In Hayao Miyazaki’s classic 1988 animated film My Neighbor Totoro, sisters Satsuke and Mei move with their professor father and sick mother to the recently post-war countryside. The girls are young and enchantable, reaching for magic in the tall forest trees and endless rice paddies of rural Japan- they see soot spirits in the toilet and wind spirits in the grain field, all laid out before them in Miyazaki’s safe and gentling animations. The adults in the story play a collective guide role, legitimizing the existence of spirits and ancestors in a way that casts a joyful spell: their tender amusement seems to say “we have always coexisted with magic- nothing to be afraid of here.” Even after audiences have seen soot sprites, anthropomorphic trees, and the indomitable bear-like Totoro himself, nothing can prepare the human mind for the Cat Bus. Just as we city people need conveyance to access the far reaches of our towns, so do paranormal creatures. Not unlike you and I, the spirits gather at leafy bus stops and wait patiently until the shrieking ‘meow’ of their local bus crests the hill and, lo and behold, an enormous furry cat skids to a stop on the dusty country road. (In theory, the thundering paws of a cat might even provide a more efficient means of travel than wheels.) Satsuke and Mei board the Cat Bus with the forest-dwellers, who range in appearance from Totoro’s tiny mini-me’s to what appears to be some sort of sentient tooth (or maybe a squid?) Miyazaki has made use of fantastical forms of transportation in his other films, including the Train in Spirited Away (occupied by a number of spirits, including a humanoid mushroom) and Kiki’s broom in Kiki’s Delivery Service. His imaginations almost always lead us back to the idea of “safety in community,” a humbling message from a kind artist born in the thick of the highly destructive and still-remembered World War II. Miyazaki’s worlds emphasize the simultaneous dissonance and importance of travel, especially travels embarked upon with friends in tow. And while I myself have come to love the creature comforts of home (when was the last time I slept without a heating pad on my back and an 8-hour YouTube ambience playing softly on my television?) I still find myself hitting the road 5 or 6 times a year to engage with fellow music professionals at a series of Thunderdomes called “conferences.”
Conferences are a phenomenon unlike any other in our industry. Festivals have a sort of jovial transience to them, a “come and go with a drink in hand” insouciance. Concerts are short, sweet, and finite; your presence or lack thereof starts and ends at the door of the concert hall. But conferences are an all-encompassing, non-stop thrill ride of introvert nightmare-fuel. Allow me to explain.
Imagine the person you can only dream of impressing; the person who lives in your thoughts as a pinnacle of your industry; the “if I could only just meet them” sort of hero that mostly lives in your fantasies and ode-like text messages to your work friends. Now that you’ve locked in on your Big Cheese™️, multiply their presence by 20 and your own presence by 300. Imagine now, if you will, that you and your fellow ‘Three Hundreds’ are seated in a hotel ballroom smelling of carpet crystals and the roasted chicken cooking tepidly in the adjacent kitchen. Interspersed among you are the elusive Big Cheeses (BCs), some sitting two and three abreast and laughing quietly at what you can only assume are the secrets you lose nightly sleep over (“can you believe that most people think that (insert vocal issue here) is just laryngeal compression? Hilarious…”) You find yourself chomping at the proverbial bit, itching to greet your BC but at a loss how to do so. Should you just go introduce yourself? Maybe not- you are extremely weird (fact, not anxiety) and BC will find your aggressive tactics off-putting. But it looks like some of the Three Hundreds have gathered around them and BC is currently holding court- lets go join the circle and pray that your weirdness comes off as alluring and mysterious instead of sweaty and desperate. Okay, you are standing there. BC is within arms reach (whatever you do, do not hug them) and they even shoot you a smile. Introduce yourself right now! Okay, well, the Three Hundred next to you beat you to it- his name, turns out, is Chris. Tough break. Whenever Chris finishes talking, you should say your name quickly to ensure this sort of thing does not happen twice. “HELLO.” Okay! You introduced yourself. You shouted a little, and the other Three Hundreds jumped in surprise, but BC is kind and understanding. “What is your research in?” BC asks. “Oh, my research!” This is your moment, an interaction you have built up over the years until it is tantamount to being stuck in an elevator with the Queen, Anderson Cooper, and Dolly Parton- your life might never be this good ever again. And so, you open your mouth to talk about your research, a living, breathing part of your life that occupies whatever portion of your brain is not actively thinking about BC. “I research…a lot of stuff.” Wow. A masterpiece of conversational wit. They will write odes to you. You will live on in the history books as a wordless puffin who has never known the inside of a research facility and perhaps never spoken to another human being before this day. BC smiles politely and turns to the Three Hundred next to you while Chris titters condescendingly to your left (he researches ‘diversifying the cannon’ and has just become your least favorite person in the cosmos.) As sinners in hell are forced to relive their sins, so are you- after all, there are 19 other BCs to meet over the course of the next three days and your university forked over roughly $700 to get you to this hotel ballroom, something the director of your department will be reminding you for the next million Annual Faculty Reports. And so, in a haze of expensive cocktails, unsatisfying catered meals, past-their-prime hotel rooms, and homogenous presentations, your conference life will continue for the next 30 years (or however long it takes you to vacate your academic office and buy a cabin in the Adirondacks, never to be seen or heard from again.)
I bet the Cat Bus is sounding rather comforting at this point.
Conferences are an odd stripe that run firmly down the middle of academia as we know and understand it. The legitimacy of a person’s portfolio, their research, and often their marketability as a hiring prospect are, at least in part, defined by their conference presence. What are they presenting? Who do they know? What are they wearing? And so, like Miyazaki’s spirits, we board the Cat Bus destined for exotic cities like Fresno and Cleveland, enormous posters in hand and suitcases full of polyester blazers recently purchased from the local TJ Maxx (tenured candidates can replace this with Dillard’s and admins with Jos A. Bank.)
I offer the opinion and perspective of a stubbornly extroverted person- I am what my previous professors and mentors might call “a stumbler.” I stumbled into singing (originally a pianist who took a wrong turn,) stumbled once again into academia (“they’ll pay me $50,000 a year to fix notes?”) and find myself now stumbling into conferences every four months. My mannerisms are gregarious and, as my wife politely reminds me when in public, loud. I wandered into my first conference before I understood the proper social mores of music academia or even knew the identities of our minor celebrities and, as a result, joyfully introduced myself to some of the biggest names in music with all the grace of a hog at a buffet. Some of them found me grossly enchanting. Others found me presumptuous and horrifying. But with the help of mentors and colleagues alike, I have managed to craft an almost-palatable human persona that, while not academic or even polite, masks my silliness well enough that four day stints do not usually expose me for the goblin that I am.
Seven years of attending conferences in various regions of the US has granted me a small amount of knowledge and the following tips are aimed mostly at the first time conference attendee- those who have accumulated 40+ years of conference know-how will likely see my suggestions as obvious, but stating the obvious usually saves at least one person from brain-melting embarrassment. And so, I offer these humble gobbets.
Powerful people are just people. These BCs we gather to meet are, by a staggering majority, kind, normal people who managed to meet the right people in the right order once upon a time. They don’t feel animosity or disgust for you. In fact, that might not feel anything at all for you. You are just two people with similar interests who wound up in the same ballroom through two separate series of decisions and choices. When BC asks you about your research, they are likely asking out of politeness or because they see themselves as a mentor in a position of power who could potentially use that power to help those without. If your research subjects do not perfectly align, so much the better. Many academics suffer from a threatening mixture of anxiety (both medicated and unmedicated), imposter syndrome, and general social ineptitude. BC has seen your kind before (and/or been your kind) and will likely show patience with you. If they don’t, there are 19 other BCs waiting in the wings to shake your hand.
Mistakes are expected. Listen. People make mistakes all the time. They indelicately mention recently dead family members to those in mourning. They wear new shoes knowing that they’re about to do a lot of walking. They admit that Nickelback is their favorite band to someone born after 1990. People are mistaken, and often. There are very few mistakes that cannot be recovered from and the healthy-minded individual will recognize a misstep for what it is: momentary. Many artists are empathetic beings and loathe to watch another human struggle; haven’t we all tried to offer a struggling conversationalist a subject change, or even agreement we don’t truly feel? Allow yourself space to say and do the wrong thing while judiciously avoiding malicious gossip and unkind comments about your colleagues or their research.
Your enjoyment is active currency. Apart from the mental and emotional minutiae of choosing professional outfits, worrying if everyone you meet will instantly dislike you, and struggling through the airport with your hands full, conferences can be a truly enjoyable experience. I’ve made life-long friends surrounded by uninspiring geometric carpets and pipe-and-drape walls; many of us maintain a long-running group chat and plan all year to share hotel rooms at future conferences. Your industry and the conferences that celebrate it benefit from your enjoyment of these events. Your enjoyment is currency that your industry can then accumulate like wealth and later spend on progress. After all, what good would a conference be if it dissuaded its attendees from returning in the future? Knowing that your enjoyment is paramount can be freeing for those who dread social interactions, especially in a corporate world where our happiness feels optional.
The Cat Bus has an infinite amount of seats inside- it is, after all, a magical feline car that stretches to fit the needs of its passengers. Imagining your industry as a minivan with 7 seats, only one of whom has access to the wheel, can create a scarcity mindset that serves approximately no one but the driver. Rather than fearing the magical and mystical unknown, grab a furry seat and allow the Cat to steer. Who knows? One day, you might just be the Biggest Cheese™️ in town.
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