I’m learning a lot about the Jewish non-profit sector in the weeks leading up to my first day as a Jewish non-profit professional in Los Angeles next month.
To date, most of my non-profit experience has been in various college internships where I haven’t made any profit. Not to pat myself on the back too much, but I’ve gotten very good at not making any money while also working a lot. It turns out that in Jewish non-profits, the goal is, surprisingly, to earn money for the organization. This industry’s title is very misleading.
To get that stage where people give money to your organization, you’ve got to be good at pitching yourself and your cause. That’s an art I definitely did not pick up while earning a B.A. in Political Science — in this field, you tend to see folks try to get ahead mainly by talking about how bad the opposition is.
So if I’m going to contribute well to my non-profit, I’ve got to learn to talk to people older and more mature than me without sounding like a college student.
Last night, I learned not to discuss the color of my boxers with community bigwigs during the dessert reception of a fundraiser.
Sure, that seems like it should go without saying, but I’m learning that I learn best from my own experiences (read: “mistakes”).
Backstory: I worked backstage at an American Idol-ish fundraiser last night benefiting our campus’ Hillel. Dressed to the toos (pants too big for me and a belt too tight) in all-black garb, I got to wear a headset with comm-setup and work with the backstage crew on all things from carrying boxes to collecting talent from their dressing rooms to “come to stage left.” I also learned what stage left is.
My first non-profit mishap of the evening happened after using the restroom backstage. Several times during the show, I had to run on to the stage to move podiums or adjust mic stands.
My performance was flawless; save for that I found out as the show ended, my fly had been down the entire time.
Later, debriefing my scandalous wardrobe malfunction with a Hillel board member over dessert, I was reassured that the audience couldn’t notice my zipper was at half-staff.
“But my boxers are orange! How could you not see that?” I countered without thinking.
Not something to say to someone with so much pull in the community.
Let this be lesson number one for me as I learn to leave behind the comforts of speaking like a college student to other college students and master the art of adult-to-adult speaking: My boxers probably should not headline conversations over mini-ice cream sundaes.
Thankfully, I still have time to learn how to converse like a grownup before I leave school for the non-profit world. But I’ve got to get these new social cues for chatting with adults zipped up quickly.
