Farewell, Hopkins
Five years ago, at around this time of year, I took my first drive down San Martin Drive. It’s a two-lane road that winds between stands of huge, old trees along the western side of Johns Hopkins University’s campus in north Baltimore. I’d always imagined Hopkins as a stark urban campus, nothing like this bucolic setting. The sunlight twinkling through the leaves reminded me of my own (much less well-known) undergraduate alma mater. The warmth made me feel unexpectedly at home at this prestigious place. It was a sign, maybe, that the development writer position for which I was about to interview was the right next step in my path.
About a week ago, I found myself on that stretch of road for the first time since the pandemic sent us home in mid-March. I realized it would probably be the last time I’d take the route as a Hopkins employee because I’d just accepted a position with another institution. I noticed the same sparks of sunlight streaming through the trees into my windshield, but the warmth hit me differently this time. Although I felt excited about my new job, I also felt a strange sadness.
When I decided to join Development and Alumni Relations and move my life from DC to Baltimore in 2015, I envisioned roots being planted. I imagined Hopkins would be a big enough pond in which this small fish could grow for a long time. Realizing that my time here was ending after just a handful of years stung, regardless of the fact the choice was mine.
That said, it’s been a whirlwind of a half decade. It’s trite to say, but I can’t think of a better way to put it: I’ve been blessed to spend so much time in the company of the brilliant and compassionate people Hopkins brings together.
Through the conversations I’ve had with Hopkins students, researchers, faculty, and staff, I’ve absorbed so much knowledge that it feels like I’ve earned a general-purpose graduate degree. I learned about the Hubble Tension and how it’s causing controversies in the field of cosmology. I learned that there’s a difference between the “achievement gap” and “excellence gap” in education — and why that difference matters. I learned how engineers are using data to advise city housing leaders in making strategic investments to alleviate urban blight. I learned how stem cells can be used to help strengthen the skin on stump sites so people living with amputations — especially veterans — can live fuller, more productive lives with their prosthetics. The list goes on.
Through interviews with Hopkins alumni and donors, I’ve seen how people can transform the heartbreak of losing a loved one into a legacy. A group of young graduates created a scholarship in memory of an alumna killed in Afghanistan. A family blindsided by a random act of violence created a fund to improve the care of brain trauma patients. A husband honored his late wife’s wishes to help other people suffering from the effects of sickle cell disease. A young man reeling from his classmate’s sudden death launched a fundraiser for research about his friend’s rare disease. The list goes on.
Over the past six months, I’ve watched the brilliance and compassion of the Hopkins community touch the lives of people around the world. The Hopkins COVID-19 dashboardlaunched in midwinter and tracked the coronavirus’ steady march from Asia to the Americas, logging hundreds of millions of visits since. A multidisciplinary team of scientists has been working since the pandemic’s earliest days on a treatment that uses the blood of recovered patients to minimize COVID-19’s severest effects. Experts from multiple Hopkins schoolstestified before Congress on how best to respond to the growing public health crisis. Hopkins bioethics faculty are consulting with global organizations on how to ethically distribute a future COVID-19 vaccine. The list goes on.
Being associated with an institution deeply involved in this kind of literally life-saving work has been a point of comfort and pride for me during these last 200 or so disorienting days. Much of this work was made possible — in ways large and small — by philanthropy. And that philanthropy was made possible by the often invisible work of my colleagues in DAR.
Many moons ago, when I served as editor of The Magazine of Elon, I had an — let’s call it — “antagonistic” approach to fundraising. I didn’t like it. My readers didn’t like it. I’d give University Advancement their two pages for gift announcements in each issue and that was about it.
It took the better part of a decade and five years of working with some of the most professional gift officers you’ll ever meet to change my mind. They taught me that successful philanthropy isn’t about transactions, it’s about relationships. That gifts shouldn’t be seen just as donations but partnerships. That fundraising — when done right — isn’t about donors giving to the institution but through the institution to realize the change they want to see in the world. I’m grateful for the time and wisdom these gift officers (you know who you are!) have shared with me.
I’m also thankful to have worked for a director who gave me the space to gain this knowledge, encouraged me to apply it, and empowered me to lead with it. When I raised my hand to help build our new website, he passed me the reins for the whole project. When I came back from a conference hellbent on starting a content strategy research effort, he advised me on the best way to get the project approved by DAR’s executive team. And whenever I got my wrist slapped for speaking (or typing) a bit too much of my mind, he’d remind me to assume good intentions and focus on what I really want to achieve in the situation.
Why, then, the sadness behind the wheel?
I suppose it comes from the realization that, although the sum of my Hopkins experiences was the reason I got this fantastic new job, there isn’t a lot of room for me to apply those experiences here anymore. I care a lot about this place — far more than I thought I could feel about an institution that wasn’t one of my alma maters. I feel there’s more I could do here, more value I could bring here. But I also know there’s not much space available for me to keep moving forward here, at least not right now. I could stay, but I would stay put. And I’m not ready to stay put. Not yet. So, it’s time to go. I know someday I’ll be back to wind down San Martin Drive again, if only for a visit.