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CATALYSTS FOR CHANGE
Philanthropic organizations, or foundations, are a major source of the funding
needed in community revitalization efforts, particularly in the USA. Catalysts for
Change provides new models and new thinking for how philanthropic groups can
work to better their communities.
With the current economic climate forcing shrewd spending, foundations need
all the guidance they can find on how to appropriately channel their funds in the
best way. But how can these sorts of community projects be analyzed for effective-
ness? Is there a quantitative rather than qualitative element that can be studied to
give real feedback to those investing in projects? Arguing against a one-size-fits-all
model, the authors illustrate the importance of context and relationships in the suc-
cess of these projects.
Filling a gap in the literature on the many ways in which philanthropic organi-
zations and community development intertwine, the authors use their own
first-hand experiences and research to forge a new path for academic research in an
area where it has been lacking. Drawing first on the history of philanthropic fund-
ing, the authors then look at developments in the last 20 years in detail, focusing
on four key case studies from across the United States.
Maria Martinez-Cosio is an Associate Professor at the School of Urban and Public
Affairs at the University of Texas, Arlington. She received her Ph.D. in Sociology
from UC San Diego. Her research interests include private foundations’ role in com-
munity development, civic participation by immigrants in urban redevelopment,
Latino parent involvement in urban education, and qualitative research methods.
Mirle Rabinowitz Bussell is a Continuing Lecturer and Academic Coordinator
in the Urban Studies and Planning Program at UC San Diego. She received her
Ph.D. in Urban Planning from UCLA. Her research interests include the relation-
ship between philanthropy and community development, the role of CDCs in
neighborhood revitalization, quality of life planning at the grassroots level, and the
relationship between gender and planning.

The Community Development Research
and Practice Series
Volume 2
Series editor:
Rhonda G. Phillips
Arizona State University, USA
Editorial Board:
Mark Brennan
Pennsylvania State University, USA
Jan Flora
Iowa State University, USA
Gary P. Green
University of Wisconsin, USA
Brian Mcgrath
National University of Ireland
Norman Walzer
Northern Illinois University, USA
This series serves community developers, planners, public administrators, and
others involved in practice and policymaking in the realm of community develop-
ment. The series provides timely and applied information for researchers, students,
and practitioners. Building on a 40-year history of publishing the Community
Development Society’s journal, Community Development (www.comm-dev.org),
the book series contributes to a growing and rapidly changing knowledge base as a
resource for practitioners and researchers alike.
For additional information please see the series page at www.routledge.com.
Community development as reflected in both theory and practice is continu-
ally evolving. This comes as no surprise as our communities and regions constantly
change. As a practice focused discipline, change is the only constant in the commu-
nity development realm. The need to integrate theory, practice, research, teaching,
and training is even more pressing now than ever, given uncertain and rapidly
transforming economic, social, environmental, and cultural climates. Current
and applicable information and insights about effective community development
research and practice are needed.
In partnership with Routledge, the Community Development Society is
delighted to present this new book series serving community developers, planners,
public administrators, citizen activists, and others involved in community devel-
opment practice, research, and policymaking. The series is designed to integrate
innovative thinking on tools, strategies, and experiences as a resource especially
well-suited for bridging the gaps between theory, research, and practice. It is our
intent that the series will provide timely and useful information for responding to
the rapidly changing environment in which community development researchers

and practitioners operate. The Community Development Society was formed in
1970 as a professional association to serve the needs of both researchers and practi-
tioners. That same year, the Society began publishing Community Development, its
journal promoting exchange of ideas, experiences, and approaches between prac-
tice and research. Community Development Research and Practice builds on this rich
legacy of scholarship by offering contributions to the growing knowledge base.
The Community Development Society actively promotes the continued
advancement of the practice and theory of community development. Fundamental
to this mission is adherence to the following core Principles of Good Practice. This
new book series is a reflection of many of these core principles.
● Promote active and representative participation towards enabling all commu-
nity members to meaningfully influence the decisions that affect their lives.
● Engage community members in learning about and understanding commu-
nity issues, and the economic, social, environmental, political, psychological,
and other impacts associated with alternative courses of action.
● Incorporate the diverse interest and cultures of the community in the com-
munity development process; and disengage from support of any effort that is
likely to adversely affect the disadvantaged members of a community.
● Work actively to enhance the leadership capacity of community members,
leaders, and groups within the community.
● Be open to using the full range of action strategies to work towards the long-
term sustainability and well-being of the community.
Series editor introduction
Catalysts for Change: Twenty-first century philanthropy and community development as a
volume in this inaugural year of the new series is an excellent example of the tenets
of good practice principles in action. Authors Maria Martinez-Cosio and Mirle
Rabinowitz Bussell foster a richer understanding of the scope and context of foun-
dations’ community development activities with this original and impactful work.
Drawing on case studies as well as analysis of foundations’ qualitative and quantita-
tive effects, they find critical indicators of positive work, including the need for
meaningful community engagement and collaborative efforts across sectors.
This is an exciting addition to the literature, reflecting changes taking place in
strategic approaches to charitable investments. One of the newer trends evidenced
in some foundations’ community development efforts is that of concentrated
interventions—comprehensive community initiatives—seeking to convey greater
impact than providing smaller support for numerous philanthropic projects across
many areas. One of the recommendations from the authors is that the “goal for
private philanthropies is not the transfer of community development models from
one underserved community to another; rather, it is a deeper understanding of dif-
ferent approaches to realizing significant community revitalization and the type of
innovation that is possible at the local level.” This focus on calibrating the activities

and approaches to local situations and collaborating with community partners is of
paramount importance as past efforts for “one-size-fits-all” grants programs have
not succeeded. It also reflects a systems theory framework, certainly a paradigm
shift in the making. In other words, communities are systems and in order to elicit
positive collective impact, developing tailored approaches based on local condi-
tions and relationships is needed for driving complex comprehensive change in
communities. Calibrating strategic investments and activities can lead to a host of
beneficial outcomes, not least of which is helping foster more engagement, capac-
ity, and community well-being.
The role of foundations in community development is an area that has not been
explored in much depth—until now. This book responds with a comprehensive
and constructive analysis with significant implications for community develop-
ment. I invite you to fully delve into this volume, as I think you will find it both
beneficial and inspiring. Further, continue to explore the series as new volumes are
added, and we do hope you will find it a valuable resource for supporting com-
munity development research and practice.
Rhonda G. Phillips
Editor, Community Development Research and Practice Series

CATALYSTS FOR
CHANGE
Twenty-first century
philanthropy and
community development
Maria Martinez-Cosio and
Mirle Rabinowitz Bussell

First published 2013
by Routledge
2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN
Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada
by Routledge
711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017
Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor and Francis Group, an informa business
© 2013 Maria Martinez-Cosio and Mirle Rabinowitz Bussell
The right of Maria Martinez-Cosio and Mirle Rabinowitz Bussell to be
identified as authors of this work, has been asserted in accordance with
sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or
utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now
known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in
any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing
from the publishers.
Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or
registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation
without intent to infringe.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Martinez-Cosio, Maria.
Catalysts for change : 21st century philanthropy and community
development / Maria Martinez-Cosio and Mirle Rabinowitz Bussell. --
1 Edition.
pages cm. -- (The community development research and practice series)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
1. Charity organization. 2. Community development. I. Bussell, Mirle
Rabinowitz. II. Title.
HV40.M4197 2013
307.1’4--dc23
2012048802
ISBN: 978–0-415–68322–7 (hbk)
ISBN: 978–0-415–68323–4 (pbk)
ISBN: 978–0-203–40551–2 (ebk)
Typeset in Bembo by
GreenGate Publishing Services, Tonbridge, Kent

To Dalia, Noah, Daniel, and Sofia

This page intentionally left blank

CONTENTS
List of illustrations xi
List of abbreviations xii
Preface xiv
PART I
The scope and scale of philanthropic investment in
community development 1
1 The changing landscape of foundation-led community
development 3
2 The origins of community development philanthropy 12
3 The intersection of philanthropy and community
development 27
4 Typology of comprehensive community initiatives 43
5 Systems change theory: advancing complex community
change 61
PART II
Lessons from the field 77
6 Price Charities and the Jacobs Center for Neighborhood
Innovation: an introduction to the case studies 79

x Contents
7 The Jacobs Center for Neighborhood Innovation 92
8 Price Charities 109
9 Applying systems theory to Price Charities and the
Jacobs Center for Neighborhood Innovation: lessons learned 126
10 Conclusion 139
Appendix 145
Notes 175
References 178
Index 189

ILLUSTRATIONS
Figures
2.1 History of U.S. philanthropic support for community development 14
3.1 Internal Revenue Service (IRS) foundation status classification 28
3.2 Subcategories of public charities or grant-making charities 28
3.3 Private foundations subcategories 35
5.1 Systems impacting underserved neighborhoods 63
6.1 Boundaries of City Heights and Diamond Neighborhoods 84
Tables
4.1 Potential and concerns of private foundations engaged in CCIs
in the U.S. 57
5.1 Stakeholder views of neighborhood as a system in City Heights 65
6.1 Socioeconomic characteristics of City Heights, Diamond
Neighborhoods, and the City of San Diego, 2010 85
6.2 Comparison of Price Charities’ and the Jacobs Center for
Neighborhood Innovation’s approach to community engagement 90
8.1 A sample of Price Charities’ programs in City Heights 113

ABBREVIATIONS
AHP Affordable Housing Program
CalEndow California Endowment
Caltrans California State Transportation Department
CAN Community Action Network
CBP Community Building in Partnership
CCBI Cleveland Community Building Initiative
CCC Center for Community Change
CCE Center for Community Engagement
CCI comprehensive community initiatives
CCRP Comprehensive Community Revitalization Program
CDBG Community Development Block Grants
CDC community development corporation
CNC Coalition of Neighborhood Councils
COS charity organization society
DART Dallas Area Rapid Transit
DSNI Dudley Street Neighborhood Initiative
EEI Environmental Enterprise Initiative
EIS Elementary Institute of Science
FCE Foundation for Community Empowerment
GAO General Accounting Office
GCCB Germantown Community Collaborative Board
GIFT Giving Indiana Funds for Tomorrow
HCZ Harlem Children’s Zone
HUD U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development
IPO initial public offering
IRS Internal Revenue Service
JCNI Jacobs Center for Neighborhood Innovation
KKK Ku Klux Klan
LAUF Los Angeles Urban Funders
LISC Local Initiatives Support Corporation

LLC limited liability corporations
NCDI National Community Development Initiative
NCP New Communities Program
NCRP National Committee for Responsive Philanthropy
NFI Neighborhood and Family Initiative
NII Neighborhood Improvement Initiative
NPI Neighborhood Partners Initiative
NSP Neighborhood Strategies Project
NTC Neighborhood Transformation Center
OCS Office of Community Services
OMDC Orange Mound Development Corporation
OMG Organization and Management Group
RCI Rebuilding Communities Initiative
SCAP Southern California Association for Philanthropy
SDSU San Diego State University
SDUSD San Diego Unified School District
SEDC Southeastern Economic Development Corporation
TAP The Atlanta Project
VOCAL Voices of Community at All Levels
Abbreviations xiii

PREFACE
The funding landscape for community development in low-income neighbor-
hoods is at crisis levels. The continued ripple effects of the 2008 global recession
have exacerbated a pre-existing pattern of federal, state, and local retrenchment,
particularly in distressed urban neighborhoods that lack the political clout and net-
works needed to direct attention, and resources, to the numerous challenges they
face. Across the country people are struggling on a daily basis to improve the physi-
cal, economic, and social infrastructure of their communities. Piecemeal efforts
to cobble together funding sources are often ineffective and time consuming, but
what are the alternatives? This book investigates a growing effort spearheaded
by philanthropic entities seeking to catalyze comprehensive community devel-
opment. Often working on the ground with the communities they fund, these
foundations are exploring new approaches to maximizing their investment and
effecting change. The results have been mixed, and measuring success is difficult.
By presenting an overview of these innovative approaches, this book provides an
analysis of foundation-driven comprehensive community initiatives (CCIs) across
the country. Larger trends are explored and then elucidated by a series of detailed
case studies that investigate the inner-workings, challenges, and positive outcomes
that have been realized to date. We know from the historical record that there is no
magic bullet for community development in underserved urban neighborhoods,
but nonetheless it is imperative for the internal stakeholders—residents, nonprof-
its, and community organizations in these communities—as well as the external
stakeholders—local and state governments, education agencies, and the business
community—to add to their toolkits of interventions and approaches. The research
presented in this book focuses on one such tool.
As researchers with more than 20 years of experience in observing and analyz-
ing community change, we still struggle to present a balanced view of the newest
efforts to disrupt the dynamics that led to the decline of urban neighborhoods.
There are no easy answers to improving the quality of life in poor communities,
and good intentions abound. But in the end, those most impacted by the newest
revitalization iteration are the residents that call that community home.

CCIs that seek to integrate public and private partners with residents to address
the multiple challenges of a declining community and improve the quality of life,
present a promising approach to a balanced, and more just, process of neighbor-
hood revitalization. By balanced, we mean programs that recognize the role of
residents as equal participants in decision-making; balanced by incorporating social
justice as a key element in understanding the decline of these neighborhoods;
balanced through the spreading of financial risk among a variety of collaborative
funders; and balanced in recognizing the complex nature of low-income com-
munities within the context of the broader economic, cultural, social, and political
systems that impact them.
The role of foundations in activating these endeavors cannot be underesti-
mated. Private and public foundations offer the type of funding, technical skills
sets, long-term commitment, and risk-taking that leads to innovation in respond-
ing to the disinvestment and neglect that contributed to the decline of low-income
neighborhoods across the country. Many foundations, both large and small, are
convening strategic partnerships involving public partners, the corporate commu-
nity, scholars, nonprofits, and other foundations to more effectively address the
complex problems that keep residents in low-income neighborhoods, particularly
children, from achieving success.
The challenge for these CCIs remains effectively engaging low-income resi-
dents as equal partners. While those of us involved in this type of work are paid to
attend meetings, read up on the latest scholarship on CCIs, and attend conferences
to learn about the newest community interventions, residents often do not face
these advantages. Poverty-level wages, lack of health care, inadequate childcare,
threats to safety including gangs, language differences, and a distrust of government
and institutional forces are formidable obstacles for attaining true partnerships for
achieving comprehensive change. Throughout this volume we offer many innova-
tive approaches to bridging this divide and catalyzing systems-wide changes at the
neighborhood level.
Many people generously provided their assistance and support during the
research and writing of this book. The biggest thanks of all goes to the people who
live, work, and genuinely care about City Heights and southeastern San Diego.
Their graciousness and honesty was crucial to the completion of this book. Of par-
ticular note, for Maria Martinez-Cosio, the parents in the Rosa Parks Parent Room
generously welcomed her and answered her many questions. Residents invited her
into their homes and took her to their celebrations. For Mirle Rabinowitz Bussell,
the members of the housing team at Jacobs Center for Neighborhood Innovation
(JCNI) accepted her into the fold. The residents’ eloquent articulation of their
community knowledge was a powerful reminder of the necessity of collaborative
planning.
We offer a heartfelt thanks to the residents, nonprofit staff members, city of San
Diego staff members, and volunteers who continue to advocate for the betterment
of these two unique communities. The residents of City Heights and the Diamond
Neighborhoods in southeastern San Diego are clearly co-authors of this effort, and
Preface xv

we are cognizant of the role we play in accurately representing residents’ views.
This is a profound responsibility. As one City Heights parent shared with us, “we
are tired of being guinea pigs” as new interventions continue to target this com-
munity. We hope we do justice to their trust in us.
We received invaluable guidance and insights from numerous other individu-
als. Rhonda Phillips was a constant champion of the book and provided early and
continuous encouragement. Bud Mehan, Professor Emeritus at UC San Diego,
deserves special recognition for his unwavering support. Amy Bridges provided
sage advice at an early stage in the process that helped guide the direction of our
work. Stuart Henry, Director of the School of Urban Affairs at San Diego State
University (SDSU), provided a visiting scholar position to Maria Martinez-Cosio
during a semester research leave granted by Barbara Becker, Dean at the School
of Urban and Public Affairs at UT Arlington. A grant from the Lincoln Institute
of Land Policy afforded us access to resources and a community of scholars that
provided instrumental insights and served as the starting point for this volume. Ann
Foss, Steven Rogers, and Kathy Tran served as very capable research assistants.
We are also thankful for the candid comments and access to information we
received from current and former staff and board members at Price Charities and
JCNI. We value all of these relationships on many different levels, but ultimately
we take complete responsibility for the work presented in this volume.
This effort could not have been completed without the endless patience and
support of our loved ones. While Lynn Rabinowitz sadly passed away before the
project was completed, we know that she believed in our work and would be
immensely proud of the final volume. We thank our families—Steve, Sofia, and
Daniel, and Stuart, Dalia, and Noah. We now have a reply to the oft-repeated
question in both of our households—yes, the book is finally done.
Maria Martinez-Cosio
Mirle Rabinowitz Bussell
September 2012
xvi Preface

PART I
The scope and scale
of philanthropic
investment in community
development

This page intentionally left blank

1
THE CHANGING LANDSCAPE
OF FOUNDATION-LED
COMMUNITY DEVELOPMENT
On a warm evening in 2006, hundreds of people filled a large portable tent set up
in the parking lot of an old strip mall in southeastern San Diego. Men, women,
and children of different racial and ethnic backgrounds eagerly awaited the start
of the meeting. The excitement was palpable. Everyone was in attendance to
learn about a proposal to provide this low-income community with opportuni-
ties for affordable homeownership. This was big news in a community that had
not seen new housing built in many years. The meeting was not convened by
a public agency, redevelopment authority, or community development corpora-
tion (CDC), the typical developers of affordable housing. Rather, a private family
foundation, the Jacobs Family Foundation, was spearheading the effort as part of
a larger comprehensive plan: it was preparing to catalyze comprehensive com-
munity redevelopment in this neighborhood five miles east of downtown San
Diego. The foundation was driven by a clearly defined mission that emphasized
resident engagement in community development and, ultimately, resident owner-
ship of community assets. In a community known for a historical legacy of neglect,
nominal public investment, and a weak infrastructure of nonprofit social service
organizations, the Jacobs Family Foundation offered some a glimmer of hope that
perhaps the time had finally come to elevate the quality of life for the 85,000
residents who lived in this section of southeastern San Diego. Others expressed
skepticism and questioned whether or not a foundation lacking historical ties to the
community could or should successfully undertake such an ambitious and poten-
tially transformative plan.
Four miles to the north, a similar scenario was playing out. The City Heights
neighborhood, often referred to as San Diego’s “Ellis Island” due to the large
number of immigrants and refugees who reside there, was in the midst of its own
renewal. Facing similar challenges of neglect, aging infrastructure, and low levels
of public investment, City Heights was undergoing comprehensive community

4 Philanthropic investment in community development
redevelopment spearheaded by another San Diego private family foundation, Price
Charities. This plan emphasized large-scale physical renewal and economic devel-
opment. Similar to the Jacobs Family Foundation, Price Charities had its detractors
along with its supporters.
Fast forward six years and both City Heights and southeastern San Diego look
physically different. Both communities now have urban villages that contain large
grocery stores, nationally franchised restaurants, community facilities, and the
ubiquitous Starbucks. These villages were completed in large measure due to the
efforts of the two family foundations that worked in partnership with these neigh-
borhoods. These physical accomplishments are only part of the story, though, and
while they certainly give the neighborhoods the appearance of “successful” rede-
velopment, the outcomes are much more complex. The two foundations’ best
intentions did not always match the needs of the low-income residents that reside
in the respective communities. The reasons are complex and challenging to evalu-
ate but are critically important in this time of continued federal retrenchment and
limited local resources. The landscape of local community development is on a
trajectory of change and partnerships are critical.
Three generations after urban renewal and two generations after the demise of
the War on Poverty, philanthropic entities, namely public and private foundations,
have increasingly taken on the continuing challenge of revitalizing poor com-
munities in our cities. Their admirable intentions—like those of federal and local
governments—have encountered division, controversy, and sometimes protest.
This book traces these community development efforts from initial intent through
the complex path of implementation, presenting key findings that provide impor-
tant lessons through an analysis of multiple case studies reflecting the broad scope
of foundational engagement in community development.
We were introduced to these two San Diego neighborhoods, these two foun-
dations, and each other, over ten years ago. Contacts we made opened doors
to local schools, community stakeholders, public sector employees, and city hall.
The Spanish-speaking fluency of one of us provided an opportunity for Spanish-
speaking residents in City Heights to share their hope for change as they struggled
to keep their children out of gangs. Professional relationships forged with staff and
board members at both foundations provided opportunities to witness first hand
the challenges and rewards of this unique type of work. One of the first questions
we asked of each other was whether or not what we were observing in San Diego
was unique or part of a larger trend. We wanted to know how many other family
foundations were engaged in this type of deeply engaged place-based community
revitalization. We knew from the academic literature that large foundations such
as Ford had played a pivotal role in supporting community development over
the second half of the twentieth century and on into the New Millennium, but
the efforts in San Diego appeared different. Price Charities and the Jacobs Family
Foundation had embedded themselves in their target neighborhoods and, rather
than dictating policy from afar, staff members and often board members, too, were
on the ground in the community on a daily basis partnering with networks of

Foundation-led community development 5
individual and organizational stakeholders. We asked ourselves if this was a unique
model and, if so, how did one go about measuring impacts. These questions were
the genesis for this project.
Philanthropic support for underserved communities has a long history and the
levels and types of involvement have evolved in reaction to prevailing societal
norms and federal political, economic, and social policy. Foundations in general
are known to be risk averse, but at specific moments in history they have dem-
onstrated the ability to ignite innovative approaches to community revitalization.
Whether experimenting with programs that ultimately influenced federal policy,
such as the Ford Foundation’s Gray Areas program which led to federal Model
Cities legislation, seeding grassroots systems change effort as exemplified by the
Liberty Hill Foundation’s support for multifaceted community organizing efforts
in Los Angeles, or supporting community building for disenfranchised minority
groups as illustrated by the Frothingham Fund and Slater Fund’s investment in
the Calhoun Industrial School for Blacks in Alabama in the nineteenth century, a
small but growing number of foundations have shown the potential of the sector
to challenge the status quo and strategically channel charitable giving in ways that
can potentially transform business-as-usual in low income communities.
Foundation funding has catalyzed community development initiatives from
Boston to San Diego, yet the role of foundations as key actors in revitalizing
urban neighborhoods is largely under-theorized. The relationship between private
foundations, underserved communities, public agencies, private interests, and com-
munity nonprofits gains salience as a declining economy and public sector fiscal
crises have forced foundations engaged in community development to reexamine
their capacity to fund scalable comprehensive community change. Significantly,
this has led a cohort of foundations to reexamine their efforts in the larger context
of systems change. Some foundations have assumed a more aggressive approach
that has transformed their role from funder to policymaker and policy imple-
menter. In numerous examples across the country, their efforts have sparked urban
reinvestment and redevelopment. This is contributing to a proactive culture in
certain segments of philanthropy that has significant implications for the future of
local community development. Some of these private and public foundations are
at the forefront of innovation and require further study as practitioners, academics,
and public sector agencies consider new paradigms in community development.
This has been best illustrated by the increased philanthropic support for CCIs.
CCIs emerged in the late 1980s as growing evidence revealed that the complex
social, physical, and economic challenges of community development in low-
income neighborhoods were interconnected and required a holistic response.
Rather than the traditional project-oriented philanthropy, CCIs were envisioned
as a new strategic approach to charitable investment by linking public and pri-
vate resources along with community participation in a comprehensive manner
targeted towards a specific geographic area. This ambitious approach has yielded
mixed results and simultaneously points to the challenges and rewards of compre-
hensive community change. We situate CCIs at the center of our analysis.

6 Philanthropic investment in community development
We consider three key areas that arise from the role of private foundations in
comprehensive community development. First, we analyze the scope and content
of foundations’ community development work by considering their qualitative
and quantitative impacts. From a quantitative perspective, we identify the num-
ber of foundations engaged in community development work, the type of efforts
they support, and the financial scale of dollars invested and communities served.
Looking at their qualitative impact, we document and compare the ways in which
foundations define community development work and the impact this has on their
funding priorities. We situate this analysis within theories of systems change to
understand their varying motives, approaches, and goals for underserved areas.
Second, we analyze the governance structures and approaches of foundations
engaged in community development work. This includes consideration of the
foundations’ role in the community development plans and the varying degrees to
which the foundations either lead the community development efforts or allow for
the community to emerge and direct the planning process. We assess the extent to
which foundations approach this work with clearly defined strategies and consider-
ation for the sustainability of community development efforts. This raises questions
about the degree to which foundations set policy and interact with the complex
web of public, private, nonprofit, and community stakeholders.
Third, we consider issues of accountability. We evaluate varying degrees of
transparency in philanthropic support for community development. As private
entities, not elected by the populace to make policy decisions, we consider the
types of checks and balances that are in place to monitor foundation accountability
in community development.
Our approach is two-pronged. We surveyed the field and assembled the first
comprehensive typology of foundations engaged in community development.
Using the three primary criteria identified above, we were able to identify larger
trends in the field. We complement the typology with the presentation of numer-
ous case studies illustrative of the innovation occurring in foundation-driven
community development. We take a closer look at two specific efforts from San
Diego as a way to present and analyze the many nuances, complexities, and con-
tradictions of CCIs.
Our analysis seeks to challenge theories of comprehensive community change
that espouse a grand model for revitalizing underserved communities. While our
case studies may appear narrow in their application to community development
initiatives, we argue that the differing approaches to community development
illustrate the importance of context in addressing the assets and needs of under-
served communities; the challenge of defining and developing participation from
stakeholders (including neighborhood-based nonprofits); the importance of evalu-
ation of community development initiatives; and, most importantly, the issue of
sustainability of comprehensive community change.
Our findings suggest that the relationships between community engagement,
capacity building, and public–private collaboration are critical indicators of private
foundations’ effectiveness in catalyzing local community development. We suggest

Foundation-led community development 7
that the goal for private philanthropies is not the transfer of community develop-
ment models from one underserved community to another; rather, it is a deeper
understanding of different approaches to realizing significant community revitaliza-
tion and the type of innovation that is possible at the local level.
Often the key questions raised in examining these types of public–private
relationships are focused on results or outcomes (Kubisch, Auspos, Brown, and
Dewar, 2010). Do these public–private initiatives achieve their goals of improving
underserved communities and how is “improvement” defined and measured? The
answer is complicated and contentious and, ultimately, it depends on whom you
ask. For two of the family foundations included in our book, residents, nonprofits,
foundation and city staff interviewed for this research would all agree that their
respective communities have benefited in many ways from the engagement of these
private foundations in community development efforts. These two foundations
included in our research have raised the profile of their targeted areas, attracting
new funding sources and capturing attention from city hall and the media. But
clearly, as our research presents, context matters. The vision and philosophies of
family foundations differ, as do the political, cultural, and demographic history
of each community. These differences in approach were evident in the differing
definitions of community development articulated by community stakeholders,
foundations, nonprofit organizations, and city staff. Thus measuring success is dif-
ficult when a common metric has not been negotiated or agreed upon. And we
must continue to ask whether success should be measured by physical outcomes
alone. The process through which change occurs, and the mechanisms that are
developed to support this process, are equally meaningful for certain stakeholders.
Until we ascertain desired goals, it is difficult to develop theories of change for
underserved communities targeted by public and private foundations.
These issues merit attention as more private foundations refocus their efforts
towards a holistic place-based approach to philanthropy that may have a greater
impact on underserved communities. The California Endowment’s (CalEndow)
recently announced ten-year funding commitment to 14 underserved com-
munities in California (2009); the Kellogg Foundation’s shift in philanthropic
direction (Cohen, 2008); and the Local Initiatives Support Corporation’s (LISC)
Building Sustainable Communities program all provide examples of this change.
Furthermore, recently completed research from the Aspen Institute indicates a
growing trend in foundation-supported CCIs (Kubisch et al., 2010). All of these
examples are united by their objective to improve underserved communities
through a variety of community development initiatives, and all are challenged to
develop a common definition of community development, a vision for the future
of these communities, and to develop relationships based on trust with the variety
of stakeholders in each of these communities.
The book is divided into two parts. Part I reviews the historical record of
private and public foundations engaged in comprehensive community revitaliza-
tion initiatives, surveys the different types of foundations involved in this work,
presents a typology of these efforts, and concludes with a discussion on the merits

8 Philanthropic investment in community development
of using systems change theory to understand the structure, context, and impact
of philanthropic support for comprehensive community development. We include
the history of both the large, mainline foundations such as the Ford Foundation
and the Sage Foundation, along with the smaller, primarily family foundations
that have engaged in neighborhood-based community development partnerships
in collaboration with residents, government entities, and other private sources.
The research indicates that their involvement has transcended funding support and
in an increasing number of cases also includes policy formulation and implementa-
tion. These action-oriented foundations are often at the forefront of innovation
in local community development and serve as important catalysts for neighbor-
hood reinvestment and redevelopment. Many of these foundations also fall under
the category of social justice philanthropy. This is a branch of philanthropy that
emphasizes systems change and democratic grassroots processes that empower and
enfranchise traditionally marginalized subsets of the population, particularly those
that live in low-income urban neighborhoods. In this section we also explain how
the devolution of federal support for community development has influenced phil-
anthropic involvement in the field.
This historical investigation begins with the precursors to formalized philan-
thropy in the seventeenth century including informal networks of charities and
then moves on to the first generation of foundation support in the settlement
houses of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. We then consider the
impact of urban renewal and the War on Poverty, the decay of urban areas in the
1970s and 1980s, the creation of public–private partnerships that became preva-
lent in the 1990s, and new models that are currently emerging in the twenty-first
century. Some of these newer, innovative foundations were born out of the disap-
pointments of urban renewal and the rethinking of strategies for rebuilding urban
communities that followed. Certain foundations committed to investing in under-
served areas are also seeking higher returns for their philanthropic investments,
narrowing their scope to specific areas or neighborhoods in a concerted effort to
implement comprehensive change at a smaller scale. This new approach to com-
munity development is based on the assumption that concentrated interventions
will have a greater impact than providing smaller, piecemeal support for numerous
philanthropic projects in many locations.
Part I continues with an overview of the philanthropic sector and identifies
the different types of foundations involved with community development efforts.
Specific attention is given to CCIs and we provide an overview of the national
trends and accomplishments of CCIs since they were first established in the late
1980s. Numerous case studies from across the country, including Dallas, Los
Angeles, and New York, are incorporated into the discussion. This is synthesized
into a comprehensive typology that identifies two primary models of philanthropic
engagement in CCIs. First, we look at foundations as supporters of comprehen-
sive community development. These foundations work with nonprofits, public
entities, and other foundation partners to fund change within defined geographic
areas. The lead foundation may provide the bulk of funding (often long term), but

Foundation-led community development 9
the staff and board rely on partners to work on the ground. The second category
includes what we refer to as foundations as managing partners. Largely embedded
in the communities they serve, these foundations focus on place as a significant
unit of analysis and as a target for comprehensive change. They are committed to
significant direct interaction and relationship building with community members
and provide long-term funding commitments. They are flexible and entrepre-
neurial in their charitable endeavors and often, but not always, work off of a clearly
articulated theory of change that encompasses their views on the ways targeted
neighborhoods can be changed and made stronger. The typology includes data
on governing principles, funding sources, programmatic priorities, and issues of
accountability and transparency.
The first part of the book concludes with an argument supporting the value
of using systems theory to frame our analysis of philanthropic support for com-
munity development. Systems theory offers a promising approach as it allows
for the examination of systems as component parts that interact within a par-
ticular context and through those relationships can function as an entity or
organism. Systems theory provides a framework that responds to the complexity
of comprehensive neighborhood change as undertaken by CCIs, and it helps
identify the key drivers of change for underserved communities. It focuses on
communities as systems but, more importantly, how communities interact with
other systems, including foundations, local government, the private sector, and
nonprofits.
Part II sharpens the focus and presents two case studies based on a detailed
exploration of the origin, evolution, and outcomes to date of two private family
foundations in San Diego, Price Charities and the Jacobs Family Foundation.
Both foundations share a similar mission dedicated to place-based, compre-
hensive community development. The Price Family Charitable Fund was
established in 1983 and its operating foundation, Price Charities, was created
in 2000. Price Charities’ mission emphasizes large-scale physical and economic
revitalization in the City Heights neighborhood. It has successfully developed
hundreds of affordable housing units, improved educational infrastructure in
the neighborhood, and built a comprehensive urban village containing retail,
recreational, public safety, and educational institutions. Established during the
same time period, the Jacobs Family Foundation was created in 1988 and its
operating arm, JCNI, was created in 1995. The Jacobs Family Foundation is
also focused on comprehensive community development, but resident empow-
erment, comprehensive asset building, and community ownership of the larger
process is the cornerstone of Jacobs’ approach. While it has improved the physi-
cal fabric of the community by developing a large retail center and community
center, it emphasizes the thousands of residents that have been engaged in, and
empowered by, the planning process.
Our comparative analysis illustrates that while each foundation’s approach
to community development differs, they share a number of characteristics and
approaches. Both Price Charities and the Jacobs Family Foundation have national

10 Philanthropic investment in community development
reputations, and their initiatives have been identified as examples of best prac-
tices by the Urban Land Institute, PolicyLink, the Aspen Institute, and others, yet
their efforts have not been the subject of comprehensive research. The legal and
financial structure of foundations requires relatively low levels of disclosure and
foundations vary considerably in terms of the degree of self-reporting and pub-
lic information sharing. Over the course of ten cumulative years of participatory
research, we assembled the data necessary to tell the story of these foundations in
what we believe is an accurate, fair, and critical fashion.
Utilizing a mixed-methods approach, we gathered and analyzed scores of
material on Price Charities and its efforts in the City Heights neighborhood
and the Jacobs Family Foundation and its operating arm, JCNI, in southeastern
San Diego. Hundreds of hours of interviews with community stakeholders and
attendance at countless community meetings, foundation-sponsored events, and
public forums enabled us to identify the many nuances of comprehensive com-
munity development in these two neighborhoods. Archival materials and public
documents added an additional layer of information. Through the course of our
research we developed a genuine level of care for the well-being of the communi-
ties targeted for change. Our involvement in the neighborhoods led us to develop
casual friendships with a range of stakeholders including foundation staff, board
members, neighborhood residents, and nonprofit and public sector employees.
We have made a concerted effort to present our findings as dispassionately and
accurately as possible.
We want to see Price Charities and the Jacobs Family Foundation catalyze the
community change desired by the residents of the two respective neighborhoods,
but our findings have left us with unanswered questions. For one, we question
whether or not neighborhood transformation occurs in a timely and cost-effective
manner. Price Charities could argue that the answer is yes, as they point to the phe-
nomenal physical change occurring in City Heights. But for the estimated 3,000
residents displaced due to new school construction and redevelopment projects,
the answer may be different. Price Charities did not want to discuss displacement
or the threat of gentrification as potential outcomes for their work, although later
we were heartened to hear Price Charities’ founder and chief benefactor, Sol Price,
mention that this was an unintended consequence.
In the case of the Jacobs Family Foundation’s work in southeastern San Diego,
many stakeholders have grown impatient and expressed the desire to see more
physical improvement. Despite the excitement evident in 2006 when Jacobs’
announced plans to build its first affordable housing development, the housing has
yet to materialize. In the meantime, the housing market has been destabilized by
the financial crisis of 2008 and some stakeholders question whether or not Jacobs
will be able to build the housing. Yet, despite these critiques, a core group of com-
munity residents have become more engaged and more knowledgable about the
community development process. This has happened in City Heights, too. Some
of the residents, mostly renters, have learned much through Price Charities’ revi-
talization efforts and are becoming more vocal, experienced, and assertive as Price

Foundation-led community development 11
Charities closes in on the twentieth anniversary of working with this community.
Maybe this is one of the key lessons learned from this work—addressing decades of
disinvestment will take decades of hard work.
Each of our case studies raises important questions about the effectiveness of
comprehensive community development, the importance of context, the chal-
lenges in building community capacity, the role of foundations in these efforts, and
the need to address the roots of poverty. Our research also suggests that efforts to
develop a singular grand model for revitalizing underserved neighborhoods are, as
they have been in the past, futile, and more attention must be paid to developing
approaches for each underserved neighborhood that respond to its unique social,
cultural, political, and economic conditions. These contextual conditions become
more important as stakeholders seek to build change processes in poor neighbor-
hoods that can be sustained after private and public funds disappear.

2
THE ORIGINS OF COMMUNITY
DEVELOPMENT PHILANTHROPY
The historical record reveals an inconsistent, yet substantive, legacy of community
development philanthropy dating back hundreds of years to the first community
building efforts of European colonists in the United States. It has taken different
forms over the subsequent centuries and has demonstrated considerable variation,
but its potential to catalyze community development has remained intact and is
growing in importance as public resources for revitalizing distressed urban neigh-
borhoods continue to erode. This chapter considers the history of philanthropic
engagement in local community development initiatives in order to both demon-
strate its longevity as well as better understand its many nuances and its capacity to
endure. We begin with an exploration of definitions of community development
in order to establish the parameters that frame our work. This is followed by a
chronological look at the evolution of philanthropic support for local community
development. Changes over time in societal norms regarding charity, social wel-
fare, and self-sufficiency along with political ideology and economic conditions
have impacted the scale and content of philanthropic involvement in commu-
nity development. We identify five distinct periods in the history of philanthropic
support for community development: the Colonial Era, the Progressive Era, the
1960s, the emergence of the New Right in the 1980s, and finally we end with
trends in the New Millennium. Situating community development in a broader
historical context illustrates the impact and potential of foundations to revitalize
traditionally underserved neighborhoods.
Depending on the discipline or perspective, the evolution of community devel-
opment is evident, but the literature is inconsistent in its definition of the term,
and it describes a variety of processes and theories best understood through a his-
torical lens. As illustrated in Figure 2.1, community development has been used
to describe the settlement house movement and other Progressive Era programs
from the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries: urban renewal, New Deal

The origins of community development philanthropy 13
programs aimed at revitalizing decaying urban centers, the work of the federal gov-
ernment through the Community Development Block Grants program (CDBG),
and public–private partnerships aimed at bringing industry back into central busi-
ness districts (O’Connor, 1996). While community development may not be
clearly conceptualized and lacks specificity (Bhattacharyya, 1995), this vagueness
also becomes one of its strengths because it encourages a range of acceptable pos-
sibilities for identifying participants, processes, and outcomes. Useful frameworks
for establishing the components of the community development system are those
that include a wide range of stakeholders from all sectors engaged in efforts that
focus on place as well as people (Frisch and Servon, 2006).
Community development is recognized as broad efforts to improve quality of
life by addressing asset building in five areas: social, human, physical, financial, and
political capital (Ferguson and Dickens, 1999). Asset building includes the critical
component of agency and the ability of people to conceptualize and contribute to
the implementation of their own vision of change (Bhattacharyya, 1995). Individual
and community agency play an increasingly important role in local community
development, but local efforts should not be overemphasized at the expense of
the broader challenges capitalism presents since the global economy impacts local
communities. Some newer theories on community development and community
building have been labeled as “romantic and nostalgic,” and critics argue that the
potential of civil society is given too much weight and overemphasizes local con-
ditions without appropriate consideration of the role of capitalism and the state
(DeFilippis, 2008). These newer approaches are much less confrontational and are
focused on “moderate” strategies that do not challenge the root causes of commu-
nity problems such as joblessness, poor housing conditions, low-quality education,
and crime. Communities are products of larger social relationships and must turn
outwards otherwise they risk creating successful organizations at the expense of
the community itself. The challenge, therefore, is for local community develop-
ment efforts to balance the needs of the community and stimulate local change
within larger global forces if true asset transference and long-term community
sustainability is to occur. The literature contains examples of efforts that achieved
varying degrees of success in this regard (Heskin, 1991; Medoff and Sklar, 1994;
von Hoffman, 2003). In this book local community development is defined as
comprehensive asset building targeting a discrete geographic area of either one or
several contiguous neighborhoods designed to improve quality of life, empower
local stakeholders, and engage the public, private, and nonprofit sectors.
Historical context
While the Progressive Era is commonly identified as the first period of notable
charitable support for local community development in the U.S., philanthropy’s
roots are actually deeper and can be traced to the European colonists and the
influence of ancient religious doctrines on charity. The practice of providing
hospitality to strangers has been around for as long as humans have engaged in

FIGURE 2.1
History of U.S. philanthropic support for community development
Colonial Era
Elizabethan Poor Law of
1601
Franklin's Junto Society
Progressive Era 1890-1920
Growth o f private
charities in respon se to
depression o f 1870s
Industrialists' fortunes
help grow nonprofit
sector
Charity Organization
Societies created as
precu rsor to foundations
Settlem ent House
Movement received
significant su p p ort from
foundations
1960s
Ford Foundation's Gray
A reas Program a s model
Decentralization o f Great
Society program s by
Nixon and Reagan
Retrenchment o f federal
governm ent opened the
door for growth in
foundations as shadow
state
Emergence of New Right
Explosion o f private
foundation community
developm ent initiatives
in late 1 980s and early
1990s
President Ronald Reagan
sought to have free hand
o f the m arket determine
future o f urban core
New Millennium
Funder collaboratives
Private/public
partnerships
Social justice
philanthropy
FIGURE 2.1 History o f U .S. philanthropic support for community development
Colonial
Era
Progressive
Era
1960s
Emergence
of New
Right
New
Millennium

The origins of community development philanthropy 15
social interaction. The ancient Greeks and Romans discussed the role of charity
in society and the words charity and philanthropy are of Greek and Latin ori-
gin. Ancient Judeo-Christian religious doctrines are critical to early American
theories on charity (Jagpal, 2009). The Old Testament addresses the concept of
tzedakah which encompasses the duty of giving and the right of those in need to
receive assistance (Trattner, 1999). Christianity carried on this tradition through
its emphasis on good deeds and the New Testament contains many explicit ref-
erences to charity and the belief that society has a responsibility to assist those
in need, eschewing the criminalization of poverty. While there were several
early foreign antecedents in France and Germany (Watson, 1971), this Judeo-
Christian ethic influenced English poor relief legislation in the Middle Ages and
this, in turn, served as a main influence in Colonial American charitable policies.
Between 1349 and 1601 a series of measures in Britain were established to codify
and formalize the ways in which the British government provided assistance to
those in need. Cumulatively, the measures served as the basis for the Elizabethan
Poor Law of 1601 (Trattner, 1999).
The Elizabethan Poor Law of 1601 was the culmination of sixteenth-century
poor relief efforts that established the parameters for state supported charity. It
delineated individual and familial responsibilities as well as included the acknowl-
edgment that the state had a responsibility to supplement efforts to relieve the
needs and suffering of the deserving poor. The same year that the poor law was
established, the British Parliament also enacted the Law of Charitable Uses that
encouraged private philanthropy. Here we see private efforts complementing pub-
lic policies, thereby creating the framework for an additional sector of institutions
to provide resources and services for those in need (Trattner, 1999).
As the colonists engaged in community building in the United States, the
English poor laws were used to frame their approach to charity and establish poli-
cies that promised state support for those unable to care for themselves or their
families (Vale, 2000). This was a familiar model and despite their desire to break
from British policies, the colonists were directly influenced by this legacy. Similar
to the Judeo-Christian ethic that shaped the Poor Law, for most colonists a strong
adherence to a belief in Christian duty motivated their assistance to those in need.
John Winthrop’s model of Christian charity and Cotton Mather’s eighteenth-cen-
tury Essays to do Good were premised on the belief that doing good was not a
means of personal salvation but, rather, a responsibility to one’s God. Mather, in
particular, influenced philanthropic practice by calling for collaboration and group
efforts to support charitable action that addressed both spiritual and physical needs.
Among those influenced by Mather was Benjamin Franklin, whose Junto Society
was used to combine public and private dollars for civic improvement projects
such as street paving and lights, public safety, and a volunteer firefighting company
(Bremner, 1988). Franklin’s charitable approach of utilizing public and private
sources was common for this time period.
As wealth increased by the eighteenth century, individuals and private groups
provided an invaluable source of assistance for the poor. Religious groups also

16 Philanthropic investment in community development
played a key role in distributing support for the needy (Fleishman, 2007). Trattner
(1999) writes that the Quakers in particular invested a significant amount of time
and resources into providing aid to those in need. In addition to religious insti-
tutions, numerous private organizations provided assistance: fraternal societies,
nationality groups, social organizations, and charitable societies. Many of these
charitable societies were organized to provide assistance to groups sharing a com-
mon nationality. These early forms of public assistance were done in partnership.
Private philanthropy and public aid complemented one another and were dis-
pensed in a cooperative fashion. The focus on local caretaking and mutual aid was
initially the primary method of assistance. However, as the population increased
and cities such as Boston and New York grew bigger, the problem of dependency
became much more complicated and required a more systematic and codified
approach (Trattner, 1999).
Embedded in these early Colonial charitable efforts were conflicts surround-
ing the determination of beneficiaries of charitable giving. Efforts to differentiate
the worthy from the unworthy poor framed relief efforts and, more importantly,
included a spatial dimension. Vale’s (2000) history of public housing policies in
Boston documents the Puritans’ efforts to define “public neighbors” and shape
public aid as a local responsibility. The challenge, however, was how to define
local. The Puritans’ “moral geography” guided charitable action; assistance was
given to known members of the local community and excluded non-Christians,
Native Americans, and new arrivals who were believed to require public support.
Of particular note, when physical strategies were required to dispense aid in the
form of almshouses and later houses of correction and industry, these institutions
were spatially segregated from the center of Boston. Vale (2000) documents a
progression of physical removal and replacement of these institutions that over
the course of approximately 180 years took them from the edge of the Boston
Commons to the West End to the South End and eventually an island in the mid-
dle of the harbor reserved for other similar public assistance institutions.
Whereas community-based philanthropy in the Colonial Era was influenced
by the Judeo-Christian ethic of communal care that utilized contributions from
religious and public institutions as well as private entities, by the mid part of the
nineteenth century in the period immediately following the Civil War, we see
changing attitudes about charitable support to benefit local community conditions.
In the immediate aftermath of the war, communal care-taking impulses were strong
in response to the concerns about wounded veterans as well as the women and their
families who lost their male head of household during the war. State, local, and
federal governmental agencies enacted a series of laws to provide resources for these
segments of the population. The need to assist the millions of newly freed slaves also
led to federal assistance (Trattner, 1999). However, this largess did not last long as the
country recovered from the war and embarked on an aggressive industrialization and
manufacturing campaign. The federal government simultaneously terminated most
of its social welfare programming, leaving states and local governments responsible
for many of these duties. It did not take long for most states and cities to significantly

The origins of community development philanthropy 17
curtail their public welfare programs, too. Ameliorative measures subsequently came
from the wealthy. This led to a growing group of private charities that were sup-
ported and administered by middle-class philanthropists (Dillick, 1953).
The severe depression of the 1870s contributed to the need for benevolence and
by the end of the decade many cities experienced an explosion in private charity
agencies. In Philadelphia in 1878, for example, 800 private charity agencies were in
existence (Trattner, 1999). The lack of coordination among these organizations was
a source of concern and gave rise to the charity organization movement, otherwise
known as scientific charity (Dillick, 1953; Trattner, 1999). Charity organization
societies (COSs) were established to organize and coordinate the dissemination of
resources as well as to craft unified approaches to poverty relief and community
improvement. The philosophy behind the movement identified poverty as a char-
acter defect as opposed to the result of larger structural problems. It was believed
that individual character defects could be remedied through the socialization of the
poor into mainstream society (Dillick, 1953). In theory, each city would develop
its own registry and list everyone receiving public or private assistance in order to
minimize duplication. This process would create greater efficiency at distributing
public relief and allow for greater focus on the deserving poor. Home inspec-
tions by charity agents were also instituted to help develop a personal relationship
between the client and the charity, and to help move the needy into solving their
own problems. This approach was problematic on many fronts and was largely
unsuccessful due to its large, unwieldy nature and the challenges of coordinat-
ing a cadre of charity agents (Katz, 1986; Trattner, 1999). However, many of the
prominent COS supporters, such as Andrew Carnegie, eventually created their
own private philanthropic foundations.
As the nineteenth century came to a close and the challenges of rapid industrial-
ization, immigration, and population growth manifested themselves, the next stage
in philanthropic support for community development took root. In the Progressive
Era we see a differentiation between charity for individuals and larger community-
based approaches utilized primarily by the settlement houses reformers. This was a
pivotal moment in the nexus between philanthropy and community development.
The history of Progressive Era reforms is well documented, but missing from this
literature is the vantage point of foundations and their support for community
development. Philanthropic entities have a long history of funding community
development initiatives in blighted urban neighborhoods across the country and
have their roots in a much earlier time period than previously explored (Dreier,
1997; Fleishman, 2007; Lubove, 1962; Traynor, 1995).
Formalized philanthropy’s evolution
The settlement house movement holds an important position in the history of local
community development since this was the first significant attempt to coordinate
holistic community improvement. Settlement house workers were particularly
focused on “reviving the neighborhood in the city” and focused on the larger

18 Philanthropic investment in community development
social and economic conditions that contributed to poverty and the effects that this
had on local neighborhoods (Davis, 1967, p. 16). This was in direct contrast to the
organized charity movement that sought to improve communities by focusing on
the individual and their personal failings that caused poverty. Davis (1967), in fact,
contrasts the differences between charity workers and settlement workers, noting
that charity workers eschewed reform whereas the settlement workers approached
community improvement with enthusiasm and less moral judgment. Others, such
as the well-known college president and settlement house founder William Jewett
Tucker, have contrasted the two efforts, noting that the settlement houses prac-
ticed a “higher philanthropy” as opposed to the “lower philanthropy” of charity
organizations (as cited in Davis, 1967). The settlement house movement was com-
plex, however, and, due to the class lines separating settlement house workers from
the impoverished communities they served, some settlement workers were driven
by moralistic impulses that often created conflict (Trolander, 1987).
The efforts of the settlement house movement have been well documented and
analyzed from different perspectives including motivations for reform, religious
influences, the role of gender, and the treatment of racial differences (Carson,
1990; Davis, 1967; Hayden, 1981; Lasch-Quinn, 1993; Lubove, 1962; Trolander,
1987; Wiebe, 1967). However, the direct link between philanthropy, community
development, and settlement work has not been explicitly addressed. Settlement
workers were involved in many neighborhood redevelopment efforts including
housing reform, public playground advocacy, and sanitation and public health
improvements because many settlement house workers believed that social reform
required physical, neighborhood improvements (Davis, 1967).
One of the main sources of financial support for settlement house work was
private philanthropy. Wealthy philanthropists funded settlement house efforts along
with other community development projects (Dreier, 1997; Ehrenreich, 1985; Katz,
1986; Lubove, 1962). Philanthropists are probably best known for their support of
housing reform during this time period and this includes the efforts of Edward
Waller and Julius Rosenwald in Chicago, Robert Treat Paine in Boston, and
Robert W. de Forest in New York (Dreier, 1997; Radford, 1996; Wright, 1981).
Dreier (1997) thoroughly documents philanthropy’s three-pronged involvement
with the housing crisis during the Progressive Era, including efforts to change the
behavior of the poor and address the most visible housing problems, improve hous-
ing conditions through the sponsorship of efforts such as model housing projects,
and advocate for public policy reform and strengthening of the role of government
in regulating housing conditions. Many of the prominent advocates for housing
reform, such as Mary Kingsbury Simkhovitch and Jane Addams, were first exposed
to poor housing conditions in the slums through their settlement work.
Philanthropic support for community development during the Progressive Era
was uneven and largely found in urban areas populated by White, ethnic immi-
grants, thereby demonstrating a blind spot when it came to civil rights. While
many settlement leaders were not ignorant of the problems that Black Americans
confronted, they did make a clear distinction between immigrants and Blacks.

The origins of community development philanthropy 19
Most settlement houses were segregated and Black settlements were more often
than not short on funds and found it more difficult to secure philanthropic sup-
port. Despite these obstacles, many settlement houses such as the Wharton Centre
in Philadelphia offered a large range of activities to Blacks, including purchas-
ing and renovating affordable housing to rent and providing low-interest loans
to Black tenants to improve their rental properties. Some of the most innovative
community development programming for the Black community was found in
the South. The Calhoun Colored School and Social Settlement in Alabama, for
example, educated the Black rural school population based on the industrial school
model and established an innovative land bank that purchased and sold land to
farmers. Critical to the success of the Calhoun School was the fundraising prowess
of its director, Charlotte Thorn, a White well-connected northerner who success-
fully secured funding from the Slater Fund, the Rockefeller Foundation, and the
Frothingham Fund (Ellis, 1984). Access to northern philanthropists was critical to
Thorn’s success, and other social settlements that tried to emulate this model failed
due to their limited philanthropic connections. Georgia Washington, for example,
founded the People’s Village School in Alabama. Washington helped launch the
Calhoun School but struggled to sustain the People’s Village School because she
was a southern Black woman who lacked access to the White philanthropists in the
North (Lasch-Quinn, 1993).
1
Many of the philanthropic entities that supported Progressive Era community
development initiatives were family foundations (Dreier, 1997; Lubove, 1962;
Vale, 2000; Ylvisaker, 1987). Many of these early foundations were cautious in
their approach to philanthropy and, while motivated by social justice, they often
supported conventional causes such as education since tax laws governing chari-
table donations were vague (Hall, 1987). Some, however, supported tenement
reform and low-income housing policies (Lubove, 1962).
In the midst of the Progressive Era we see another pivotal milestone in philan-
thropy’s evolution with the rise of modern foundations. This occurred in the early
1900s as large fortunes were accrued by industrialists such as Andrew Carnegie
and John D. Rockefeller. These wealthy individuals established their foundations
for different reasons: some had a sense of social/civic responsibility whereas others
felt the need to develop more strategic methods to maintain and disseminate their
large sums of money. Other wealthy individuals, it has been argued, set up their
foundations to serve their own interests (Ostrander, 1999). While early founda-
tions are often portrayed as working in an elite environment disengaged from the
public sector and public participation, Jacobs (1999) argues that these early founda-
tions had “competing visions of political economy and the public” (p. 102). The
conditions of the time were ripe for the creation of these entities, as a “crisis of
authority” took place as Protestantism, which had provided many services to uplift
societies, was being challenged by the massive immigration of Catholics, Jews,
and Orthodox Christians. Foundations were able to step in and provide funds
outside of religious organizations and subsequently helped many nonprofits with
their efforts (Hammack, 1999). While the emergence of the modern foundation

20 Philanthropic investment in community development
was welcomed on many fronts, skepticism existed as well. The U.S. Congress’
Walsh Commission reported in 1916 that a small group of wealthy families not
only had control over most major industries, but they also (through their founda-
tions) exerted control over education and social services and these were serving
their business interests better than actual philanthropy (Hammack, 1999). Even
though legislation did not immediately result from the Commission’s work, it put
the philanthropic sector on notice that the U.S. Congress had concerns about the
size, power, and accountability of large foundations.
While there was a considerable amount of variation in the motivations and phi-
lanthropy of these new foundations, quite a few were important supporters of local
community development. The Sage Foundation, established by Margaret Slocum
Sage in 1907, was among the first family foundations to adopt a less cautious and
more explicit public-policy oriented approach to community-based philanthropy.
The foundation’s mission encompassed social, political, and economic change via
surveys of living conditions in working-class communities. However, the founda-
tion focused its efforts on understanding the problems of distressed communities
and did not initially provide direct assistance (Russell Sage Foundation, 2007).
Sage’s vision for the foundation (established after her well-known parsimonious
husband died in 1906) was to move beyond charity and support the improve-
ment of life for the working classes. As an illustration of the dire need for funds to
improve distressed communities, in 1906 Mrs. Sage received approximately 60,000
personal solicitations for assistance (Jacobs, 1999).
The Twentieth Century Fund, founded in 1919 by Boston department store
magnate Edward Filene, also had a mission compatible with local community
improvement. Filene believed that foundations should create new institutions to
redistribute power and seed new social movements. He believed in preventative
action and creating synergy between professionals, social science expertise, and
public policy (Jacobs, 1999).
Another significant milestone in foundation history took root during this same
time period in the early twentieth century. Along with the establishment of large
foundations, we see the emergence of smaller funds with a more explicit social
justice focus. The following chapter discusses this type of philanthropy in more
detail, but here we note the significance of this new approach and its impact on
underserved communities. Two of the first foundations with an explicit social
justice emphasis were the Rosenwald Fund and the Stern Fund. The Rosenwald
Fund, established by Julius Rosenwald and in existence from 1917–1948, pro-
vided significant charitable support for civil rights efforts and programming to
support the well-being of African Americans (Ostrander, 2005). Several decades
after Rosenwald established his foundation, the Stern Fund was created by Julius’
daughter and son-in-law, Edith and Edgar Stern. In operation from 1936–1986,
the Stern Fund began emphasizing racial justice and systemic change in the early
1960s. In 1963 David Hunter was hired as the foundation’s executive director.
Hunter had previously been at the Ford Foundation and was there during a piv-
otal phase of its evolution. Starting in the late 1950s, the Ford Foundation’s work

The origins of community development philanthropy 21
represented a new phase in philanthropy’s effort to be more socially relevant and
influence policy. Ford served as a change agent and a “catalytic force” for social
change (O’Connor, 1999, p. 172). The 1950s thus led to a shift in foundations’
focus on urban problems, and the turbulent political climate of the 1960s brought
another major change as the United States faced a number of crises.
Setting the stage for increased foundation investment
The federal government began to shift responsibility for addressing poverty and
urban ills to local public and private organizations during the Johnson administra-
tion as criticism mounted over the unclear impact of War on Poverty programs,
the rising costs of the Vietnam War, and the apparently bleak future of American
cities (Patterson, 2000). With the creation of the U.S. Department of Housing and
Urban Development (HUD) as a cabinet-level agency in 1965, and the institu-
tion of the Model Cities program by Congress in 1966, community development
efforts were clearly placed in the hands of municipal governments and mayors
(Lemann, 1991). By combining bricks-and-mortar funding with services, President
Johnson was responding to criticism of federal antipoverty measures that were per-
ceived as inefficient, costly, and ultimately contributing to urban poverty, rather
than solving it (O’Connor, 1999). Edward Banfield, the chairman of the Advisory
Committee on Demonstration Program Development, as the Model Cities pro-
gram was known, reported in a letter to the President:
In the view of the task force, most city governments can be trusted to use
federal funds in the manner Congress intends [and] it is necessary to allow
them much more latitude because the alternative is waste and frustration and/
or their replacement by vastly expanded federal-state bureaucracy.
(as cited in Scruggs-Leftwich, 2006, p. 33)
The federal government’s delegation of responsibility for urban disinvestment to
municipalities opened the door even wider for private foundations to play a signifi-
cant role in this arena. Private foundations, particularly the Ford Foundation, were
already key players in developing and supporting the Model Cities program. The
Ford Foundation’s Gray Areas project served as a framework for the development
of the Model Cities program, and representatives from private foundations served
on both the Task Force and the Model Cities program. The seven-member Model
Cities program included two Ford Foundation staff members and a Gray Areas
project board member (Scruggs-Leftwich, 2006).
The Gray Areas program, and later the Model Cities program, were among the
first efforts at developing a more comprehensive approach to urban disinvestment,
and some argue that many of the public–private partnerships targeting underserved
urban areas continue to model these efforts. The Gray Areas program was formally
initiated in 1961 and had spent approximately $26.5 million by 1965 to develop
community action agencies in Boston, Oakland, New Haven, Philadelphia, and

22 Philanthropic investment in community development
Washington, D.C. (Halpern, 1995; Marwell, 2007). But comprehensive commu-
nity development efforts began a decade earlier when the Ford Foundation’s Paul
Ylvisaker, head of the foundation’s Public Affairs programs, sought to respond to
the fragmentation of services targeting the inner city and the development of pro-
grams for the urban poor by “professionals and elite community leadership,” which
led to a lack of “realistic understanding … of the problems faced by the poor”
(Hughes and Hughes, 2000, p. 330). In addition, Ylvisaker argued that nonprofits
and public agencies targeting the inner city worked in organizational silos, some
focusing on bricks-and-mortar projects and others on services, without knowledge
of each other’s efforts. In response, “the Gray Areas program sought to coordinate
service programs among local bureaucracies in an effort to integrate low-income
residents into urban society” (Green and Haines, 2012, p. 97).
This collaborative approach to addressing the structural and social problems of
the urban core is a key contribution by private foundations to today’s CCIs. In
addition, the Ford Foundation pushed for the notion of community action. The
Ford Foundation’s Ylvisaker sought to transform the process of community devel-
opment to more fully engage urban residents, as the targeted recipients of services,
in the design and execution of neighborhood initiatives (Hughes and Hughes,
2000).
The Model Cities program sought to learn from the lessons of the Ford Foundation’s
Gray Areas project. Thus the Model Cities initiative sought to improve coordination
of social services and add bricks-and-mortar projects as well as economic develop-
ment funds to targeted underserved urban areas. This comprehensive approach to
urban revitalization was at the core of a package of six bills President Lyndon Johnson
sent to Congress on January 26, 1966. The bill called for a demonstration project in a
small number of urban sites, as proposed by Leonard Duhl and Antonia Chayes of the
National Institute of Mental Health, who argued the following:
We believe there is a need to accelerate the impact of the varied human
development programs by a dramatic demonstration of ongoing and newly
conceived urban aids in one or more especially chosen cities. Such a demon-
stration would involve long-range and short-term planning both for city-wide
renewal and a comprehensive program of human services. The city should
be of typical size and present typical problems of urbanization. The selection
of the cities could take place through procedures established by the White
House. The recipients should be assured of Federal funds sufficient to develop
a model program for urban America.
(as cited in Bernstein, 1996, p. 461)
The seven-member Model Cities Task Force, which included private foundation
representatives, estimated the cost of the program at $2.3 billion over five years.
Local mayors were to fund 20 percent of the projects with the federal government
contributing 80 percent. But the rising costs of the Vietnam War drastically altered
these funding projections (Bernstein, 1996).

The origins of community development philanthropy 23
A heated battle ensued between the House and Senate as they considered this
legislation. Conservative House members sought to block the Model Cities pro-
gram, arguing that the “Demonstration Cities” programs would “pay for Negro
demonstrations in the big cities” (Bernstein, 1996, p. 466). As the opposition
gained momentum, President Johnson called on 22 corporate businessmen and
philanthropists, including Henry Ford II and David Rockefeller, to successfully
convince the House members of the merits of the bill and it subsequently passed by
a vote of 178 to 141. But the cost of compromise included significant concession
on the amount of implementation funds as well as the number and location of the
model cities chosen. Instead of a handful of demonstration projects, 63 cities were
chosen in the first round in November of 1967, and an additional 12 were added in
March 1968. By the second year, the number of demonstration areas had increased
to 150 without a proportionate increase in funding (Mossberger, 2010).
The stage was set for private foundations to take a more visible leadership role
in community revitalization. The Model City Task Force members had set an
extraordinary agenda for the demonstration projects:
The demonstration projects … should increase the total supply of low-income
and moderate-income housing by massive amounts, combine physical recon-
struction with social programs and a sensitivity to human concerns, allow local
governments to operate flexibly and unconstrained by existing administra-
tive arrangements, and alter existing building regulations and labor practices.
In keeping with the widely-held perception that discrimination kept African
Americans locked into ghettos, the panel also called for greater civil rights in
the provision of housing.
(von Hoffman, 2011, p. 29)
But pork barrel politics and fear of oppositional community participation gutted
the original budget and design of the Model Cities program. It instead became
a source of federal funds for various public agencies providing education, public
safety, health, and recreation services (Savage, 2004). In addition, HUD lacked
the authority to organize and build collaboration among the entrenched agencies
targeting the urban poor, a key point for Ford and other foundations interested in
better organization of the myriad interventions targeting urban areas.
By the end of the 1960s, funding for the Model Cities program began to
decline. Congress cut its lifespan from six years to two, and its funding allocation
was reduced from $2.3 billion to $900 million thinly spread over 150 sites (King
and Vile, 2006). The Model Cities program officially ended in 1973.
President Richard Nixon continued the decentralization of Great Society pro-
grams after his election in 1968, transferring numerous community development
initiatives housed in the Office of Economy Opportunity into other agencies in an
effort to curtail the type of community action fostered by the Gray Areas program
(DeFilippis and Saegert, 2008; Silver, 2006). Nixon’s laissez-faire philosophy of
New Federalism reduced federal oversight, moved community development closer

24 Philanthropic investment in community development
to a block-grant model, and provided greater decision-making authority to the
states (DeFilippis and Saegert, 2008). Two important initiatives further localized
federal spending on urban problems: revenue sharing enacted in 1972 and the estab-
lishment of the CDBG program in 1974. The CDBG program spurred a variety
of urban projects since it provided maximum flexibility for communities receiving
federal funding.
Although these changes to community development spending did lead to an
increase in CDBG funding over the next decade, the communities targeted were
no longer the most needy, and the allowable expenditures were considerably
broadened (Hays, 1995; O’Connor, 1999). The increased federal emphasis on local
determination of funding priorities for underserved neighborhoods did motivate
community organizations to develop institutional capacity and explore partner-
ships with other nonprofits and private foundations.
The Reagan Revolution of the 1980s continued the shift to localized decision-
making to more efficiently address urban problems. Conservative foundations, and
their privately funded think-tanks such as the Heritage Foundation and the American
Enterprise Institute, supported the “get government off our backs” message promoted
by President Reagan. The continuing devolution from federal to local problem solving
led to shifting oversight of CDBG funds to non-entitlement cities from HUD to state
governments. As expected, state governments concerned with responding to a variety
of constituencies funded a greater number of smaller projects across the state, minimiz-
ing the impact of federal dollars. An HUD report concluded that the result of the shift
to state oversight meant that “the average number of recipients in each state increased
by 75 percent, and the average grant per recipient declined from $485,000 to $219,000”
(Nenno, 1983, p. 146). Such a shift eliminated large bricks-and-mortar projects that
could effect lasting change in underserved urban neighborhoods. This period in time
also experienced the rise of the shadow state, which is a term used to describe the grow-
ing role of nonprofits in taking responsibility for public services and performing functions
of the state (Wolch, 1990). The retrenchment of the federal government opened the
door for the voluntary sector to fill service gaps left by the departure of the public sec-
tor but also raised questions about accountability to constituents. As INCITE!’s 2009
anthology, The Revolution Will Not Be Funded: Beyond the Non-Profit Industrial Complex
attests, foundations as corporate funders limit nonprofits’ capacity for social change by
flexing their political and financial clout as a shadow state (INCITE! is a national activist
organization of radical feminists of color located in Redmond, Washington).
By the early 1990s, after President George Bush took office, the “reinventing
government” movement was responding to calls for allowing private sector values
to make the public sector more efficient, increase productivity, and reverse its
“incompetent, wasteful and overbearing” ways (Roelofs, 2003, p. 77). As a result
of these public initiatives, the Ford Foundation, the Rockefeller Foundation, and
the Annie E. Casey Foundation, among others, pushed for increased collabora-
tion among public, nonprofit, and private organizations to more comprehensively
respond to disinvestment in some of the poorer areas of the U.S. While some argue
that these foundations were developing private solutions to public problems, others

The origins of community development philanthropy 25
contend that private foundations were, and continue to actively participate in, fill-
ing a void as a result of federal retrenchment.
The expectations of the devolution exercise were that by curtailing the role
of the federal government in community development, local efforts would more
efficiently respond to the needs of each underserved community. But during the
two decades following the election of Richard Nixon in 1968, these policy ini-
tiatives did not appear to have the desired outcomes as both the number of high
poverty areas and the number of people living in poverty areas nearly doubled
(Jargowsky, 1997).
The late 1980s and early 1990s saw an explosion of private foundation
initiatives and partnerships that explored innovative approaches to urban
problems. According to the Foundation Center, between 1950 and 1979,
approximately 1,500 foundations were established per decade in the U.S. (http://
foundationcenter.org/findfunders/statistics/found_estab.html). By 1980, the
number of large foundations more than doubled as the Reagan administration
sought to allow the free hand of the market to determine the future of the urban
core (Bratt, Stone, and Hartman, 2006). Suggesting a response to the growing
needs of decaying urban neighborhoods, the decade between 1980 and 1989 saw
the creation of approximately 4,500 large foundations, with 18.5 percent of these
foundations holding assets of between $25 and $100 million, and 16 percent
with assets of $100 million or more. The number of foundations only continued
to increase as George Herbert Walker Bush took office as the 41st President of
the United States. The decade between 1990 and 1999 saw the establishment
of approximately 10,000 foundations (http://foundationcenter.org/findfunders/
statistics/found_estab.html). This latter group is composed of smaller foundations,
with 16.1 percent holding assets under $1 million; 55.1 percent holding assets
of between $1 and $5 million; 13 percent holding assets of between $5 and
$10 million; and 9.5 percent with assets of $10–25 million.
2
As we discuss in this book, a cohort of these foundations are serving a valuable
role in stimulating urban revitalization efforts. Also noteworthy, however, was
the rise in “strategic conservative philanthropy” beginning in the 1990s that used
sophisticated networking, research, and advocacy to advance a conservative agenda
(Covington, 2005).
Important to an understanding of the role of philanthropy in community
development is the growth in the number of private foundations, which include
independent and family foundations, and grant-making public charities such as
community foundations that pool funds from various philanthropies and com-
munity members. According to the Foundation Center, approximately one-third
of the foundations created between 1990 and 1999 were independent founda-
tions and 36 percent were community foundations. The number of independent
foundations more than doubled from the previous decade. That growth in pri-
vate foundations continued into the most recent decade, 2000–2009, when more
than 8,500 large foundations were established (http://foundationcenter.org/find-
funders/statistics/found_estab.html).

26 Philanthropic investment in community development
Foundations have a historical legacy of charitable support for community
development. While funding has been uneven at times, philanthropic entities
have demonstrated the potential to both fill in funding gaps left by the public and
private sectors and take risks to initiate innovative new programs and policies.
The landscape of philanthropy is complex. It is governed by ambiguous laws and
regulations and consists of many different types of foundations. The next chapter
provides an overview of the numerous types of foundations engaged in community
development.

3
THE INTERSECTION OF
PHILANTHROPY AND
COMMUNITY DEVELOPMENT
The types of community change efforts in which private foundations engage vary
across many levels including scale of support, type of support, and the type of
foundation providing the funding. The philanthropic world is complex and the
role that foundations play in society is not well understood despite its many con-
tributions to society (Dowie, 2001; Fleishman, 2007). This chapter provides a
comprehensive overview of the landscape of philanthropy and provides a typology
of foundations documenting the ways in which they operate and support local
community development.
As charitable organizations continued to grow in numbers and size, and as dona-
tions to these entities increased, the Internal Revenue Service (IRS) provided a
framework and structure to these entities through legislative statute. Under Section
501(c)(3) of the Internal Revenue Code, the IRS first defines a tax-exempt chari-
table organization as one that is:
organized and operated exclusively for exempt purposes set forth in section
501(c)(3), and none of its earnings may inure to any private shareholder or
individual. In addition, it may not be an action organization, i.e., it may not
attempt to influence legislation as a substantial part of its activities and it may
not participate in any campaign activity for or against political candidates.
(www.irs.gov/charities/charitable/article/0,,id=96099,00.html)
According to the IRS, organizations that use the 501(c)(3) designation fall into two
broad categories: public charities and private foundations (see Figure 3.1). The IRS
does not explicitly define “private foundation,” and instead argues that all 501(c)(3)
organizations are private foundations except for those that engage in inherently
public activity and obtain an exception from the IRS (Richardson and Reilly,
2003). The source of funding for charity work is a key variable in determining

28 Philanthropic investment in community development
whether an organization is a charity or a private foundation. According to IRS
operation requirements:
Public charities receive a greater portion of their financial support from the
general public or governmental units, and have greater interaction with the
public. A private foundation, on the other hand, is typically controlled by
members of a family or by a small group of individuals, and derives much of its
support from a small number of sources and from investment income. Because
they are less open to public scrutiny, private foundations are subject to vari-
ous operating restrictions and to excise taxes for failure to comply with those
restrictions.
(http://www.irs.gov/Charities-&-Non-Profits/EO-Operational-
Requirements:--Private-Foundations-and-Public-Charities)
The number of subcategories under these two umbrella terms varies according to
the IRS, the Foundation Center, and the Council on Foundations. Public charities
typically receive one-third of their support from many sources, including the general
public, private foundations, government agencies, and corporations. Public charities
such as museums, parent–teacher organizations, or art groups can also use fees col-
lected for services or admissions fees to fund their charitable activities (see Figure 3.2).
FIGURE 3.1 Internal Revenue Service (IRS) foundation status classification
FIGURE 3.2 Subcategories of public charities or grant-making charities
IRS 5 0 1 (c)(3 )
CHARITABLE
ORGANIZATIONS
PUBLIC OR
GRANTMAKING
CHARITIES
PRIVATE
FOUNDATIONS
STATUTO RY PU BLIC
C H A R IT IES
H EALTH CARE
C O N V ER SIO N S
F U N D E R
C O LLA B O R A T IV ES
CO M M UN ITY
FO U N D A TIO N S
P U B LIC C H A R IT IES
SU P P O R T E D THRO UGH
D O N A TIO N S
P U B LIC C H A R IT IES
R EC EIV IN G E X E M P T
FU N C T IO N INCO M E
P U B L IC OR G RA N T
M A KIN G C H A R IT IES

Philanthropy and community development 29
Statutory public charities, such as health care conversions and public charities
supported through donations such as community foundations and funder col-
laboratives, are philanthropic efforts that are evident in place-based community
development initiatives targeting the urban poor. This chapter takes a closer
look at these specific forms of charitable giving beginning with health care
conversions.
Health care conversions
Also known as New Health Foundation Initiatives, health care conversions are
foundations established from proceeds from the conversion of a nonprofit health
care organization into a for-profit entity. Conversion of hospitals from nonprofit
to for-profit corporations comprise 75 percent of health care conversions, but this
group typically results in smaller foundations with median assets of approximately
$41 million (Williams and Brelvi, 2000). Conversions resulting from health plans
and health systems result in much larger foundations with a median endowment of
$106 million from health plans and approximately $140 million from health care
systems (Williams and Brelvi, 2000).
New health foundations largely focus their grant-making on health care issues
within a specific geographic area and are increasingly engaging in community
development programs as they relate to the overall well-being of families. The
California Endowment (CalEndow), established in 1996, is at the forefront of these
comprehensive community development efforts arguing that good health happens
in healthy communities. It was created as a result of Blue Cross of California’s
creation of a for-profit corporation, the WellPoint Health Network. In 2010,
CalEndow launched a ten-year Building Healthy Communities Initiative that tar-
gets 14 underserved communities in California. Arguing that place matters in the
well-being of families, CalEndow has committed $1 billion to its CCI.
CalEndow has identified ten outcomes for a healthy community that will serve
as a roadmap for improvement, as well as help measure success as the initiatives
are implemented in each underserved neighborhood. These outcomes go beyond
health conditions, encompassing every facet of community life, including edu-
cation, housing, neighborhood safety, environmental health, employment, and
access to healthy foods (California Endowment, 2010).
A growing number of foundations are expanding their health care missions to
include economic and community development. Grantmakers in Health, a non-
profit launched in 1982 to foster collaboration among health-related grant makers,
recently convened a strategy session in Washington, D.C. highlighting the impor-
tance of place for health-based initiatives. It argued that:
Place matters in the lives of children. They and their families are generally only
as safe, healthy, and productive as the communities in which they live, work,
and play. Knowing this, there is more focus on mitigating negative influences
on people’s health and well-being by improving community conditions. By

30 Philanthropic investment in community development
addressing the social, economic, and environmental factors that shape out-
comes for children and families, funders may find opportunities to support
healthy child development.
(Grantmakers in Health, 2011, p. 2)
Using the well-known Harlem Children’s Zone (HCZ) as an example of effec-
tive child-focused, place-based neighborhood improvement, other health care
foundations are examining the potential of comprehensive community devel-
opment partnerships (Orszag, Barnes, Carrion, and Summers, 2009). The
HCZ encompasses a 97-block area in Harlem, New York, in which numer-
ous nonprofits collaborate to support children’s educational, health, and social
development from birth to college (Smedley, 2008). Highlighting the com-
plexity of holistic community change, efforts by the Obama administration to
expand the HCZ to 21 communities has come under fire after a Brookings
Institution study presented evidence that providing parenting classes, health ser-
vices, nutritional programs, and other wrap-around social services fails to have
appreciable effects on student achievement.
1
Critics also argue that few commu-
nities have access to the type of funding needed to effectively implement such
a model. HCZ’s assets in 2009 were $200 million with an operating budget of
$84 million (Otterman, 2010).
A focus on children’s health has also led to the use of comprehensive com-
munity initiatives by foundations. Realizing that place matters, health care
foundations such as The Alleghany Foundation in Covington, Virginia, funded
economic development studies on regional cooperation to attract industry to
the area; it also provides funds for the removal of blighted property and historic
preservation. Another example is the Birmingham Foundation, created from the
sale of a private hospital in 1996 that now targets 14 underserved communi-
ties in the South Pittsburgh area for community development initiatives. The
Byerly Foundation was formed in 1995 from proceeds of the sale of a hospital in
Hartsville, North Carolina. It is actively engaged in the update of a comprehen-
sive plan for the city of Hartsville and is serving as a funder and catalyst for the
removal of the railroad from the center of town, paving the way for Hartsville’s
redevelopment.
2

Communities across the U.S. may just be starting to feel the impact of health
care conversion foundations. Baker (2001) argues that less than 21 percent
of the 525 hospitals converting from nonprofit to for-profit ownership have
established foundations as required by law. The sector saw a sharp increase in
the creation of conversion foundations during the mid-1980s to late 1990s
with approximately 60 percent formed between 1994 and 1999, and an addi-
tional 10 percent since 1999 with more than half located in ten states (Garigan,
2004; Shiroma, 2001).

Philanthropy and community development 31
Community foundations
As a 501(c)(3) tax-exempt organization, a community foundation is a public char-
ity created to attract large contributions for the benefit of a specific geographic area
or community (IRS Reg. 1.170A-9[e][11][i]). Funds may be held by the commu-
nity foundation, or by banks and trusts that distribute net assets to the community
foundation from bequests or estates.
A critical issue for a community foundation to retain its tax-exempt status is
the 33
1
∕3 percent support test. The organization must receive more than one-
third of its total funding in each taxable year from the general public in the
form of “gifts, grants, contributions, membership fees” (IRC 509 [a][2]). These
contributions include bequests, legacies, property, and transfers from private
foundations.
Unlike private foundations that are free to develop their own criteria for board
membership, including limiting board seats to family members (in the case of fam-
ily foundations), community foundation boards have less flexibility according to
federal statute. Not only must community foundations show a history of broad
support from the community they serve, the governing body must also represent
the public interest. In addition, the board of a community foundation must be
independent, non-sectarian and not appointed by a single outside entity (Council
on Foundations, 2008).
Community foundations have a long history in the U.S., with the first instituted
in 1914. Some community foundations began as private foundations as is the case
with the Brooklyn Community Foundation. First inaugurated in 1998 with a gift
of stock valued at more than $56 million from the Independence Community
Bank, the Independent Community Foundation focused on providing assistance to
low-income residents of Brooklyn’s 70 distinct neighborhoods. Recognizing that
additional resources were needed to respond to the diverse needs of its targeted
residents, more than one-third of which are foreign-born, the foundation trans-
ferred its endowment to create the Brooklyn Community Foundation in 2009.
The geographic areas targeted by community foundations vary, with many tar-
geting counties as their service areas. The Midwest region has the greatest number
of community foundations. In fact, Michigan, Ohio, and Indiana account for more
than one-third of all community foundations based in the U.S. with 64, 78, and 79
respectively. California also has one of the highest concentrations of community
foundations with 70 in the state (Council on Foundations, n.d.). Bernholz, Fulton,
and Kasper (2005) argue that changes in tax laws spurred the growth of community
foundations beyond cities, leading to dramatic growth in the Midwest. Many of
these community foundations also have strong connections to community devel-
opment work. The devolution of local policymaking and local support for service
provision has positioned community foundations to play an increasingly important
role in community development (Graddy and Morgan, 2006).
A number of challenges face community foundations in the twenty-first cen-
tury. In their report, On the Brink of a New Promise: The Future of U.S. Community

32 Philanthropic investment in community development
Foundations, Bernholz et al. (2005) write that there are three key changes that
community foundations must address. The first includes shifting their focus from
“institution-building” and operational efficiency outward to the communities they
serve as they redefine their purpose. They contend that many of the unique ser-
vices community foundations provide are now available elsewhere. In addition,
the communities they serve are changing rapidly and community foundations must
give serious thought to their mission and target population.
Another key change community foundations must make includes moving
beyond their traditional fiscal role. Initially created to manage the assets of a vari-
ety of donors to benefit a geographic area, community foundations can serve as
effective leaders in developing strategic solutions, brokering collaborations, and
building new knowledge in ways that respond to the specific needs of its commu-
nity (Bernholz et al., 2005).
The third change promoted by Bernholz et al. (2005) addresses the need for
community foundations to develop strategic and coordinated relationships with
other foundations and funding sources, rather than competing against them.
Community foundations must adapt to new contexts in which partnerships are the
norm rather than the exception, as limited resources impact the foundations’ work
in an increasingly fast-paced, social, cultural, and economic environment.
Funder collaboratives
Challenged by the complex, and often expensive, interventions needed by under-
served, urban neighborhoods, foundations are also forming funding collaboratives
to pool resources, information, and know-how. One of the most notable collabo-
ratives is Living Cities, formed in 1991 as the National Community Development
Initiative (NCDI), a collective comprised of 22 foundations, banks, financial insti-
tutions, HUD, and private corporations. The LISC and the Enterprise Foundation
serve as intermediaries, working directly with CDCs in targeted low-income
neighborhoods. NCDI’s mission is bold and a clear departure from most traditional
approaches to philanthropy. It emphasizes collaboration, innovation, leadership,
and impacts and articulates two of these goals as follows:
● Innovation: We take risks, catalyze fresh thinking, and test new approaches in
order to creatively disrupt the status quo, change broken systems, and provide
opportunities for all;
● Impact: We are committed to making material improvements in the lives
of low-income people, cities, and the systems that affect them. We hold
ourselves accountable for evaluating our effectiveness and are intentionally
self-reflective as we strive to continuously improve, adapt, and inform future
innovation.
(www.livingcities.org/about/values)

Philanthropy and community development 33
Funder collaboratives go beyond pooling resources. As Elwood Hopkins (2005)
of the Los Angeles Urban Funders (LAUF) states, “It entails pooling knowledge
across institutions; facilitating the formation of groupings; networks, or alliances
to do things collectively; reducing duplication of effort; and optimizing collec-
tive economies of scale” (p. 23). A growing number of funder collaboratives are
focusing their resources on geographically defined communities in need, including
the Detroit Funders Collaborative, the Philadelphia Neighborhood Development
Collaborative, the Baltimore Neighborhood Collaborative, the Trenton Funders
Collaborative, the East Bay Funders, LAUF, the Long Beach Funders, and the San
Diego Neighborhood Funders.
The Surdna Foundation’s Comprehensive Community Revitalization
Program (CCRP) was one of the early funder collaboratives, operating from
1992–1998. The Surdna Foundation made an initial grant of $3 million, recruit-
ing other foundations and corporations by focusing on place-based change via a
“pragmatic approach.” Four CDCs in four South Bronx neighborhoods identi-
fied neighborhood needs and solutions. Annie E. Casey, Chase Bank, Citigroup,
Edna McConnell Clark, LISC, New York Department of Health, the Open
Society Institute, Seedco, the Pew Trust, the Rockefeller Foundation, Uris
Brothers Foundation, and the Wells Fargo Foundation all joined the collabora-
tive, contributing $9.4 million; the four targeted CDCs raised an additional $10
million. This collaboration in New York served as a catalyst for the creation of
Chicago’s New Communities Program (NCP) with $47 million funding from
the MacArthur Foundation. The ten-year NCP in Chicago started in 2002 and
is managed by LISC Chicago. It engaged 16 Chicago neighborhoods and 14
local community organizations. In a preliminary evaluation of four lead agencies
involved in this effort, Chaskin and Karlström (2012) argue that LISC’s role as a
broker for needed technical and financial resources was a key variable in devel-
oping collaborative relationships, but NCP has yet to achieve systemic change
for achieving improved quality of life for disadvantaged residents.
Funder collaborations can be particularly effective at directing and funding com-
prehensive community development in low-income communities by spreading
the risk of funding efforts that individual foundations typically avoid. Philanthropy
is traditionally risk-averse, and comprehensive community change is complicated
and does not occur in short intervals of time. By minimizing risk, funder col-
laboratives blend funding streams and build upon the expertise of the individual
foundations to essentially deconstruct the challenges of complex neighborhood
problems. This approach allows for a response that is thoughtful, multifaceted,
and based on each foundation’s knowledge and prior experiences. The availabil-
ity of combined, sustained funding streams provide more resources for struggling
neighborhoods and ensure a more consistent source of funds over a longer period
that could ultimately bring about marked social change. Successful collaboratives
share many of the same elements including clear values, goals, methods, trust, and
accountability, equal voice between all funding participants, and clear expectations
about participants’ decision-making authority (Hamilton, 2002).

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I would not push this analogy too far. No one expects that the
community will require that every one within its borders shall use the
public library so many times a month, or, indeed that it shall be used at all.
The nature of the institution precludes such compulsion. But it should
require that every effort be made to see that no section of the books on the
library shelves shall lie idle and that no section of the community shall fail
to use books, either through ignorance or through doubt of a welcome.
The librarian should say: Here is an unused book. Is it without value in
this community? Then let it make place for a better. Has it value? Then why
is it not used? Somewhere, in this community, is the man, woman or child,
who, whether realizing it or not, would derive pleasure or profit, or both
from reading it. It is my business to seek out that person.
Again: Here is a man who does not read books. Is this because no book
would appeal to him? Impossible! He may think so, but there lives no one
to whom the soul of some fellow man, speaking through the printed page,
will not bring a welcome message. Is there such a book on my shelves? If
so, it is my business to get it into that man’s hands; if not, I must buy, beg or
borrow it as soon as I may.
When the librarian has begun to talk in this fashion, lo! the dawn is
shining, he is a librarian of to-day. The librarian of to-day frowns on no one,
discourages no one; and he stands not passively at his door with open arms.
He walks through his library; he walks through his town. He knows the
books in one and the dwellers in the other, and he knows both in their
relationships, actual and possible. If there are disused books on his shelves
or non-readers in his community, it is not because he has made no effort to
bring them together; his failures are not those of negligence.
The other day, sitting in a stalled trolley car, my eye fell upon a street-
cleaner, and I began to watch him with interest. He was busy—apparently, I
was going to say, but that does him injustice. He was really busy. While I
watched him—and the car was delayed for some little time—he was
constantly at work, pushing over the asphalt the broad scraper that was
intended to rid it of dust and refuse. And yet he did not clean the street, for
he took no account of the inequalities of its surface. These required
intelligent adaptation of his movements at every instant, and to this he paid
no attention. He went through the motions; his actual expenditure of
physical energy was probably as great as if he had mixed a little brain-work

with it, but it failed to accomplish what it ought, simply from that lack. And
yet it would have been difficult for any overseer to give him orders that
would have bettered the matter. It would have been hard to point out at any
given instant, his errors of commission or of omission. The only way in
which one could tell that he was not doing his work properly was by the
result. He was put there to clean the street—and the street was not cleaned.
So with the librarians of yesterday and the day before. They are hard
workers, not idlers. They have the tools, and they go through the motions.
They may tire themselves out with their labor. Their library buildings may
be attractive and clean; their technique perfect, their books well selected
and in good order, their catalogs excellent. It is hard to point to any one
thing that they are doing incorrectly or that they are omitting. And yet we
must judge their work by its fruits; they are put into a community of actual
or potential readers in charge of a collection of books. What are these for, if
not to be read? Yet many remain untouched. For what purpose have the
schools taught the townspeople to read? Thousands of them make no good
use of that knowledge. To the librarian of to-day the non-realization of this
and the lack of effort to remedy it mean failure. In order to make a little
more definite our ideas of these three kinds of librarians, let us consider one
or two very practical problems and see how each would probably view
them and act upon them.
First. The library circulates no books on plumbing. For the librarian of
the day before yesterday, this is no problem at all. Probably his library has
no books on plumbing. His library is not for plumbers, and he has never
suspected that it could be. As for the plumbers in his community, they too
have never considered the possibility that they might learn something of
their work from books in a public library. They are therefore silent and
uncomplaining. Peace reigns and there is a general state of satisfaction all
around—the satisfaction of blissful ignorance and of the day before
yesterday.
The librarian of yesterday, on the other hand, sees the problem clearly
and is concerned about it. He has good books on plumbing and nobody
reads them. Evidently the more advanced grade of the librarian has not
affected the plumbers—they still remain in ignorance of the public library.
But what is he to do? Here is the library; here are the books; here is the
librarian, ready and willing to distribute them to all who may come. If the
generation—or any part of it—is so wicked and perverse that it comes not,

what is there to do? What, indeed! And so library and community remain in
the twilight of yesterday just before the dawn.
The librarian of to-day not only sees the problem and is concerned about
it, but he proceeds to do something. Just what he does or how he does it is
of far less consequence than the fact that he sees action in the matter to be
necessary and possible. He may go personally and interview the plumbers;
he may send them lists; he may get permission to address the plumbers’
union; he may do one or many of a thousand things to remedy matters, and
although it is certain that what he does will not be completely effective, it is
equally certain that it will have some good effect, which is the main thing.
Problem Second. Examination of the registry list shows that there are
practically no card holders in a certain part of the town. As in the former
case, this is no problem at all to the day before yesterday librarian. Its
existence would in general not appear to him, certainly not as the result of
any kind of statistical investigation. If he were informed of it he would
regard the fact with complacency. The library is for readers, and if certain
persons are non-readers they had better keep away. Nothing could be
simpler. The librarian of yesterday, on the other hand, feels that all is not
right. It is certainly too bad that when library privileges are offered free to
all, so large a portion of the community should fail to take advantage of
them. The library stands ready to help these people, if they will only come.
Why don’t they?
The librarian of yesterday thus stops with a question; the librarian of to-
day proceeds to answer it. He finds out why they don’t come. He may
discover one or more of any number of things; whatever may be the causes,
they are sure to be interesting, at least to him, for the to-day librarian is a
born investigator. It may be that the non-readers are literate, but take no
interest in books; perhaps they say they have no time to read; possibly the
library has not the kind of books that they like; they may be foreigners,
reading no English, and the library may have no books in their tongue.
Whatever the trouble may be, the librarian of to-day sets about to remedy it.
He may not succeed; but it is the diagnosis and the attempt at treatment, not
its success, that constitute him what he is.
Problem Third. The reading done through the library is trivial and
inconsequential. The fiction drawn is of low order, and there is little else
read. The way in which this will affect the three types of librarian may be

predicted at once. The librarian of the day-before-yesterday heeds it not; the
librarian of yesterday heeds and perhaps worries, but does nothing. The
librarian of to-day finds out the trouble and then tries to remedy it.
And so it goes: you may construct other problems for yourselves and
imagine their solution, or lack of solution.
Now, it is obvious that there are great and evident objections to being a
librarian of to-day and corresponding advantages in being one of the other
kinds. In the first place the to-day variety of librarianship involves
brainwork and it is always difficult to use one’s brain—we saw that in the
case of the street-cleaner. Then this kind of librarian must be always
looking for trouble. Instead of congratulating himself that all is going
smoothly, he must set out with the premise that all cannot be going
smoothly. There must be some way in which his books can be made to
serve more people and serve them better; and it is his business to find out
that way. Then the to-day librarian must use his statistics. The librarian of
the day before yesterday probably takes none at all. The librarian of
yesterday collects them with diligence, but regards any suggestion that they
might be of use somewhat as the lazy wood-sawyer did the advice that he
should sharpen his saw. “I should think I had a big enough job to cut up all
this wood,” he replied petulantly, “without stopping to sharpen saws.” The
librarian of yesterday has trouble enough in collecting and tabulating his
statistics without stopping to use them—to make any deductions from them
—to learn where the library machine is failing and where he should use the
wrench or the oil can. All these things and many others make it easier for
the overworked librarian to drop back into yesterday, or the day before. It
should be borne in mind, however, that the difference between the three
types of librarian is not so much difference in the amount of work done as it
is in attitude of mind. The librarian of to-day does not necessarily expend
more energy than the librarian of day before yesterday—but it is expended
in a different direction and with a different object. It is to be feared that
some librarians of small libraries allow themselves to become discouraged
after reading of the great things that have been accomplished by large
institutions with plenty of money to spend—the circulation of millions of
books yearly, the purchase of additions by the tens of thousands, the
provision of exhibitions for the children, the story-telling by professionals,
the huge collections on special subjects, technology, art or history. It almost

seems as if success were simply a matter of spending and as if without
money to spend, failure should be expected as a matter of course.
On the contrary, all that the money does is to make possible success on a
large and sensational scale—without the proper spirit and the proper
workers the result might be failure on a scale quite as sensational. And an
enthusiastic spirit, a high aim and unflagging energy—these are things that
no money can buy and that will bring success on the small scale as on the
large one.
We are fortunate—we who have charge of libraries and are trying to do
something worth while with them—that there is perhaps less of the spirit of
pure commercialism among us than among some other classes of workers.
For this, in part, we have to thank our inadequate salaries. Persons who
desire to work simply for the material reward will select some other field.
We are glad to get our reward—we certainly earn it; but I venture to say
that in the case of most of us there is also something in the work that
appeals to us. And that something is the thing that, pushed to its furthest
extent, will bring the dawn of to-day into the most backward library. It is
not a very inspiring thing simply to sit down and watch a pile of books—
hardly more so, I should think, than to take care of a pile of bricks or a load
of turnips. Interest, enthusiasm, inspiration, come with realization of the
fact that every one of those books has a mission and that it is the librarian’s
business to find what it is and to see that it is performed. In the large,
wealthy institution this duty may be accompanied by the expenditure of vast
sums, and may be performed with the aid of things that only large sums of
money can buy; in the small library there may be but a single librarian and
only a few dollars to spend. But, just as in the case of a city librarian with
an ample salary, she has open to her the choice of those three types of
librarianship—the day before yesterday, yesterday and to-day.
And how about the librarian of to-morrow? Perhaps it may be as well to
leave him or her for future consideration; but I cannot help saying just a
word. May it not be that in the days to come we shall have enough civic
pride to do whatever we may find to do—in our libraries or anywhere else,
not with our eyes fixed only upon the work itself, important as that may be,
but with the broader viewpoint of its effect upon the whole community?
May it not be that this librarian of to-morrow will ask not, “Will it raise my
circulation?” or even “Will it improve the quality of my reading?” but “Will
it better the reading that is done in this community?” That librarian will not

rejoice that his library circulation of good novels has dropped, when he
realizes that twice as many bad novels are bought and read outside. He will
be pleased that the children in his library have learned to wash their hands,
but chiefly because he hopes that what they have learned may react upon
the physical cleanliness—and perhaps on the moral cleanliness, too—of the
community. Much as he will love the library, he will love it as an agency for
the improvement of the community in which he lives and works, and he
will do nothing for its aggrandizement, expansion or improvement that
involves a change of the community in the opposite direction. We shall not
see one library rejoicing because it has enticed away the users of some other
library; we may even see a library rejoicing that it has lost its readers in
Polish history, we will say, when it becomes known that they have gone to
another library with a better collection in that subject.
I confess that I am looking forward to the day when we shall take this
view—when the adage “Every man for himself and the devil take the
hindmost” may be forgotten among institutions in the same town. The
policy that it represents makes for high speed, perhaps, but not for
solidarity. In a fight such as we are waging with the forces of ignorance and
indifference we should all keep shoulder to shoulder. This is why the
librarian should say: “I am a citizen; nothing in this city is without interest
to me.” That is why he should be a librarian of to-day, and why he may
even look forward with hopefulness to the dawn of a still better to-morrow.

SCHOOL LIBRARIES AND MENTAL TRAINING
Is it more important in education to impart definite items of information
or to train the mind so that it will know how to acquire and wish to acquire?
To ask the question is to answer it; yet we do not always live up to our
lights.
In the older methods the teacher, or rather his predecessors, decided what
it would be necessary for the child to memorize, and then he was made to
memorize, while still without appreciation of the need of so doing. We are
perhaps in danger today of going to the other extreme. We require so little
memorization by the student that the memory, as a practical tool of
everyday life, is in danger of falling into disuse. It is surely possible for us
to exercise our pupils’ memories, to develop them, and to control them,
without giving them the fatal idea that memory is a substitute for thought,
or that the assimilation of others’ ideas, perfect though it may be, will
altogether take the place of the development of one’s own. There are still
things that one must learn by heart, but since they must be retained below
the threshold of consciousness, it is well that if possible they should also be
acquired below that threshold. The problem of consciously learning a
quantity of items of any kind and then relegating them to one’s
subconsciousness in such a way that they will be available at any given time
is not, of course, impossible. Most of us have at our disposal many facts
that we have learned in this way; but I venture to assert that most of us have
lost a large proportion of what we thus acquired. Now a man never learns
by rote the names of his relations, the positions of the rooms in his house,
the names of the streets in his town. He has acquired them subconsciously
as he needs them. When the human mind becomes convinced of the need of
information of this kind “in its business,” the acquiring comes as a matter of
course. In a language, the paradigms may be learned unconsciously when
the pupil sees that they are necessary in order to understand an interesting
passage; the multiplication table and tables of weights and measures require
no conscious memorization; or at least such memorization may be
undertaken voluntarily as a recognized means to a desired end. I say these
things may be done; I am sure that they are in many schools; I am equally
sure that they were unheard of in my own boyhood; that is, as recognized

methods in teaching. Of course, in spite of schools and teachers and
methods, a vast amount of information and training has always been
acquired in this way. I do not remember ever “learning to read” as a set
task. I am sure that none of my children ever did so. We recognized the
desirability of knowing how. We wanted to learn, and so we learned; that is
all. Of course our teachers and parents and friends helped us along.
Is not this what the school is for—to make the pupil anxious to learn and
then to help him? When all schools are conducted on this principle, we shall
be very happy, but apparently it is not so simple as it would appear.
What we should try to approximate, at all events, is an emancipation
from the thraldom of unwillingness on the part of the pupil—to bring it
about that he shall desire to learn and will take what measures he can to do
so, gladly availing himself of what help we can offer him.
I have said that what we need is to stimulate the pupil’s desire and then
to satisfy it. I have known teachers who were competent to do both—who
could take an ignorant, unwilling pupil and make of him an enthusiast,
thirsting for knowledge, in a few weeks. We all know of the ideal university
whose faculty consisted of Mark Hopkins on one end of a log. I am sorry
the creator of that epigram put his teacher on a log. There are plenty of logs,
and, from this fact, too many persons, I am afraid, have leaped to the
conclusion that there are also plenty of Mark Hopkinses. I fear that one
trouble with educators is that, hitching their wagons to stars, they have
assumed the possibility that terrestrial luminaries also are able to raise us to
the skies. If we had a million Mark Hopkinses and a million boys for them
to educate, we should need only a sufficient quantity of logs; we should be
forever absolved from planning school-houses and making out schedules,
from writing textbooks and establishing libraries. As it is, we must do all
these things. We must adopt any and all devices to arouse and hold the
pupil’s interest, and we must similarly seek out and use all kinds of
machinery to satisfy that interest when once aroused. Of these devices and
machines, the individual teacher, with or without his textbooks, lectures,
recitations, laboratory work, and formal courses, is only one, and perhaps in
some cases not the one to be preferred as the primary agent. Among such
devices I believe that a collection of books, properly selected, disposed, and
used can be made to play a very important part, both in arousing interest in
a subject and in satisfying it—in other words in teaching it properly.

And first let us see what it may do to stimulate a general interest in
knowledge. Of late I have seen cropping out here and there what seems to
me a pedagogical heresy—the thesis that no kind of training is of value in
fitting the pupil for anything but the definite object that it has in view. We
can, according to this view, teach a boy to argue about triangles, but this
will not help him in a legal or business discussion. We may teach him to
solve equations, and he will then be an equation-solver—nothing else. We
may teach him to read Greek and he will then be some sort of a Greek
scholar, but his reaction to other attempts to teach him will not be affected.
Anything like a general training is a contradiction in terms. If this is true, a
great part of what I am saying is foolish, but I do not believe it. Doubtless
we have exaggerated the effect of certain kinds of training. The old college
graduate who, having been through four years of Latin, Greek, and
mathematics, considered himself able with slight additional training, to
undertake to practice law or medicine or manage a parish, was probably too
sanguine. Yet I refuse to believe that a man’s brain is so shut off in
knowledge-tight compartments that one may exercise one part of it without
the slightest effect on the others. I cannot now write with my toes, but I am
sure that I could learn to do so much more quickly because I know how to
use my fingers for the purpose.
And it is indubitable, I think, that the best general preparation for mental
activity of whatever kind is contact with the minds of others—early, late,
and often. It tones up all one’s reactions—makes him mentally stronger,
quicker, and more accurate. Some children get this at home, where there is a
numerous family of persons who are both thoughtful and mentally alert.
Some meet at home, besides members of the family, visitors who add to the
variety of their contacts. Few get it in school, with much variety. And it is
futile to expect most of our children to get it anywhere directly from
persons. This being the case, it is wonderfully fortunate that we have so
many of the recorded souls of human beings between the covers of books.
With them mental contacts may be numerous, wide, and easy. To interest a
man in a stretch of country take him up to a height whence he may overlook
it. There is a patch of woods, there a hill, there is a winding stream. He will
see in imagination the wild flowers under the trees, the windswept rocks
behind the hill, the trout in the stream. He will wonder, too, what
unimagined things there may be and he will long to find out. To interest a
pupil in a subject turn him loose in a room containing a hundred books

about it. He will browse about, finding a dozen things that he understands
and a hundred that he does not. He will get such a bird’s-eye view that his
stimulated imagination will long for closer acquaintance. And if you want
to interest him in the world of ideas in general, turn him loose in a general
library. The things that he will get are not to be ascertained by an
examination. They are intangible, but their results are not.
In an illuminating article on the events just preceding the present
European war, Professor Munroe Smith holds that it was precipitated
chiefly by bringing to the front at every step military rather than diplomatic
considerations. The trouble with military men, he says, is that they take no
account of “imponderables”—by which he means public opinion, national
feeling, injured pride, joy, grief—all those things, intellectual and
emotional, that cannot be expressed in terms of men, guns, supplies, and
military position. I have been wondering whether some other technically
trained persons—educators, for instance, do not tend toward a similar
neglect of imponderables, measuring educational values solely in terms of
hours, and units, and the passing of examinations. It is a fault common to all
highly trained specialists. The Scripture has a phrase for it, as for most
things—“ye neglect the weightier matters of the law—judgment and faith.”
These, you will note, are to be classed with Professor Munroe Smith’s
“imponderables,” whereas mint, anise, and cummin are commercial
products.
At least one noted educator, William James, did not make this error, for
he bids us note that the emotional “imponderable”—though he does not use
this word—possesses the priceless property of unlocking within us
unsuspected stores of energy and placing them at our disposal. “I thank
thee, Roderick, for the word,” says Fitz-James in “The Lady of the Lake”:
“it nerves my heart; it steels my sword.” One would hardly expect to find
educational psychology in Scott’s verse, but here it is. The word that
Roderick Dhu spoke (I forget just what it was, but I think he called his rival
a bad name) unlocked in Fitz-James an unexpected store of reserve energy,
and the result, as I recall it, was quite unfortunate from the Gaelic point of
view. We cannot afford to neglect the imponderables; and it is their
presence and their influence that are fostered by a collection of books. If
you will add together the weight of leather, paper, glue, thread, and ink in a
book you will get the whole weight of the volume. There is naught
ponderable left; and yet what is left is all that makes the thing a book—all

that has power to influence the lives and souls of men—the imponderable
part, fit for the unlocking of energies.
I would not have you think, although I believe this to be at bottom a
matter of principles, that it is not possible to apply these principles very
directly and concretely in the daily practice of an educational institution. I
desire to call your attention for a moment to the testimony of one who has
had great experience and practice in the administration of a collection of
books in such an institution and in their use for the purposes already
outlined—Mr. Frederick C. Hicks, assistant librarian of Columbia
University, New York City, from whose recent review article on this subject
I propose to quote a few paragraphs. Mr. Hicks is writing primarily of
college instruction, but, as he notes in the first paragraph that I shall quote,
what he says applies with equal cogency to the secondary school. He writes:
The general tendency in all instruction today, including even that in preparatory and
high schools, is from what may be called the few-book method to the many-book method
—a recognition of the power of the printed page for which librarians have always stood
sponsor. The lecture, note-taking, text-book and quiz method of instruction is fast passing
away in undergraduate as well as in graduate study. Textbooks are still in use in
undergraduate and Master of Arts courses, but they have been relegated to a subordinate
position. Emphasis is laid on work done and the assimilation of ideas gathered from many
sources rather than upon memorizing the treatise of one author. Necessarily, references are
chiefly to easily accessible works of secondary authority, and reading instead of research is
the objective.
From the library point of view, the growth of the laboratory or case method of
instruction appears to be an independent phenomenon. It should be noticed, however, that
coincident with it is the general tendency to adopt a policy of teaching each subject with
emphasis on its relations to other subjects.
Most universities now give courses for which no textbook is available. For instance,
Professor Frederick J. Turner, of Harvard University, announces in a syllabus of 116 pages
that there is no textbook suitable for use in his course on the History of the West in the
United States. He thereupon gives citations to about 2,100 separate readings contained in
1,300 volumes, and says that his course requires not less than 120 pages of reading per
week in these books. Professor James Harvey Robinson’s course in Columbia University
on the History of the Intellectual Class in Western Europe has no textbook; and the reading
for a class of 156 students is indicated in a pamphlet of 53 pages, containing references to
301 books. Illustrations could be taken from almost any subject in the university
curriculum.
This is essentially a teacher’s view. Listen now to that of a public
librarian, Mr. John Cotton Dana, of Newark, New Jersey. He says:

In our high schools we spend literally millions of dollars to equip laboratories, kitchens,
carpenter shops, machine shops, and what not, to be used by a small part of the pupils for a
small part of the short school day. This is partly because so to do is the fashion of the hour,
partly also because the products of work in those shops, kitchens, and laboratories can be
seen, touched, and handled, are real things even to the most unintelligent.
For books, the essential tools of every form of acquisition, we spend, outside of
textbooks, a few paltry thousands. The things a child makes we can see, and we are
impressed by them; the knowledge he gains, the power of thought he acquires—these
cannot be made visible and are not appreciated by the ignorant; they can only be certified
to by the teacher and demonstrated by the student’s words and deeds as he goes through
life.
Mastery of print is mastery of world-knowledge. Our young people do not have it.
Surely they should be led to acquire it, and where better than in the high schools? To aid
them in this acquisition the high schools, should have ample collections of books, and
these collections of books should become active teaching organisms through the
ministrations of competent librarians.
Of all teaching laboratories, there is one which is plainly of supreme importance—that
of books.
I trust that you are with me so far; for I am about to make a further
advance that experience teaches me is very difficult, except for librarians. I
am going to urge that your collection of books, when you have made it, be
put in charge of one who has studied the methods of making the contents of
books available to the reader—their shelving, physical preparation,
classification, cataloguing; the ways in which to fit them to their users, to
record their use, and to prevent their abuse. This means a trained librarian.
In all departments where expert knowledge and skill are necessary it is
difficult to explain to a non-expert the reasons for this necessity and exactly
in what the expert knowledge consists. We are so accustomed to accept the
fact in certain departments that it passes there without question.
Unfortunately that is not the case with the selection and administration of a
library. Most persons understand quite well that special training is necessary
before one can practice law, or medicine, or engineering. No one would
undertake to drive a motor car or even ride a bicycle without some previous
experience; but it is quite usual to believe that a collection of books may be
administered and its use controlled by totally untrained and inexperienced
persons—a retired clergyman, a broken-down clerk, a janitor, perhaps. I
once asked a young woman who came for advice about taking up library
work what had inclined her toward that particular occupation. She was quite

frank with me; she said: “Why, my father and mother didn’t think I was
good for anything else.” This estimate of the library is by no means
confined to the parents of would-be library workers. And even where it is
recognized that some training and experience are necessary in administering
a large public institution, there is a lingering feeling that a comparatively
small collection, like that in a school, needs no expert supervision. The fact
that there are in a school plenty of experts in other lines seems to have been
not without its effect on this attitude. “Why, Professor Smith is one of the
best chemists in the state; Miss Jones is an acknowledged authority on
oriental history; do you mean to tell me that either of them would not make
a perfectly satisfactory librarian?” Which is something like saying, “Mr.
Robinson is our foremost banker; should he not be able to superintend the
dyeing department in a textile mill?” Or, “Rev. Mr. Jenkins is our most
eloquent pulpit orator; he can surely run the 2:15 express!”
Are my metaphors too violent? I think not. We are dealing here with
imponderables, as I have said, but the most imponderable thing of all, and
the most potent, is the human mind. To wield, concentrate, and control our
battery of energies we want a correlated energy—one whose relations to
them all are close and one who knows how to pull all the throttles, turn all
the valves, and operate all the mechanism that brings them into play. It
takes two years of hard work, nowadays, for a college graduate to get
through a library school, and it should not be necessary to argue that during
these two years he is working hard on essentials and is assimilating material
that the untrained man however able, cannot possibly acquire in a few
month’s casual association with a library or from mere association with
books, no matter how long or how intimate. You will pardon me, I am sure,
some further quotation from Mr. Hicks’s illuminating article. After calling
our attention to the fact that the effort to meet changing conditions in
instruction is purely technical, he goes on:
The librarian stands in the position of an engineer to whom is presented a task which by
the methods of his profession he must perform. Numerical growth, expansion, addition of
new schools and new subjects, and the introduction of the laboratory method by which
books are made actual tools for use, all mean to the librarian more books, larger reading-
rooms and more of them, a large staff specialized and grouped into departments, the
supervision of a complicated system, and capable business administration. These are all
technical matters and are of sufficient magnitude to require all of the time and strength of
those to whom they are entrusted....

In a reference library, open shelves, whether in department libraries or in the general
library, require much high-grade library service. The reference librarian becomes a direct
teacher in the use of books and gives constant assistance not merely in finding separate
books but in dealing with the whole literature of a subject....
The whole development from the few-book method to the many-book method
presupposes a system of reserve books. By this expression is meant the placing of a
collection of books behind an enclosure of some kind from which they are given out by a
library assistant for use in the room. The reserve collections, continually changing in
accordance with the directions of instructors, are in reality composite textbooks....
The mere clerical work of maintaining an efficient reserve system is large, its success
being dependent upon intelligent co-operation between the teaching faculty and the library,
but it involves also a technical problem to be solved by the librarian. What relation does
the number of copies of a given reserve book bear to its use? To put the question
concretely, how many copies of a book are required to supply a class of 200 students, all of
whom must read thirty pages of the book within two weeks?
I like so much one of Mr. Hicks’s expressions that I desire to emphasize
it at the close of what I am saying. A library, used for teaching purposes in a
school, is indeed, “a composite textbook.” It insures contact with a
composite instead of a single mind. The old idea was that contact of this
kind always resulted in confusion—in mental instability. There was a time
when the effort was to protect the mind through life from any such
unbalancing contact. The individual was protected from familiarity with
more than one set of opinions—religious, political, social, philosophical,
scientific. He was taught facts as facts and no emphasis was placed on the
more important fact that there are degrees of certainty and points of view.
The next step was to give the individual a free head after the formal
processes of education had terminated. Getting out of college was like
escaping from a box, where one had been shut up with Presbyterians and
Free Traders and Catastrophists and Hegelians—or their opposites, for the
contents of all the boxes were not alike. Now, we set the boy free when he
enters college and we are beginning to give him a little fresh air in the high
school. Why not go back to the beginning? Why not, at any rate, avoid the
implication that there is the same backing behind all that we teach or tell?
Some teachers, and some parents, have made this plan succeed. One of
them is Mr. H.R. Walmsley, who writes in the Volta Review (Washington,
April, 1915), on “How I Taught My Boy the Truth.” Says he:
I pondered over these things, and determined that I would never tell a falsehood to my
child; that I would tell him the truth upon every subject, and that I would not evade or

refuse to answer any question. I kept my resolution and have obtained most excellent
results. The child doubted nothing I told him. He knew that as far as I was able I would
reply truthfully to any question he might care to ask. In answering him I was always
careful to qualify my statements thus: “This is so,” “I believe so,” “It is believed to be,” “It
is claimed to be,” “Those who should know say,” etc. So he knew the basis from which I
spoke. Throughout his life, when he was told anything that looked doubtful, he would say,
“I will ask father.”
This plan is practicable from the child’s earliest years. As soon as he
learns to read we may begin to supplement it by reference to original
documents. This means a library at the very beginning, and at high school
age it means a large library. It need not all be in the school. In the smallest
towns there are now respectable public collections; the school may confine
itself to the subjects in its own curriculum. But whatever we do, let us not
teach the child, with the implication of equal authority, that twice two is is
four, that material bodies are composed of molecules, and that the Tories in
the Revolution were all bad. Tell him that there are other aspects, if they
exist, and as soon as he is able let him examine those aspects. He will be
able far sooner than some of us are willing to admit.
We librarians feel somewhat strongly on this matter because our own
institutions possess by their very nature that form of neutrality that exposes
both sides without advocating either. It seems to be assumed by some
persons that neutrality means ignorance. Of course, ignorance is one
method of insuring it. If a fairy story opens with the announcement that the
King of Nowaria is at war with the Prince of Sumboddia, you cannot take
sides until you know something about the quarrel. The trouble is that we do
not live in fairyland. In my home city the school authorities have been
trying to cultivate this kind of neutrality by cautioning principals not to
discuss the European war with their pupils. What is the result? One of my
branch librarians says in a recent report: “I have been greatly interested by
the fact that the high-school boys and girls never ask for anything about the
war. Not once during the winter have I seen in one of them a spark of
interest in the subject. It seems so strange that it should be necessary to
keep them officially ignorant of this great war because the grandfather of
one spoke French and of another, German.” With this I thoroughly agree. I
am not sure that I do not prefer a thorough and bigoted partisanship to this
neutrality of ignorance. Better than both is the opportunity for free
investigation with enlightened guidance. The public library offers the

opportunity for the fullest and freest contact with the minds of the world.
We try to give guidance, also, as we can; but we have not the opportunities
of you teachers. Guidance is your business and your high privilege; and if
some of you have in the past guided as the jailer guides his prisoners—for a
walk around the prison yard with ball and chain—let us be thankful that this
oppressive view is giving place to the freer idea of a guide as a counselor
and friend. Such guidance means intellectual freedom. Freedom means
choice, and choice implies a collection from which to choose. This means a
library and the school library is thus an indispensable tool in the hands of
those teachers to whom education signifies neutral training, the arousing of
neutral energies, and a control of the imponderables of life—those things
without physical weight which yet count more in the end than all the masses
with which molecular physics has to deal.

THE LIBRARY AND THE BUSINESS MAN
[16]
The electricians have a word that has always interested me—the word
and the thing it signifies. It is “hysteresis,” and it means that quality in a
mass of iron that resists magnetization, so that if the magnetizing force is a
moving one the magnetism always lags a little behind it. We see this quality
in many other places besides magnetic bodies—the almost universal
tendency of effects to lag behind their causes. I like to watch it in the
popular mind—the failure to “catch on” quickly—the appreciation that
comes just a little after the thing to be appreciated. Lag everywhere, in
apprehension, in knowledge, in the realization of a situation. Everywhere
hysteresis. Of course, sometimes the lag is great and sometimes it is slight.
It may be affected by physical distance, as when the European thinks that
Indians camp in the suburbs of Pittsburg and that the citizens of
Indianapolis hunt the buffalo of an evening; or it may be a function of
mental distance, as when the Wall Street financier fondly imagines that this
country is still populated chiefly by lambs, as it undoubtedly was fifty years
ago. I like to watch it as it affects the idea of the public library as some
people hold it. Now of course, without progress, change, motion of some
kind, there could be no lag. In a permanent magnet there is no hysteresis. If
the Indians and the buffalo were still with us, the European would be
thinking the truth. If we had not learned that the gold-brick and the green
goods were frauds, we could still be fleeced. And if libraries were still what
they were fifty years ago, there would be no lag in the ideas that some
people hold about them. Libraries have changed. Some of you know it and
some of you do not. Libraries have changed in the kind of printed matter
that they collect and preserve; in the kind of people to whom they make
their appeal; in the way in which they try to make the former available to
the latter. They have utterly changed in their own conception of their status
in the community, of what they owe to the community and how they ought
to go about it, to pay the debt.
The old library was first and foremost a collection of material for
scholars; the new is for the busy citizen, to help him in what he is busy
about, to make it possible for him to do more work in less time. It has taken
some time for the library to see itself in this light, but it has taken the great

body of our citizens still longer to recognize and act on the change—else I
should not be talking to you to-day about the library and the business man.
The modern library is concerned, much more largely than the old, with
contemporary relations, with what is happening and what is just going to
happen. It sympathizes with the men who do things. It tries to let them
know what is going on about them, and to assist them in what they are
attempting—whether it be to achieve a world-wide peace or to devise a new
non-refillable bottle.
The library has placed itself in a position where it can do this better than
any other institution, for it is essentially non-partisan. Probably it is our
only non-partisan institution. Mr. Bryan’s impartial government newspaper
has not yet printed its first number. The school must take sides, for its deals
solely with children. The library alone can store up material on all sides of
every mooted question and offer it to him who reads, without in any way
taking sides itself. It may run the risk of misconception. We had a big
exhibit of war pictures last year. The Pacifists protested. It was very
dreadful, they said, to see a library encouraging the militaristic spirit. This
year we have a peace exhibit—prepared by the Union Against Militarism.
The Preparedness people are horrified. They hate to see a library siding
with those who would drag our country in the dust of humiliation. The
trouble with all these good people is just hysteresis—lag. It may have been
fifty years ago that a portrait of a monarch in a library meant that the
institution was for him, body and soul. Now it means simply that he is an
interesting contemporary thing. Display of a cartoon representing Woodrow
Wilson doing something disgraceful does not imply on our part detestation
of the president, but only a willingness to let the public see a good bit of
drawing or perhaps to show them how some part of the community is
thinking and feeling. It is all a part of our efforts at up-to-dateness—our
struggles to brush off the dust and sweep away the cobwebs of
medievalism.
As an incident of these struggles, we have discovered the existence of
the Business Man. We have tried to find out what he is driving at and to
help a little—to stock the kind of information that he wants and to help him
get at it. An obstacle in the way has been the fact that much of what he
wants is to be obtained best from material that the older libraries knew
nothing of and would have despised had they known it—partly, printed
matter that had no existence in those days, like the huge trade catalog and

the informative railway folder; partly material that was ignored because it
had no connection with scholarly pursuits—time tables, statistical
schedules, directories, lists of names and addresses, commercial
publications, maps, information regarding trade-routes and conditions. If
the scholar of fifty years ago wanted to be set right about a Greek
preposition or to find the color of Henry VII’s hair, he knew where to go:
the library was the proper and inevitable place for such data. He brushed the
dust from a pile of books and proceeded to look them up. But if he wanted
to know the quickest way to ship goods to Colombo, Ceylon, or the
comparative exports of cereals from Russia during the last decade, or the
design of the latest machine for effecting a given result, did he go to the
library? Remember that this is supposed to be fifty years ago. I am afraid I
must confess that I don’t know where he went. I fear that in most cases he
didn’t go at all, for business men as well as libraries have grown in the last
half century—but I am quite sure that he went nowhere near the library.
The reason was that printed information of this kind either did not then
exist or was thought improper for collection by a scholarly institution. If
anyone had asked for it I know what the librarian would have said, for the
same thing is occasionally still said by librarians, and I hear it at department
stores and everywhere else where there is distribution of objects necessary
to our lives. They would have said—“There has been no demand for it, so
we don’t need to keep it.” Demand for it! Of course not. Is there any
demand for fish in a sand-bank or for free-trade arguments in a stand-pat
Republican newspaper? People go for things where they know the things
are to be found; and they knew well fifty years ago that none of these things
were to be found in a library. The sad thing is that altho the libraries have
reformed, hysteresis is still getting in its deadly work. There is a lag of
apprehension and appreciation among our business men, many of whom
think the library is still the same old dusty, cobwebby institution of 1850.
Take my word for it, it is not. It stocks all the things that the librarian used
contemptuously to call biblia abiblia—books that are no books—city
directories by the hundred, trade maps, commercial information, trade
catalogs, advertising folders, railway announcements, hundreds of things
that will answer the questions that every business man wants, or ought to
want, to know. We, or any other library, may not have precisely what you
want. We are not yet perfect and we have much to learn. But we are buying

and putting at the business man’s disposal the kind of material that will help
him in his business.
The modern library is democratic, not autocratic. It does not hand you
down a volume from a very high shelf and tell you that is exactly what you
want and you mustn’t ask for anything else. It says: we are the agents of a
co-operative concern. For convenience sake, just as in the case of the public
schools, you conclude to tax yourselves to maintain a public collection of
books, instead of having to form private collections of your own, smaller
and vastly more expensive. We are in communication with every one of you
by telephone. The machine for which you have paid is all ready to work—
stoked and cleaned and oiled. Why don’t you press the button? Those who
don’t are just suffering from hysteresis—lag of apprehension. They think
the library is what it was in 1850. They are behind the times.
Am I not afraid that if all the business men should press the button at
once, the library would be swamped? There would be a little swearing at
first, I fear. But ultimately there would be a realization that a library built
and stocked and manned to serve perhaps 50 business men at once cannot
serve 500 or 5000. There would be pressure on the legislature; we should
have the necessary funds and in short order we should be serving our 5000
as smoothly as we served our 50.
Now let us get down to something concrete. Just what information are
we prepared to give to business and industrial houses? Here are some actual
questions asked lately and answered in our reference departments—many of
them by telephone:
The uses of lye in baking powder. History and development of the plow.
Substitute for such commercial products as dyes, sealskin, fertilizers, etc.
Receipts for preparing in the wholesale manner mustard and salad-dressing, and for
bottling olives.
Methods of installing a refrigerating plant.
Addresses of the manufacturers of toys in the United States.
How far from the curb may vehicles be parked in St. Louis.
Names of manufacturers of bottled buttermilk.
Dates of traffic legislation in England.
Names of the officers of the Wabash R.R.
How to calculate the depreciation in shop fittings in taking inventory.
Change in prices in Wall Street for the last year.

History of speculation in the 16th century.
Examination of the State Board of Pharmacy relating to the laws of the State of Missouri
on the sale of narcotics.
Pictures for advertising posters, such as “a Pullman porter,” “Hops,” used in a Bevo ad.
“Two dogs playing” for the title-page of a piece of music entitled “Puppy love.”
Designs for book-covers, posters, letter-heads, by the million.
I think I hear someone say—“Do you call that library work? One man at
a telephone and a pile of circulars at the other end?” Yes. I do; didn’t I tell
you that libraries had changed? When Archbishop Glennon first visited our
new building, he walked into the magnificent central hall and, looking
around him said: “Where are the books?” The books were all in their places,
but they were not in the delivery hall. The books in a library are quite as
important as ever. There could be no library without them. They are the
library. But we are laying more and more emphasis on the man behind the
book. In nine cases out of ten he is a woman, and increasingly often he is at
the end of a telephone wire. We find that information slips over a telephone
wire quite easily. It saves the business man an annoying trip and sometimes
it saves our assistant from hearing all about the business man’s last attack of
sciatica. Not always; for sufferers have been known to seek sympathy even
by telephone. The more they do it, the more trunk lines we have to pay for,
so the telephone company doesn’t mind.
But it is true that in meeting the business man’s needs the library is
assimilating itself more and more to a huge information bureau. This is the
case especially at our Municipal Reference Branch in the City Hall, where
we have few books, properly so called, many reports, pamphlets and
clippings, properly indexed, and a great deal of manuscript material,
gathered by correspondence in answer to queries and waiting for more
queries on the same subject.
It matters little whether what you want is bound between covers, or
slipped into a pamphlet case, or slipped into a manila envelope; it really
matters little whether it is printed at all, so long as it is indexed so that it can
be found quickly. We may perhaps look forward to the day when all the
bound books in the library will be for home use, and will give information
at second hand, too late for the business man to act promptly on it. The real
sources of up to date knowledge will be, as they often are now, manuscript

letters, circulars, newspaper clippings and trade catalogs. With their
inevitable index they form a huge encyclopedia, absolutely up to date.
The printed cyclopedia in umpty-seven volumes is lucky if it catches up
with year before last; it may do for your private library where the skilful
agent has induced you to put it, but it is worthless in the Business Man’s
collection, except on the rare occasions when he wants the life of Epictetus
or the location of the Dobrudja. For the Business Man we want this
morning’s material. Shall we deny it, collectively, the name of a library just
because the book-binder has not been at work on it, and in many cases will
never get the chance?
Not that the Business Man may not read books if he wants them—books
on commerce, the industries, transportation, salesmanship, advertising,
accounting. He may have them sent to his home if he likes, with no more
trouble than sitting down again to his telephone. We use Uncle Sam’s
messenger service—his parcel post. The only annoying thing about it is that
he will not deliver C.O.D. and we are accordingly forced to ask for a
postage deposit in advance—anything you choose, from the postage on one
book one way to several dollars. We will notify you when the money is used
up. This combination of telephone and parcel post seems to me the ideal of
library service when you can name the book you want and don’t care to be
merely browsing along the shelves. If the book is out, you will be put on the
waiting list and will get it automatically when your turn comes. Why does
not every citizen of St. Louis avail himself of this easy service? Hysteresis,
I suppose; thinking of the old library of 1850 and neglecting that of 1917.
Or perhaps it is that provoking little advance payment. Pay beforehand may
be a poor paymaster, but those who work with Uncle Sam have to make his
acquaintance.
So much for the information to be obtained from the library by business
men. You are advertising men. Your business is the dissemination of
information. Your boast is that it is your business to tell the truth, and I
believe it. How can the Library help you tell it? Well—I believe the Library
to be the greatest publicity field in the world—largely a virgin field, for you
men, like everybody else, have got the hysteresis—you are suffering from
brain lag—not brain fag. You think the library is back where it was in 1850,
when it was the last place in the world where any sane man would go for
publicity. It was a good place to hide. They tell the story of a library in
Philadelphia, a beautiful old mausoleum, where an escaped criminal once

stayed in its public reading room for three days before the police found him.
We don’t covet that reputation. The modern library, I repeat, is the very best
publicity field in the world. First, as we have seen, it is absolutely non-
partisan. If you get your publicity material into the library it is because the
library thinks it is good for something, not because you have some kind of a
pull. Next, the people who frequent the library are intelligent. Publicity
there is like that obtained from a high-class periodical: it is gilt-edged. Last
and not least, the publicity given by the library is incidental. It accepts your
publicity material and makes it available, not because it wants to boom your
product at the expense of some other, but because it thinks that your
material contains something of value to the business man. In most cases its
publicity is general, not specific. You know that splendid Eastman ad
—“There’s a photographer in your town.” That makes a thrill run down my
spine whenever I see it, just as Tschaikovsky’s Sixth symphony does or
Homer’s description of Ulysses fighting the Cyclops; and for the same
reason—it is a product of genius.
Advertising is more and more bending this way. Why couldn’t we have
seen it before? For the same reason that we can’t all write plays like
Shakespeare’s or compose Wagner’s operas. When two shoemakers, Smith
and Jones, had little shops opposite each other, Smith’s chief idea of
advertising was to tell what trash Jones was making, and Jones’s to assure
people that nothing good could come out of Smith’s store. What was the
result? The same that induced the darky to say after he had heard the
political orators: “If bofe dese fellers tells de trufe, what a pair of rascals
they must be!” The net effect was to put people’s minds on the
worthlessness of the product, instead of its excellence. Nowadays Smith
and Jones are getting together, even if they haven’t been gobbled up by the
Trust, and are assuring people that shoes are good things to have—that we
ought to wear more of them; more kinds and better quality. The result is to
fix the public mind on the excellence of shoes and both Smith and Jones
sell more of them than under the old method. The library is willing to boom
shoes for you, and labor-saving machinery, and food-products, and textiles
and seeds, and lighting and heating devices. It does this to some extent
without your co-operation, by the books that it places on the shelves; but no
one who knows will go to a book for up-to-date information of this sort. If
you want a description of the very latest device for any purpose, go to the
publicity material of the concern that makes it.

We trust to you ad-men and your campaign for truth in advertising, that
it is no fake. Here is where you can help us and help your clients by so
doing. We stock every bit of good, informative publicity that we can find.
We miss much of it. You can help us get it all. Your clients will get more
publicity and better publicity for nothing than they have often bought for
hundreds of dollars. Perhaps it is another effect of hysteresis that makes us
afraid of anything that is offered free. You remember the story of the man
who all day long, on a bet, offered sovereigns unsuccessfully in exchange
for shillings on London Bridge.
If we were allowed to charge for our privileges I believe we could turn
ourselves into a money-making institution on this count of publicity alone. I
believe that it would be profitable for publishers to pay us for putting their
books on our shelves. If we charged for the space we are giving to trade
catalogs, circulars and other publicity material the issuers, I am sure, would
not wait for us to ask for what they print. We have been trying for several
years to get framed pictures of St. Louis industries to hang in our Business
and Industrial Room. If we had asked $50 per, for the privilege of using
space on the walls of a public institution I am sure we could have had it.
But since we offer that space absolutely free of charge—a sovereign for a
shilling—we can’t get what we want.
This is special publicity too, not general. There are some other cases
where something about a piece of special publicity makes it so valuable to
us that we display it, letting the advertiser get his advantage as a side issue.
Within the last few years we have put up boldly in our art room, big glaring
poster ads of beer, cigars and breakfast foods. How much could one of you
have extorted from an advertiser if you had made him believe that you had
some kind of a pull that would enable you to placard his wares not on
Smith’s fence or Jones’s barn, but actually on the inside of the St. Louis
Public Library? Now these posters were displayed, of course, not as
inducements to smoke Fatimas or to drink Satanet, but because they were
good and interesting commercial art. We believe that more people see the
art on the fences than that in the Art Museum, and we want to do our part
toward making it good. It has made great strides of late, as I think you will
acknowledge. But answer me this: was not that valuable publicity for these
products? Will not the knowledge that similar publicity may await the
manufacturer who gets out a good poster, work out to the advantage of all
concerned?

You know those articles in System, of course, telling what the writer
would do if he were an undertaker, or a druggist, or a farmer. Well, if I were
an ad-man I would get up an exhibition of St. Louis-made commercial art,
advertising St. Louis products, and offer it to the Public Library. We will
display it, our only condition in each case being that it is artistically worth
display. Your clients will have their products advertised gratis, in a place
where space could not be bought for a million dollars a square foot. You
will gain in reputation as a man who puts over big things: we shall get an
interesting display of commercial art, and better than all else, an impulse
will have been given toward improved quality in the poster art of St. Louis.
This is only one instance of the fact, which I believe to be a fact, that there
is almost no kind of advertising that cannot be done in a live, modern public
library, if one only goes the right way about it. Many go about it quite the
wrong way, and do not succeed.
We do not assist Mrs. Smith to get piano pupils by placing on our
bulletin boards a scrawled announcement. We are not willing to distribute
by the million, small dodgers announcing that Jones’s clothes-wringers are
the best. We do not allow Robinson to lecture in one of our assembly rooms
in order to form a class in divine healing from which he, and he alone, will
profit.
Publicity furnished by us must be incidental, as I have said; or it must be
general, but I believe it to be all the more effective for this, and I invite your
attempts to make more frequent and better use of it in such ways as I have
suggested. Study the business and industrial material in our Applied Science
Room, or the commercial art material in our Art Room. Examine the
collection of travel folders on display in our delivery hall. See our bulletin
of daily attractions in St Louis, entered months ahead when we can get the
information—and see whether you do not agree with me.
Now let me remind you that you are paying for all this service, whether
you make use of it or not. You are members of the best club in St. Louis. I
don’t mean the Advertising Men’s Club, good as that is; I mean the Library
Club. The taxgatherer collects the dues: if you are not a taxpayer you pay
just the same, the burden being passed along to you in some of the many
ways familiar to economists. The dues amount to about three cents a month
for each inhabitant of St. Louis—not excessive. The club has the finest club
house in the city, the most comfortable reading and study rooms, the finest
and most useful books, the most intelligent and helpful attendants. You may

have to belong to other clubs that you do not use; this, at least it would be
folly to neglect.

POETS, LIBRARIES AND REALITIES
[17]
We are met to dedicate a temple of the Book on the birthday of a man
who did more than any other American, perhaps, to bring the book to the
hearts of the masses. All poetry, all song, begins with the people, in the
mouths of humble singers. Elaboration, refinement, unintelligent imitation,
carry them both away from popular appreciation, until finally someone like
James Whitcomb Riley brings them back. Great poetry is always about
familiar things. Homeric epics tell of the kind of fighting that every Greek
knew at first hand. The shepherds and shepherdesses of the earliest
pastorals were the everyday workers of the fields. It was only at a later day
the epic and pastoral grew artificial because the poets did their best to keep
them unchanged while the things of which they told had passed away. Only
when the poets forget the stilted symbols which once were real and discover
that they themselves are surrounded by realities worthy of verse does poetry
again become popular. It is this phenomenon that we are witnessing today.
Everyone who has had occasion to keep in touch with popular taste will
tell you that the increased love for poetry shown in the publication of verse,
the purchase of it, the study of it, the demand for it at public libraries, is
nothing less than astounding. That this represents any sudden change in the
public, I cannot believe. The public has always loved verse. The child
chants it in his games; he drinks it in greedily at his mother’s knee. He begs
for it, even when he cannot understand it, just for the joy of its rhythm, its
lilt. But when the great poets go to the abodes of the gods, or to regions as
far away in esthetics or metaphysics, for their subjects, they carry their
product beyond public appeal. When our great verse is all remote and the
familiar things are left to folk-lore and rag-time, then folk-lore and rag-time
will monopolize public attention and fill the heart of the people. It is this
feeling, on the part of many poets, that the familiar things of life are
beneath their notice, that has made poetry so long unpopular. The feeling is
quite unjustified. All the great elemental things are also among the most
familiar—birth, death, love, grief, joy, in human experience: in the outer
world, day and night, winter and summer, storm, wind and flood. And
affiliated with these are all the little everyday things of which Riley sings—
the bathing urchins, the ragged farm hand, the old tramp, the little orphan

girl with her tales of fright, the rabbit under the railroad ties. When the
modern reader first read in verse about such things there was a rush of red
blood to the heart, with a recognition of the fact that verse had come down
from Olympus to earth, and that after all, earth is where we live and that life
and its emotions and events are both important and poetical.
I am not denying the poetry of romance, but we should remember that
this too, has its roots in reality. Even the most imaginative works must be
based, in the last analysis, on the real. Take for instance such works as
Poe’s. Poe despised realism. His best work is about half imagination and
half form. Yet when he succeeds in rousing in us the mingled emotions of
fear and horror on which so many of his effects depend he is using for his
purposes what was once a defensive mechanism of the human organism,
causing it to shrink from and avoid the real things—wild beasts, enemies,
the forces of nature—that were striving continually to overwhelm and
destroy it. Without the survival of this defensive mechanism of fear and
horror, Poe’s tales would have no dominion over the human mind. In fact,
the main difference between what we call realism and romanticism is that
while both have their relations with the real facts of life, the facts on which
romanticism depends are unfamiliar, distant and distorted, while realism
deals with that which is near at hand and familiar. Knights in armor,
distressed damsels, donjon keeps and forests of spears were once as
everyday affairs as aeroplanes are now, or gas attacks, or the British tanks.
These all have in them the elements of romance; and when they too have
passed, as God grant they may, they will doubtless take their place in the
equipment of the poetical romanticist. Not these realities that pass, but those
that are with us always, are the ones that inspire verse like Riley’s.
Those who love to study group-psychology, and who realize that we
have in the motion-picture audience one of the most wonderful places to
observe it that ever has been vouchsafed to mortals, may see every night the
hold that this kind of realism has over the popular mind. Armed hosts may
surge across the screen, volcanoes may belch and catastrophe may be piled
on catastrophe. The eyes of the spectators may bulge and their mouths may
gape, but they remain untouched. But let a little dog appear with his tongue
out and his tail awag; let a small babe lie in its cradle and double up its tiny
fists and yell, and at once you have evidence that the picture has penetrated
the skin of the house and got down to the quick. Homely realities make an
appeal that neither the knights in armor of the fourteenth century nor the

tanks in armor of the twentieth are able to exert. Gilbert, who wrote many a
truth in the guise of jest, never said a truer thing than when he made
Bunthorne proclaim that in all Nature’s works “something poetic lurks”—

Even in Colocynth and Calomel.
That is the poet’s mission—to show us the poetry in the things that we
had never looked upon as within poetry’s sphere. They are all doing it now
—Noyes, Masefield and all the rest, and the public has risen at them as one
man.
If James Whitcomb Riley were here today I should take him by the hand
and say, “Beloved poet, you have known how to touch the great heart of the
people quickly and deeply. That is what we must all do, if we are to
succeed. We librarians must do it if our libraries are to be more than paper
and glue and leather. Teach us the way.”
Our libraries are closer, far closer, to the people today than they were
fifty years ago. They can never get as close as an individual voice like
Riley’s, for they are a combination, not even a harmonious chorus, but a
jumble of sounds from all regions and all ages. Yet we must not forget that
in every instrument of music there is a potential mass of discord. The
skilled player selects his tones and produces them in proper sequence and
rhythm; and lo! a sweet melody! So the librarian may play upon his mass of
books, selecting and grouping and bringing into correspondence his own
tones and the receptive minds of his community, until every man sees in the
library not a jumble but a harmony, not a promoter of intellectual confusion
but a clarifier of ideas. In some such fashion it is allowed him to get close to
the minds and hearts of his community as Riley did to his readers.
We are realizing today, we of the library world, that it is a poor
instrument that yields but one tune, and a poor player who is able to
produce only one. The librarians of the early days were of this kind; so were
their libraries. The time they played was the tune of scholarship—a grand
old melody enough, and yet with the right keyboard one may play not only
fugues and chorals but the waltz and even the one-step. The scholar will
find his refuge in this great building, but here also will be a multitude of
functions undreamt of in the early library day—the selection of literature
for children and their supervision while they use it, co-operation with the
schools, the training of library workers, the publication of lists and other
library aids, helpful cataloging and indexing, the provision of books and
assistance for special classes, such as engineers, business men or teachers, a
staff and facilities for all kinds of extension work, filling the space around

the library as a magnet’s field of force surrounds its material body. A
modern library is a city’s headquarters in its strife against ignorance and
inefficiency; its working force is a general staff—books, ammunition for
the fighter and food for the worker.
Of the poet I have said that his ability to gain the public ear and to reach
the public heart is closely bound up with the portrayal of realities. This is
true also of the library. Every step of its progress from a merely scholarly
institution to a widely popular one has been marked by the introduction of
more red blood, more real life, into its organism. The frequenter of the older
library went there to find books on the pure sciences, on philosophy, in the
drama, in poetry. These we of today in no wise neglect, but we entertain
also those who look for books on plumbing, on the manufacture of hats,
shoes and clothing, on salesmanship and cost accounting, on camping and
fishing, on first aid to the injured, on the products of Sonoma county,
California. Our assistants take over the telephone requests to furnish the
population of Bulgaria, the average temperature of Nebraska in the month
of June, plans for bungalows not to cost more than $1750, pictures of the
Winter Palace in Petrograd, sixty picture postals of Baltimore for a
reflectoscope lecture, a copy of a poem beginning “O beauteous day!” the
address of the speaker’s uncle who left Salem, Massachusetts, for the West
twenty-six years ago. Everyone of these queries throbs with the red blood of
reality. Few of them would have been considered within the library’s scope
fifty years ago. Books are written nowadays about all such subjects,
whereas in the earlier day the knowledge of these things and the ability to
write of them did not reside in the same person. So the library’s progress
toward the realities is but the expression of that same progress in literature,
using the word in its widest sense to signify all that may lurk between the
covers of a book. The contemptuous name of biblia abiblia—books that are
no books—which the earlier writers bestowed upon dictionaries,
directories, indexes, lists and the like, is disregarded by the modern
librarian. He prizes a list of all the grocers in the United States; he points
with pride to his collection of hundreds of telephone directories; he has
names galore in alphabetical array—indexes to places, persons, pictures,
events and books. All these things are as much a part of his library as the
Iliad of Homer or the dramas of Calderon.
But the librarian does not stop here. He conceives that it is his duty to
deal not only with books but with what we may call adjuncts to books—

things which may lead to books those who do not read—things that may
interpret books to those who read but do not read understandingly or
appreciatively. Some of our brothers beyond the sea have criticized us
American librarians for the freedom—nay, the abandon—with which we
have thrown ourselves into the search for such adjuncts and the zeal with
which we have striven to make use of them. It has been our aim of late
years, for instance, to make of the library a community center—to do
everything that will cause its neighbors to feel that it is a place where they
will be welcome, for whatever cause and that they may look to it for aid,
sympathy and appreciation in whatever emergency. If the life of the
community thus centers in the library, we have felt that the community
cannot fail ultimately to take an interest in the library’s contents and in its
primary function. The branch libraries in many of our cities are such local
centers. Here one may find the neighbors round about holding an exhibition
of needlework, the children dancing, the young men debating questions of
the day, the women’s clubs discussing their programs, the local musical
society rehearsing a cantata, Sunday schools preparing for a festival, the
ward meeting of a political party. In one of our own branch libraries, in a
well-to-do neighborhood, the librarian said to one of the young men at a
social meeting, “I am curious to know why you come here. You could all
afford, I know, to rent a larger and better hall; or you could meet in your
own homes.” The young man looked at her with surprise, “Why,” he said,
“we like this place. We all grew up in this library.” I confess that this
anecdote sends a little thrill of satisfaction thru me every time I tell it. What
could a librarian desire more than to have his neighborhood “grow up” in
his library—to have the books as their roommates—to feel that they would
rather be in that one spot than any other? On what a point of vantage does
this place him! How much more readily will his neighbors listen to the good
genius of a much-loved spot than to the keeper of a jail! Just here, of
course, is the strong point of the so-called Gary system, which has so much
in common with our modern library ideas. Whatever may be its faults, it at
least makes of the school what we librarians have long sought to make of
the library—a place that will be loved by its inmates instead of loathed.
This once gained there is hardly any result that we may not bring about.
And now let us consider at least one thing more that we may gain from
this intimate contact with the life of the community around us.

Formalism has been the death of art, of literature, of science, in many an
age. It has atrophied an entire civilization, as it did in China. It paralyzed
Egyptian art; it would have paralyzed Greek art, if the Greeks had not had
the vitality to throw it off. Art, literature and science are never sufficient
unto themselves. They must all drink continually at the fresh springs of
reality. To move up to date with our metaphor, they must all get fresh
current from the feeders of nature if the trolley wire is to be kept “live” and
the motor running. Those perennial currents that Ampere conceived of as
chasing themselves round and round the molecules of matter could keep
going only in the absence of resistance, and that is something that we may
imagine or talk about, but that does not really exist. Every electric current
will stop unless a continuous electro-motive force is behind it; every river
will dry up unless fed by living springs. All art, all literature, all science,
will shrivel out of existence, or at any rate out of usefulness, if those who
practice it think that all they have to do is to copy some trick, some method,
some symptom perhaps of real genius, of their predecessors. Aristotle was a
real scientist, tho his outlook was not ours. But those who kept on copying
Aristotle for centuries and would not believe what they saw with their own
eyes unless they could confirm it with a passage from his writings—they
were no scientists at all. We have recovered from their formalism as Greek
art recovered from the formalism of the lions of Mycenae.
Who shall say that James Whitcomb Riley did not do just this when he
chose to abandon the stock in trade of the standard poets and put into verse
what he saw about him here in Indiana? It is not beyond the possibilities, of
course, that his own fresh point of view may one day succumb to formalism
—that his little Orphant Annies and his raggedy men may become familiar
to posterity through the work of a school of copyists who prefer to write
about an Indiana that they never saw in a period when they never lived,
instead of going themselves to the fresh inspiration of the realities about
them. Now, of course, the current or the river of art or poetry must run a
little while by itself; it cannot be all spring. Only, the fresh inspiration must
not be delayed too long, lest the current or the river be dried.
In a recent article on current British novelists, one of our own most
gifted writers, Mrs. Gerould, says with some truth that the stories of the
younger realists in England—Compton Mackenzie, Oliver Onions, Hugh
Walpole, Gilbert Cannan and their kin—are so similar in subject, treatment
and style, that they might almost be interchangeable. She wittily develops

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Catalysts For Change 21st Century Philanthropy And Community Development Maria Martinezcosio Mirle Rabinowitz Bussell

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Catalysts For Change 21st Century Philanthropy And Community Development Maria Martinezcosio Mirle Rabinowitz Bussell

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