We're Going to be Fine

Unlike love, it's not possible to wait for money. But in my line of work right now, that's what we accept. While professions in all sectors are realizing their Achilles' heel in this economy, fundraisers feel like any armor we had has been stripped away. Asking people for money is difficult in the best of times; it takes on a whole new level of stress in the worst of times.

In the old days, when middle-income individuals were tight we wrote more grants to private foundations or visited with more corporate leaders for their support. The white-collar workforce, still inclined to open their quarterly 401k letters, were likely to give once they understood the mission. Pittsburghers are generous. But what do you do when the market collapse forces middle-income folks out of the habit of giving, foundations to put requests on hold, and the corporate leaders who met you for lunch now don't even have money for lunch?

Going to work — a sentence that I will never again take for granted — means donning both a business suit and chameleon's skin. For me, it entails traversing three rivers and three worlds every day. A typical schedule might include a morning working alongside social workers and clients in the most destitute of neighborhoods. As we discuss the challenges of stocking the food pantry with more protein, smiling volunteers, residents of the very community in which we are desperately trying to sustain services, report for duty. They are as aware as any that there is a recession. They've lost the local grocery store, closed for lack of profit or the bus route cut due to the price of fuel. Now, they have even less access to basic needs like food and transportation.

Ask them how they're doing and they'll say, "We're going to be fine." I must balance empathy with respect for their pride.

Around noon, I might commute the short mile from Hazelwood (average income: $10,500 per year) to attend a meeting at the regal Duquesne Club. We'll turn off our Blackberries, temporarily relieved of the vibrations on our hips that lately convey a stream of "not now" replies to our requests for support. Sitting in the interior courtyard of wealth, dining on salads to the soothing trickle of a nearby fountain, I'll listen as my mentor eloquently relays our mission. The audience is polite and well dressed. They too have problems. I know many of our table guests have lost millions of dollars and in the context of their own lives are very worried. They will not tell us this, but we know. Some of them have still given generously. At the least, they know as the core of the city's wealth, they have an obligation to listen to our story. Some will hear us and some will not.

My job is to convey a passion for how we can get together and stem the tide of need that is sweeping over our communities. I must balance respect for their past contributions and desperation for their support. Ask them how they're doing and they'll say, "We're going to be fine."

At the end of the day, I'll gather up my things. Thoughts of which grants are in the hopper, which major gift might come through in the next day's mail swirl through my head. By the time I get to the Fort Pitt Tunnels, the cost of printing invitations to our fundraising event versus e-mailing them starts to fade. I begin to wonder how my husband passed the day at home with our three little girls. It's been months since he worked full-time as a systems engineer, minus the random consulting gig.

The commute home for me is a time to exhale; a time for me to listen to no one but myself. The worry over my fellow citizens in impoverished neighborhoods doesnsn't go away (ever), but I don't have to look anyone in the eye with assurance of better times. The shape-shifting exercise of contributing to conversations foreign to my life like Ivy League tuitions, mergers and portfolios is over for another day. Right now, I can slip back into my own life, which is by no means as extreme as the cultures I traverse each day.

I can't say where on the middle of the spectrum I fall. Lately it's more like living in suspended animation. Every day is a worry, to be sure. One income with five people in a rental house with student loans and other bills in the mail box is tough. And though fundraising is inherently equivalent to earning a living on a pendulum and I'm exhausted these days by it, I'm relieved. Because the privilege of exposure to all echelons of society in tough times allows perspective.

Sure, I wish the checks were in the mail for all of us — for those I am lucky enough to serve and those in my own family whom I support. But I must live existentially to keep it together. Like everyone else in town, I'm doing everything I can.

So, ask me how I'm doing, and I'll say,"We're going to be fine."

Jennifer Papale Rignani is vice president of development and communications for the YMCA of Greater Pittsburgh. This article originally appeared in the June 6 edition of The Pittsburgh Post Gazette and is reprinted with the author's permission.