Prefer to listen?
The Hewlett-Packard laser printer and copier began sending out page after page after page. Donanna stepped into the doorway of my office with her short-cropped, completely white hair and her standard uniform of 32 years at the college: sturdy New Balance trainers, well worn, neatly pressed jeans, and a black polar fleece Columbia vest over a t-shirt.
“So… Is this on purpose?” she asked.
I had only been at the college for about 6 months, and her line of thought was entirely justified.
“It is on purpose,” I said softly.
She raised her left eyebrow slightly, dipped her head a little, and walked back to her desk.
The printer ran for at least another 15 minutes, page after page after page.
I closed the door and sat down in the small boxy office I had inherited, along with 42 previously funded applications for the Department of Education Title III: Strengthening Institutions Program. With two pens and a gel orange highlighter, I put my head down and went to work. With the fervor of a newly graduated student at their first job, I attacked them the way I would any reading and analysis assignment in my master’s degree coursework.
In just under 3 hours I had studied 2 applications at 60 to 70 pages each. I read one after another for 3 full workdays, with detailed notes scrawled on every page. After 19 of the previously funded applications, I recognized a pattern across 3 of them: same structure, similar works cited, and a tone and voice that felt the same. Someone way more experienced than me had written multiple funded applications. That was enough. I knew I didn’t need to read the rest.
I worked 40 to 50 hours a week on our application. I spent more overall hours on research, writing, creating tables, and editing than I did on my own master’s thesis. I read every word multiple times and reread the notice and instructions from the Federal Register until I almost had them memorized.
After a little over 2 months of working on just this project, there were 72 pages of narrative, budget, documents, commitment letters, and other required forms. It was all in a perfect 12-point Times New Roman font with one-inch margins. I grinned for several days after submitting it. I knew I couldn’t possibly do any better, and I bragged to the leadership team about how good it was.
Three and a half months later, I had an email in my inbox from the U.S. Department of Education. It was the standard “Thank you, but no thank you” email. I shut the door to my office and simply stared at the wall and the whiteboard in front of me. Reluctantly, I dug into the feedback from the Department of Education.
It just didn’t make sense. Like really, it didn’t make sense. The application had scored 97 out of 100, but was not funded. It was like earning 97% on a test and being told that you failed. Three points were deducted because the job description for an administrative assistant did not include an “expected education level.” In rural Idaho, this type of position rarely lists a required education level, because we do not know if enough people will apply. And I just stared at the wall again.
The president of the college appeared in my office the next morning a few minutes before 8:00 and asked if he could visit with me for a bit. He reminded me that the college had been applying for this particular grant for 22 years. The last time it was funded was 18 years earlier. He asked that I prepare a follow-up summary for the Executive Leadership Council and include the timelines and tasks that were planned for the project.
A meeting of the council was called four days later to discuss the application. The room was arranged with long conference tables in a giant “U” with an open center. Before the president spoke, we all looked across the tables nervously at each other, making small talk.
Together we reviewed the application. Then the president made a proclamation.
“If it is worth planning, it must be worth trying to execute it, with or without outside money.”
Within eight months, a multicultural coordinator was hired. Outreach, recruiting, and student support were available in multiple languages, with new data collection metrics developed for the project.
Ninety-seven out of one hundred did not get us funded. It got us started.
That same month, another email marked urgent and time sensitive appeared in my inbox. I didn’t know then what “funding down the slate” meant, but I quickly learned that they wanted to fund our project.
I rewrote the application. I listed what we had already built and asked for the money to move on to phase 2.
A little over a year after the first score, it was funded for $2.3 million.
Love Emily