When I was in my starry-eyed mid-twenties, during the eighties, when I behaved like the Joan of Arc of Process Writing, I went to my first big conference, the NCTE's annual conference, in Philadelphia. Overbooking had caused many of us to be moved to an elegant hotel, which, as my friend and travelling partner confided, had been the hotel where Legionnaire's disease had occurred. Oh, the glamor of it all.
What I remember most about the experience was that I tried, more energetically than I have since, to attend every single session each day. I didn't succeed then. I wouldn't try to succeed now. I've changed my definition of success to include physical and mental health along with professional gain.
I bring this up because over at Kairosnews, there's a string of post-C's comments on attending the conference, something that I've wanted to post about for the last few weeks. Maybe some readers will read this and feel that there is a kindred spirit (anchorite, really) out there; other readers will, I hope, gain some understanding about why some of us start shrinking away when, in a crowd of twenty, someone shouts "Hey, let's ALL GO OUT TO DINNER!"
Going to any conference entails all kinds of energies, and if you're like me, you find traveling, getting to the hotel, and milling about a couple of hundred other folks in the lobby to be tiring. At those moments, I hope not to be recognized--no disorienting shouts across the lobby to throw me off kilter, so I have to scan through my progressive lenses and figure out which fuzzy figure seems to be shouting at ME.
During the scrum-filled days of the conference, I've learned to pick and choose and make my peace with my decisions. I'm not omnipresent. Deciding to have lunch with Timna on Thursday meant not going to hear Mike, Senioritis or Clancy, which I'd also wanted to do. Deciding to go to both the Slevin memorial and Jeff and Jenny's talks, scheduled for the same time, meant discreetly moving in and out of both, and not staying for all of either.
I've given myself permission to move discreetly in and out of panels and presentations, and since it seems, on the face of it, rude, I'd like to explain. I decided to break up my panel attending into two-hour chunks, alternating with two hours of paper-grading, resume-reading, emailing, and napping. I find that after two hours, I'm wiped out, and not even the most gentle talk given by the most brilliant person in NYC will revive me. Since the conference sessions begin one the hour, fifteen minutes after the hour etc., two- hour chunks don't really jibe with the session schedule. So rather than hang around feeling tired and cranky, I just leave.
Conferences held at hotels should have weather readings for each of the floors. I'm not kidding. Okay, I am, but only a bit. This year I noticed that I dressed for the floor I'd be on. Slacks, always; socks, optional. Going to a panel? Tank top, cotton jacket, and hair pinned up as far off the neck as possible. Grading papers on the 44th? The hair comes down and a sweater works. Walking around the city? Tank top, jacket, and the scarf around my neck, with hair billowing in the wind. Now I realize that part of this is hormonal, but the energy and heat created by what felt like billions of people knocked me out.
I went to the book display but once, trotting at a fast clip in, around and out. I don't really get anything out of the book exhibits, partly because I'm not publishing or purchasing, but mostly because if I can get it online, why bother going to a crowded exhibit? I've fore sworn bringing home books (again, if it can be ordered online. . . ). Also, the exhibit hall is one more place where the numbers are against me: so many people, so much energy, so much heat.
Yet, I managed to attend the panels I wanted, see most of the people I wanted (Mike, Sharon, Brad, Patti and Dennis, I really did look for you all--I am SO nearsighted that you do have to tackle me to get my attention. Or use a large vaudevillian hook), and network as much as I wanted, so yes, my method kept madness at bay.
Comments