This Black History Month, the AFP Greater Detroit Chapter recognizes and celebrates our ancestral heroes with great appreciation for the journey and path they have forged:
- Martin Luther King Jr.
- Rosa Parks
- Medger Evers
- Thurgood Marshall
- George Washington Carver
- Harriett Tubman
- Garrett Morgan
- Sojourner Truth
Just to name a few!
There are so many Black Philanthropist in our community, we hope to be able to continue to highlight their work in future newsletters.
Today we are celebrating a wonderful Philanthropist, Fundraiser, Motivator and Shero in our midst.
I first encountered Birgit when the AFP Global team started to implement IDEA and shared with us how AFP HQ is supporting our chapters in building a strong network that is Inclusive, Diverse, Equitable and provides access for all fundraisers. I am so happy that her commitment to Black fundraisers has never wavered and is embodied in an anthology of works called - https://www.collectingcourage.org/
I reached out to Birgit with some questions about her journey as a fundraiser and how being a Black Fundraiser in a traditional fundraising world has led her, along with her colleagues, to collect courage.
Here is our conversation:
How did your career as a fund developer begin?
It began in a way I never intended. My original plan was to go into theater. I studied voice and piano and even attempted ballet, though my ballet teacher gently suggested I might be better served walking down the hall to Mrs. Nichols’ room to focus on piano. So, there was never much risk of me becoming a “triple threat,” someone who sings, acts, and dances well. Still, theater was the dream, and I took it seriously.
I was accepted into the musical theater program at State University of New York at Fredonia, a highly competitive program that admitted only fifteen freshmen each year from hundreds of applicants. That acceptance felt like validation. But at the end of my freshman year, my advisor sat me down and encouraged me to consider another career path. He was clear that it was not about my talent. He believed the road would simply be too difficult for me as a Black woman.
I left the program quietly and without explanation. I never told my parents the real reason. They had lived through the civil rights movement and attended Tuskegee Institute, now Tuskegee University. My father once removed a “colored section” sign from a public bus in Montgomery, Alabama, and later served as an officer in the Air Force, where he experienced racism firsthand. My mother earned a degree in nutrition and dietetics and could have led any hospital dietary program. Had they known why I walked away from Fredonia, they would have marched me right back to finish that degree. At the time, though, I carried the disappointment, shame, and grief on my own.
I eventually completed my education with a degree in journalism. During my final year of college, I interned with a small Black-owned advertising agency. The owner of the firm also served as the local campaign chair for the United Negro College Fund, and that connection changed everything. Through that role, I was introduced to UNCF and to alumni from historically Black colleges and universities, many of whom were longtime friends of my parents. Being in those spaces felt familiar and affirming in ways I did not yet have language for.
As I became more involved, I began to see both the passion and the gaps. There was deep commitment, but not always a coordinated strategy. While working on the UNCF celebrity golf tournament, I started to understand fundraising as more than asking for money. It was about relationships, storytelling, trust, and responsibility. It was about honoring legacy while investing in the future.
I wrote a proposal to UNCF suggesting that I serve as an area director. To my surprise and gratitude, they accepted it. That is where I truly learned how to be a fundraiser. UNCF taught me the craft, the discipline, and the values that anchor the work. I spent eleven formative years there, years that shaped not only my career but my sense of purpose.
Fundraising was never part of my original plan. It found me while I was still grieving a dream I had let go of. Looking back now, I see that it placed me exactly where I needed to be—using my voice in a different way, still performing in a sense, still advocating, and still working to open doors for others.
The world has changed so much since you first began your career. What would you say to those entering the field and to those who are seasoned?
Fundraising has always been an evolving profession, but the pace of change today is undeniable. To those entering the field, I would say: be curious and be patient with yourself. This is a profession that requires both skill and heart. Learn the fundamentals, but do not rush past the importance of relationships, integrity, and listening. Your lived experience and values are not liabilities. They are assets. There will be moments when you question whether you belong. Stay. Ask questions. Seek mentors who see you clearly and will tell you the truth with care.
To those who are seasoned, my encouragement is different but equally important. Stay open. The strategies, tools, and expectations have shifted and will continue to shift. What worked before may not work now, and that does not diminish your expertise. The greatest gift you bring is perspective. Share it generously, but with humility. Be willing to learn from those coming behind you, just as they are learning from you.
For all of us, fundraising is ultimately about trust. It is about stewardship, accountability, and honoring the communities we serve. The work can be demanding and deeply personal. Staying grounded in purpose, committed to learning, and connected to one another is how this profession remains worthy of the people who choose it.
Collecting Courage affirms the experiences of Black fundraisers, especially those new to the field or working at predominantly white institutions. What promoted the idea of this book, and why is it still relevant now?
The idea for Collecting Courage was born from a shared recognition that Black fundraisers carry stories that are too often marginalized, silenced, or dismissed. The editors—Nneka Allen, Camila Vital Nunes Pereira, and Nicole Salmon—intentionally brought together fourteen Black charity and fundraising leaders from across Canada and the United States to reveal a powerful and necessary truth about our lived experiences in the sector.
The book is organized around four core themes: pain, joy, freedom, and love. Each contributor anchors their story in one of these ideas, creating a layered and honest portrait of what it means to do this work while Black. The writers draw from personal experiences with racism to call out the fallacy of institutional benevolence, the impact of harmful leadership, and the systemic erasure of Black professionals across the charitable landscape. Yet woven throughout is also faith, gratitude, clarity, and, often, a call to action.
Many of the essays are punctuated with poetry, song lyrics, and quotations rooted in Black liberation and the civil rights movement. These elements act as creative pauses, allowing readers to sit with the weight and beauty of each story rather than rush past it.
I was deeply honored to contribute to Collecting Courage. Reflecting on my own experiences with racism and how they shaped my journey as a fundraiser required both honesty and vulnerability. Writing my chapter allowed me to connect my early exposure to philanthropy with the realities that influenced my path. Sharing that story was not only affirming for me but also an act of solidarity with others whose experiences have too often gone unnamed.
At its heart, Collecting Courage exists because these stories matter. They deserve to be seen, heard, and held, especially by those just beginning their careers and wondering if there is a place for them in this profession.
You’ve spoken about resonating with “pain,” particularly the pain of being passed over, and now feeling more rooted in freedom and love. Where were you at the beginning of this journey, and where are you now?
Learning to feel comfortable in my own skin has been a long journey that truly began in middle school. Growing up, I did not experience racism directly until I was about ten or eleven years old. My father was a high-ranking officer in the Air Force, and we lived on military bases where rank and protocol defined daily life.
I remember walking through Stewart Air Force Base when my father was the base commander. I was eight or nine years old, and everywhere we went, people stopped to salute him. At the time, I found it annoying. It was only later that I understood how extraordinary that moment was—a Black man, a lieutenant colonel, being saluted out of respect for his leadership and service.
Everything shifted when my father retired and we became civilians. We moved into a predominantly white neighborhood, and I attended a predominantly white school. That was when I began to understand racism firsthand. I heard words I had never heard before, including being told I was “not like regular Black people.” They were confusing and painful in ways I did not yet know how to name.
I wore my hair in an afro, and classmates sat behind me in class shooting spitballs through straws. At the end of the day, I would pull them out of my hair one by one. They were small acts, but their cruelty was unmistakable.
At the same time, I was discovering my love for theater and competing for roles I deeply wanted, like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. When I did not get them, I initially believed it was about talent. Eventually, I realized it was about race. That was one of my earliest experiences with the pain of being passed over while doing everything I could to be excellent.
Over time, that understanding deepened. I learned that no matter how talented, prepared, or accomplished I am, when I walk into a room, the color of my skin is seen first. That truth can be heavy.
Now, at this stage of my life and career, I have reached a place of acceptance. I know who I am. I know what I have accomplished. I no longer allow my Blackness to make me feel less deserving of recognition or opportunity. That confidence did not come easily. It came through experience, reflection, and a long journey toward self-acceptance. And in many ways, that journey continues.
How did you move from personal experience to collective action in addressing the challenges Black fundraisers face?
I established the African American Development Officers Network. When I began working at Georgia Institute of Technology in January of 1998, I quickly realized that I was the only frontline fundraiser of color. Not long after, I learned I was the first frontline fundraiser of color Georgia Tech had ever hired. That realization was both isolating and clarifying.
I began looking for connection with colleagues at the Atlanta University Center, the historically Black colleges and universities in Atlanta, many of whom I had worked with during my years at UNCF. I reached out, trusted relationships I had built, and invited people to gather.
About twenty-five of us came together for a meeting I hosted at Georgia Tech. What began as a simple effort to create space for connection quickly revealed a deeper need. That first gathering became an annual conference and eventually evolved into a fully operational 501(c)(3) nonprofit organization.
Today, AADO is in its twenty-seventh year, serving more than 6,000 members across the United States and Canada. What began as a response to my own isolation became a collective movement rooted in community, professional excellence, and the belief that Black fundraisers deserve to be seen, supported, and connected.
"Believing in myself meant accepting my Blackness, my voice, and the way I show up in the world. When I stopped trying to fit into spaces not built for me and chose to love who I am without apology, I found joy—and that is where my impact lives. " Birgit Smith Burton