one thing clear: Not enough of us know how to sit in pain with others. Worse, our discomfort shows up in ways that can hurt people and reinforce their own isolation. I have started to believe that crying with strangers in person could save the world. Today there’s a sign that welcomes you to Newtown: WE ARE SANDY HOOK. WE CHOOSE LOVE. That day when I sat in a room with other mothers from my neighborhood and cried, I wasn’t sure what we were doing or why. Today I’m pretty sure we were choosing love in our own small way.

While amassing one of the most lucrative fortunes in the world, the Kochs had also created an ideological assembly line justifying it. Now they had added a powerful political machine to protect it. They had hired top-level operatives, financed their own voter data bank, commissioned state-of-the-art polling, and created a fund-raising operation that enlisted hundreds of other wealthy Americans to help pay for it. They had also forged a coalition of some seventeen allied conservative groups with niche constituencies who would mask their centralized source of funding and carry their message. To mobilize Latino voters, they formed a group called the Libre Initiative. To reach conservative women, they funded Concerned Women for America. For millennials, they formed Generation Opportunity. To cover up fingerprints on television attack ads, they hid behind the American Future Fund and other front groups. Their network’s money also flowed to gun groups, retirees, veterans, antilabor groups, antitax groups, evangelical Christian groups, and even $4.5 million for something called the Center for Shared Services, which coordinated administrative tasks such as office space rentals and paperwork for the others. Americans for Prosperity, meanwhile, organized chapters all across the country. The Kochs had established what was in effect their own private political party.

Professor Grant arranged for students who received the scholarships to come to the office and spend five minutes describing to fund-raisers how the scholarship they received changed their lives. The students told them how much they appreciated the hard work of the fund-raising department. Even though the people impacted by the work of the fund-raisers were only there for a short time, the results were astounding. In the following month, the fund-raisers increased their average weekly revenue by more than 400 percent.

In 1963, Clark Kerr, the president of the University of California system, called the resulting structure the “multiversity.” In a multiversity, different departments and power structures within a university pursue different goals in parallel—for example, research, education, fundraising, branding, and legal compliance.12 Kerr predicted that as faculty increasingly focused on their own departments, noninstructional employees would take over in leading the institution. As he anticipated, the number of administrators has climbed upward.13 At the same time, their responsibilities have crept outward.14 Some administrative growth is necessary and sensible, but when the rate of that expansion is several times higher than the rate of faculty hiring,15 there are significant downsides, most obviously the increase in the cost of a college degree.16 A less immediately obvious downside is that goals other than academic excellence begin to take priority as universities come to resemble large corporations—a trend often bemoaned as “corporatization.”17 Political scientist Benjamin Ginsberg, author of the 2011 book The Fall of the Faculty: The Rise of the All-Administrative University and Why It Matters, argues that over the decades, as the administration has grown, the faculty, who used to play a major role in university governance, have ceded much of that power to nonfaculty administrators.18 He notes that once the class of administrative specialists was established and became more distinct from the professor class, it was virtually certain to expand; administrators are more likely than professors to think that the way to solve a new campus problem is to create a new office to address the problem.19 (Meanwhile, professors have generally been happy to be released from administrative duties, even as they complain about corporatization

People who’ve adopted an individualist attitude aren’t necessarily sociopaths or assholes: they’ll still donate to a GoFundMe to help a local kid with cancer, or even stop to help someone on the side of the road if they look “safe.” They chip into the gift fund for a co-worker’s fiftieth birthday, tithe to their church, and fundraise for their children’s school. They do want to help others, but they want it to be on their own terms and arbitrate who’s worthy of receiving it. They are often obsessed with the idea of “fairness”: that one can benefit from something only insomuch as they’ve contributed to it themselves.

It’s not healthy. You need to get out of this apartment and do something—maybe help prep for the fundraiser at the Youth Hope Center. It’s happening next week. Or maybe you can just go to the office.

The $41 billion valuation for the ride-sharing service Uber may or may not be a bubblicious number, but it certainly shows that the venture capital industry is in a bad place. To understand, you need only peruse the startling valuations for other companies that have received venture capital funding in the last few weeks. Here are some of them: ■ Instacart, a same-day grocery delivery service based in San Francisco, began a $100 million fund-raising round valuing it at $2 billion. ■ WeWork Companies, a company that provides shared office space (think Uber for offices), closed a $355 million funding round valuing it at $5 billion. ■ Stripe, an online payment company, completed a $70 million investment round that valued it at $3.5 billion, double its $1.75 billion valuation earlier this year. ■ The mobile games maker Kabam announced that employees and investors were selling $40 million in shares to a group of investors. After an earlier round of investment last summer, the company was valued at more than $1 billion, up from $700 million last year. What do these four companies have in common, beyond the fact you probably haven’t heard of them?

The dying mall has attracted some odd tenants, such as a satellite branch of the public library and an office of the State Attorney General's Child Predator Unit. As malls die across the country, we'll see many kinds of creative repurposing. Already, there are churches and casinos inside half-dead malls, so why not massage parlors, detox centers, transient hotels, haunted houses, prisons, petting zoos or putt-putt golf courses (covering the entire mall)? Leaving Santee, Chuck and I wandered into the food court, where only three of twelve restaurant slots were still occupied. On the back wall of this forlorn and silent space was a mural put up by Boscov, the mall's main tenant. Titled "B part of your community", it reads: KINDNESS COUNTS / PLANT A TREE / MAKE A DONATION / HELP A NEIGHBOR / VISIT THE ELDERLY / HOPE / ADOPT A PET / DRIVE A HYBRID / PICK UP THE TRASH / VOLUNTEER / CONSERVE ENERGY / RECYCLE / JOIN SOMETHING / PAINT A MURAL / HUG SOMEONE / SMILE / DRINK FILTERED WATER / GIVE YOUR TIME / USE SOLAR ENERGY / FEED THE HUNGRY / ORGANIZE A FUNDRAISER / CREATE AWARENESS / FIX A PLAYGROUND/ START A CLUB / BABYSIT These empty recommendations are about as effective as "Just Say No", I'm afraid. As the CIA pushed drugs, the first lady chirped, "Just say no!". And since everything in the culture, car, iPad, iPhone, television, internet, Facebook, Twitter and shopping mall, etc., is designed to remove you from your immediate surroundings, it will take more than cutesy suggestions on walls to rebuild communities. Also, the worse the neighborhoods or contexts, the more hopeful and positive the slogans. Starved of solutions, we shall eat slogans.

Jimmy Carter and Ronald Reagan went to a fundraiser about once every twenty days during their first terms in office. Unlike Reagan, Barack Obama reportedly hated fundraisers. Even so, he remained captive to the exigencies of his political age—and organized a presidential fundraiser about once every five days.114

Adam viewed the costs of WeWork’s expansion as an obstacle with a simple solution. He told potential investors that WeWork could grow at whatever rate they wanted, so long as they were willing to fund it: demand for the company’s offices was so strong that the only restriction on its growth was how much money it could spend building new ones. “Adam’s attitude was, ‘Tell me how much revenue you want me to produce, and I’ll tell you how much capital I need,’” one member of WeWork’s fundraising team said

While the joke goes that every senator looks in the mirror each morning and sees a potential occupant of the Oval Office, senators do have automatic fund-raising bases and little difficulty attracting the spotlight. Still, since 1960, only two — John F. Kennedy of Massachusetts and Barack Obama of Illinois — have risen directly to the White House.

His body guy, Garrett Jackson, thought his boss could use a catnap—just fifteen minutes would help. With the guests still arriving, he found a quiet room, Leder’s home office, with a comfy chair and deposited Romney in it. “Rest,” Jackson said. Out in the dining area, Jackson and trip director Charlie Pearce swept the room for cameras. In April, there had been a kerfuffle when someone posted a video of Mitt speaking at a donor event in Kentucky, and another when he and his wife were overheard by the press at a Florida fund-raiser. (Ann was caught describing Hilary Rosen’s comments as an “early birthday present.”)

Once we got back to the office, our graphic artist made a poster of our core values. We believed we had the power to make one another’s professional dreams come true. We believed the work we did affected more than just our clients, but each other. We believed in grace over guilt and we believed anybody could become great if they were challenged within the context of a community. Suddenly we were more than a company, we were a new and better culture. Our business had become a fund-raising front for a makeshift family.

I love you. I didn’t mean to fall for you. It was supposed to be business, nothing more, but it could never be just business with you. You intrigued me that first day, you impressed me at the fundraiser, you amaze me with how your mind works at the office, and you challenge me to see every day, not as a competition for who has the most money and power, but as a gift. You have healed scars on my heart and in my soul that I thought I would carry until the day I died as a lonely, old, bitter bastard. And you ask for nothing in return. You want to make your own way, stand on your own merits, of which there are many, and be seen as the beautiful, strong woman you have always been and will always be. I don’t want to get in the way of that. I want to stand by your side and witness you conquer the world, loving you every step of the way. I want you beside me. I want the world to know you’re mine. Marriage makes sense. So, Raven Hill, will you marry me?

For any project you need two things: people and money. I had no qualms about people. All my experience suggested I was not going to be left as a lone lawyer working from an office in a basement. Money, though, was a problem, because you can't run an independent organization in an authoritarian state without a budget. In the past, politicians had asked rich people for money, oligarchs. By 2011, however, the oligarchs wouldn't come within cannonball range of me. And neither did I want to owe them any favors. So I put a post on my blog saying, "I know how to work, I know what to do, I will find and hire the necessary number of staff, but the financing has to come from you. Give me money. You need to donate a modest amount to a good, useful project, and that will save me from having to run around trying to cadge funds from oligarchs and businessmen." These micro-donations were the base that enabled me to become independent. And there was nothing the Kremlin could do about it. It was easy for them to arrest and intimidate one or two big donors, but what could they do against tens of thousands of people? Nowadays there seems nothing special about that approach; it is standard for a fundraising campaign. But in 2011, everyone thought I was out of my mind. What on earth was a micro-donation? How could you possibly raise money for investigations and legal work online, especially in Russia? In our country no one had ever done anything like it before. There were no models to follow, there was no habit of donating regularly, there was no financial infrastructure. And yet people began transferring money to me, ordinary readers of my LiveJournal blog. At first I collected the donations in my personal account and later published a bank statement and report on my blog. The average donation to RosPil was 400 rubles (at that time about $15), and in one month I collected almost 4 million rubles, more than the annual budget I had originally set.

Professor Grant arranged for students who received the scholarships to come to the office and spend five minutes describing to fund-raisers how the scholarship they received changed their lives. The students told them how much they appreciated the hard work of the fund-raising department. Even though the people impacted by the work of the fund-raisers were only there for a short time, the results were astounding. In the following month, the fund-raisers increased their average weekly revenue by more than 400 percent. In a separate similar study, callers showed an average increase of 142 percent in the amount of time they spent on the phone and a 171 percent increase in the amount of funds they raised.

The article was taken from the business page of a newspaper in Manhattan, and it said that Miss Faye Berns had been appointed fund-raising director of the New York office of the World Aid Committee, which would seek to assist Displaced Persons in returning to their homelands once the war ended. The article was brief, but it did give the address of the World Aid Committee, and he copied it out on a piece of paper. In the photograph, a three-quarter angle, he could see the changes. Her hair was shorter, there was a line to her jaw that hadn't been there before, and she had smiled for the photographer in a way that he didn't recognize. It was an artificial smile, posed and official. For a long time he stared at the photograph, shocked by the degree to which memory had betrayed him, deceived him. Because he had always remembered her as she was in Paris, on the afternoon they had met by accident in the bookstore. He had, unwittingly, frozen her in time, kept her as she had been on a June day in 1937. He remembered her as she cried for Andres, remembered her as someone who would dare to love a man like Andres, who did not desert him, who paid the price of that love, and then survived. He remembered her as a girl who had flung herself against the world without caution, without a care for her safety. Now she was a woman who had grown up to accept the artifice of a smile, poised and confident, for a newspaper. He remembered, particularly, both times they had touched: when she had slept on his shoulder in the car parked at the Bilbao docks, and when she had held his hands while they waited for the train to depart at the Gare du Nord. Did men and women ordinarily remember the times when they'd touched each other? He did not know. [...] He bore down on his work for the rest of the afternoon, then, since it was Thursday, went off to visit his woman friend. She was, as usual, responsive, falling in with his mood and treating him with a certain casual tenderness that he'd always found very comforting. Yet he was not his best self, distracted by the image of a woman with a professional smile in a grainy photograph. He imagined himself a great realist, and that passion without sentiment suited him perfectly. But at work on Friday morning he experienced a surge of emotion, more gratitude than love, and sent his friend a bouquet of flowers. For which she thanked him, with a certain casual tenderness, the following Thursday.