I’ve got a Skype meeting today. A few young fellows are calling in, and we’re going to chat about stuff like career planning, goal setting, etc. It should be a blast.
What on earth will I talk about?
A few thoughts swirl in my brain - call it the “LinkedIn effect.” 1. If you’re on a “panel”, this gives the false impression that something has been accomplished. (Maybe it has, maybe it hasn’t.) 2. If I offer a motivational quote, who exactly am I trying to motivate? You? Or am I trying to bend reality instead of letting it cut me down to size? (I saw just such a thing on Instagram - a magnificent photo of a lion, with the words “Be yourself - show your flaws.” Uhhh…..what about fixing them first?)
And perhaps the deadliest trap to fall into: 3. If I’m offering advice, there’s the implicit agreement that I’m qualified to offer advice.
Alan
I used to be shy. Really. Nobody believes it, and asked “what happened?!” I put down my orange guitar, step offstage, raise my neon sunglasses, and mumble “model trains.”
“Huh?”
“OK, really, this dude named Alan Watson.”
At 9 years old, I was painfully shy, but developed a burning interest in model trains. My father started taking me to the local train club. A bunch of middle-aged dudes had built an elaborate world in the basement of a Masonic lodge. It was a replica of the Virginia mountains in the 1950’s, complete with hand-built trestles, towns, and working trains. There was much work to be done, but it captivated my imagination. If I close my eyes, I can still smell the musty basement and plaster of paris.
The men were unsure - “let’s offer him a trial membership.” In particular, there was a kindly gent named Alan. An operator at the local nuclear power plant, he was unassuming, quiet, and warm.
I never heard him drop any words of wisdom. Rather, it was what he didn’t say that still resonates today. Alan was good at what he did. He knew about railroads, he knew how to build things, and he had cool gear.
And he listened to what I had to say.
Granted, I didn’t prattle on about some unrelated kiddie game, but offered up a badly-articulated idea of something I had read in a train magazine.
He’d listen, and guide a bit. “Yeah, that’s right. Well, sometimes the railroads had to move freight this way, too.”
He gave me a bar to clear. I’d go home, and read my books in a new way, excited for the next time I got to talk to Alan.
My family always listened to me and was supportive. In fact, the car rides to and from were some favorite childhood memories with my dad. “Hey, when someone is talking to you, make sure you look them in the eye.” I still remember the tires of the ‘82 Civic whining on the Benedict bridge grates as I heard that, surprised. “Really?” “Yeah.”
So then I went back and looked at people, and had something a little better to say, because there was a place to say it.
It wasn’t pure “oh, just be yourself” nonsense. Once, I was with another little buddy of mine, and we hit the wrong button. The train started flying around at a scale hundred miles an hour, threatening a reenactment of Casey Jones right there in the replica Virginia. “Hey, cut that out - what are you guys doing?” We explained that we got confused, and something went wrong. No biggie.
I learned that I could say something that mattered, and that if it was good, people might listen.
I wish I could tell Alan that he was the guy who got me out of my shell by showing me that it might be worth doing.
He died of cancer before I could tell him, though. I spoke with him last when I was a teenager getting serious about electric guitar and fronting rock bands. I hope he realized what an impact he had on that shy little boy but listening seriously to what he had to say.
I guess that’s a good thing to keep in mind as I talk with the fellas this evening.
Josh