On Being a BIPOC Fundraiser in White Spaces
- Christine Lauren
- Aug 7
- 3 min read
Updated: Aug 11
When BIPOC fundraisers take up space in a field historically shaped by whiteness, we do more than raise money. We shift power. By showing up with cultural fluency, lived experience, and a commitment to equity, we challenge the status quo about who gives, who asks, and where resources are distributed. Our presence enriches the nonprofit field and brings us closer to equitable representation.
But it’s not always easy.
I grew up in a mixed-race family where race was never discussed directly. My father, who was white, believed that his skin color conferred the privileges of whiteness onto me. In some ways, it did. I grew up blithely unaware that swathes of American society would see my brownness as a deficit, or worse, that my mixed identity was an aberration.
Because of my father’s racial blindness, I inherited a certain confidence. I believed I was just as valued and could access the same opportunities as anyone else.
It helped that I came of age in a highly diverse suburb of the Bay Area. Most of my classmates were immigrants or the children of immigrants. I blended in; my mixed-race identity wasn’t a source of separation. That early environment shielded me. It was only later that college and the professional world revealed just how much race, gender, and socioeconomic class shape perception, belonging, and opportunity.
When I entered the nonprofit sector in the mid-1990s, I wasn’t thinking about race. I just wanted to help people, so I started in direct service roles. But after earning my MBA and transitioning into nonprofit management and fundraising, I began to see more clearly the unspoken dynamics of race, privilege, and power that thread through the field and our society.
Fundraising, it turns out, forces you to confront those dynamics head-on. As a young fundraiser of color, I found the prospect of engaging with wealthy, predominantly white donors deeply uncomfortable. I believed in the nonprofits I represented, but I couldn’t ignore how white power structures shaped the field. Even when I lacked the words to articulate it, I felt the imbalance and it made me uneasy.
Over time, I gravitated toward institutional fundraising. Eventually, I launched a consultancy to support strategic fund development, grant writing, and other behind-the-scenes work. While institutional fundraising is far from immune to race and class disparities, this space felt safer because it was more removed. It kept me away from the relational aspects of fundraising and eliminated the need to speak with wealthy donors or foundation officers who were often white. Eventually, it allowed me to intentionally partner with nonprofit organizations serving communities of color and advancing equity.
Yet, I couldn’t ignore inherent imbalances in the field. Fundraising remains dominated by white women. Philanthropic wealth remains overwhelmingly white due to racial disparities in wealth. Nonprofits run by white men tend to be significantly better resourced.
After moving to Oregon in 2023, I became even more attuned to racism, microaggressions, and the harm that occurs when they go unacknowledged and unaddressed in predominantly white professional spaces.
How do I personally respond to these inequities?
Recognizing that I have a certain degree of privilege and autonomy, my tolerance for those dynamics has dropped to an all-time low. If racism is allowed to happens and goes unacknowledged, I remove myself from these professional spaces. I no longer expend energy trying to help them evolve. Too many promises, too little change. Instead, I now seek out professional communities that explicitly affirm and welcome people of different backgrounds. I’ve learned to gravitate to spaces where I’m valued, rather than inserting myself in places where I don’t belong.
So why do it? Why stay in a field that often sidelines people like me?
Because four in ten individuals in this country are people of color. Because demographic change is real - and no amount of DEI backtracking can erase this. Because communities of color deserve the same access to opportunities as white communities. Because communities of color deserve fundraisers who understand their histories, their languages, their culture, their struggles, and their dreams. Because representation shapes strategy, storytelling, and the flow of resources.
And because refusing to yield in this space can itself be a form of pride, power, and resistance.
