You Closed the Gift. They Canceled You Out.

A friend of mine landed a $165 million gift. The institution got a building. He got erased. (Details fudged. Story real. Numbers slightly massaged to protect the guilty.)

That’s right. Nine figures. The kind of gift that gets stuff renamed, presidents photographed clutching geegantik, checkasaurus foam checks, and development offices suddenly interested in whether you prefer champagne or prosecco at the celebration.

And what did he get?

A pat on the back. Off stage. In private. Like a mob hit, but with more sensible shoes.

No applause. No acknowledgment. And oops … the press release forgot his name.

Just a whispered “Good job” from the president before she stepped into the spotlight wearing the credit like a $3,000 blazer.

The Principle Problem

It’s not just erasure. It’s pretending the fundraiser was never even there. Orwellian, really—though Big Brother at least had the courtesy to acknowledge you existed before making you vanish.

Meanwhile, my friend returned to his office to update Blackbaud and maybe expense a turkey sandwich from Panera—assuming Finance doesn’t reject it because he forgot to photograph the receipt from three angles while holding today’s newspaper.

This is the noble code we live by: Fundraisers should never be rewarded based on gift size.

Because that would be unethical. Mercenary. Possibly even … motivating.

Let’s unpack our gift recognition principles:

Commission? Absolutely not. That’s for car salesmen and people who enjoy financial security.

Bonus? Dangerous territory. Might create the wrong incentives—like wanting to succeed.

Meaningful recognition? Steady there, cowboy. We have a reputation to maintain.

Pay raise? Acceptable, but only if it’s delayed until after you’ve forgotten why you deserved it, disguised as a “market adjustment,” and requires three committee approvals and a Zoom with HR. A year later.

The Tumbling Turnover Rate

Is this why we change jobs every 1.6 years?

Could be burnout. Institutional gaslighting. Perhaps that Olive Garden has a better employee recognition program than higher ed or healthcare systems.

Not advocating. Just observing. Clipboard in hand. Taking notes for my own inevitable exit interview. So don’t place me on your attack list (yet).

Some say fundraising is a team sport. Sure.

And Secretariat was part of a team too—along with the jockey, the trainer, and the guy who shoveled horse shit.

But when the race was over, everyone knew which one actually ran the damn track.

Pavlov knew the deal: Reward creates behavior. No reward? No reason to salivate.

But in nonprofit land, we ring the bell and hand out stress balls with the university logo slowly peeling off.

Maybe an all-staff email: “Thanks to everyone who made this possible!” (Remember the ‘everyone wins and gets a trophy’ mentality? Yeah—a gift recognition policy like that for fundraisers, but with more lanyards and fewer juice boxes.)

Translation: “We’re not naming names because that would require effort and possibly upset someone’s ego.”

Maybe a day off. Unpaid, naturally.

We’re not made of money—oh wait, we literally just received $165 million.

And if you’re really lucky? A coffee mug.

Not even a nice one. The kind that chips after two weeks and makes your coffee taste like institutional disappointment.

Meanwhile, the president, the deans, and the “stewardship team” embark on a victory tour worthy of a conquering army.

Photo ops. Board presentations.

Maybe even a Chronicle of Philanthropy interview about “transformational leadership.”

Because the institution wants the gift.

Just not the inconvenient reminder that an actual person secured it.

Recognition+Reward=Results

Here’s my modest gift recognition proposal:

If someone brings in a $165 million gift, maybe “Good job” whispered behind a potted plant doesn’t quite suffice.

Maybe they deserve a bonus that doesn’t require a PowerPoint presentation to justify. Maybe they deserve public recognition that doesn’t come with an asterisk. Maybe they deserve compensation that reflects the fact they just delivered your annual campaign goal in one phone call—without a gala, auction, or raffle basket in sight. Maybe …

Or we can keep pretending this is about ethics and institutional integrity, rather than a convenient excuse for administrative cheapness and credit-hoarding.

Just don’t be surprised when your top closer quits—and your next campaign comes with fewer zeroes.