Phonathon

In the mid-nineties I had two kids in boarding school.  And like private schools everywhere, St. George’s relied heavily on its private endowment to grease the wheels.

There were, of course, no public funds to pay for new bricks and mortar, maintenance of the old buildings, teacher salaries, the athletic teams, or scholarships for the less-privileged students.  (And all good boarding schools have a serious mandate to underwrite gifted but financially-challenged kids.)

Thus the creation of that necessary evil- the Parent Agent.  Prep school speak for professional mendicant, Mother Teresa wannabe, arm-twister, thug.

Every year some poor sap was elected by an arcane method to put the bite on all the other parents in his or her son’s/daughter’s class.  (I don’t know how they chose- probably along the same lines as The Hunger Games.)

And one year I drew the short straw.

The school’s development officer gave me a big red binder and an imperative.  Leave none of the ninety families in my daughter’s form (prep speak for “grade”) unchurned and come back with a yacht-load of money.

The big red binder contained top secret classified information.  Besides the highly-unlisted addresses and telephone numbers of every Fortune 500 CEO, fat cat zillionaire, entrepreneur, Barron’s baron, and catsup heiress whose kid went to the school, it also listed in unflinching black and white that very touchy detail- their giving history.

Yep, I could look up scions, heirs, heiresses, and tycoons of every description and see just how much they thought their kids’ education was worth to them.

I could also see the donations made by the “scholarship” parents.

This confidential data was sometimes surprising, maddening, challenging, heartwarming and heartbreaking.  But the cause was just and I rose to the challenge and vowed to increase the school coffers come what may.

At first, I started my campaign after dinner Chicago-time.  But since the majority of my pigeons lived on the East Coast, I soon ran out of what I looked on as “golden time.”  The hour between eight p.m. and nine.

Before that was too early- the family might still be eating dinner- and after nine was just too late.  Tycoons tend to get cranky after a long, hard day golfing at Burning Tree or drinking at the Reading Room.

So I switched gears and started calling the fat cats at their offices.  (All names have been changed for obvious reasons.)  It went something like this:

Incredibly Posh English Receptionist:  Smithson, Bond, Hartley and Wells.  Good morning.  May I help you?

Me: Yes, this is Ellen Ross, Parent Agent for the class of ’96 .  May I speak to Mr. Smithson please?

Receptionist:  I am sorry, madam.  Mr. Smithson is in conference and gave strict instructions.  He can not be disturbed for any reason.

Me:  Just tell him St. George’s is calling.

It never failed.

Aforesaid hotshot would be on the phone faster than you could say “Expulsion? Accident? Probation? Drug bust? Pregnancy? Truancy? Felony?  Oh, dear Lord, why is the school calling me?”

I know it was mean but fundraising ain’t pretty.  And they would be so relieved that I wasn’t the bearer of true ill tidings, that with the adrenaline still racing through their blue-blooded veins, the marks would cave like a deck of baccarat and give me the increase I’d ask for.

Every once in a while, I would run into a snag endemic in old-line family firms.

Incredibly Posh English Receptionist: Bunker, Bunker, Bunker, and Bunker.  How may I direct your call?

Me:  This is Ellen Ross, Parent Agent for the class of ’96.  May I speak to Mr. William Bunker please?

Receptionist:  Do you mean Mr. Binky, Mr. Bunny, Mr Bimbo or Mr. Buck, madam?

Oh dear Lord.  There were four generations of William here.  Now I’d have to figure out my target’s old boarding school nickname STAT.

Still I had a good track record of hunting them down and getting them to cough up.   A few parents eluded me- for a time.  I remember making nine phone calls-  in two languages- from New York City to Palm Beach to Portugal in the pursuit of one kid’s peripatetic parents, only to be told, “Prescott has just been put on academic probation.  We have no idea how much we’ll contribute this year.”

Touché!

And then there was the other end of the giving spectrum.  Families whose kids were there at school on a “need” basis.  I’d look at their addresses in sketchy inner cities and on Native American reservations and didn’t want to ask for anything.

But I was always surprised by their generosity and heartfelt desire to contribute.  No arm-twisting was ever required with these parents.  And in proportion, the dollar amounts they unselfishly gave were always much bigger than any of the Wall Streeters (or me and my then husband, for that matter) came up with.

Midway through the names, I had found my rhythm and was cruising right along.  I had perfected my patter, knew where to look, and how to close.  And the money kept rolling in.

Until I hit the hidden UXB.

I called one woman at home and went into my usual spiel.  “This is Ellen Ross, Parent Agent for St. George’s.  How are you, Mrs. Jones?”

“Oh, dear.  Didn’t they tell you?”

Uh oh.  This couldn’t be good.  Tell me what?

“No,” I gulped.  “Is there something I should have been told?”

“Yes, why don’t you go ask his father, that no-good son of a bitch?!  We’re getting a divorce and I’m broke.  His dad’s the one with all the money and you can tell him for me that…”

I bid her a hasty adieu.

But then there was the great good surprise.  After another empassioned speech to an overseas parent, imagine my thrill when a whopper of a check came in.  The development office called to express their astonishment at such unpredicted largesse.

I wanted to express my thanks to this whale.   In person.  So we flew to Hong Kong to say thank you properly.  It was a blast.

The Bible says “To whomever much is given, of him will much be required.”

In this case much was given to Nick and Natasha and much was required- of me.

But that’s okay.

Ellen Ross, Parent Agent class of Forever

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6 Responses to Phonathon

  1. Lili Ann says:

    Whenever I needed help with fundraising I went to the BEST…that would be you.
    Your description of a very important yet difficult job is right on. Every time the checks follow the words and explanation of how important our cause is…it is as though I have won the lottery. Fundraising is not an easy task. However the rewards far out weigh the ask. Thanks for sharing and as always putting humor into the mix.

  2. Herbie Loeb says:

    Similar to getting ads for the Crystal Ball program book back in the days????

  3. Ellen Ross says:

    I want to thank Lili Ann and Herbie- two world class fundraisers themselves.

    At this holiday time I would also like to say “Blessed are the money-grubbers.”
    This is no easy task but someone’s got to do it!

    Thanks guys, for all your efforts on behalf of us all.

  4. Herbie Loeb says:

    I was a long term Chairman of MRIC, most assuredly not much of a fund-raiser (except for Crystal Ball program book ads). The vast majority of fund raising in that era was done by the fabulous Crystal Ball chairmen, year after year after year.

  5. Ellen Ross says:

    Okay, Herbie. You supervised the fund raisers of the ad book. But no matter how you slice it, you and your gang raised a lot of moolah for a great cause. I stand corrected.

  6. Herbie Loeb says:

    Bueno and gracias!

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