“At the end of the day people won't remember what you said or did, they will remember how you made them feel.” ―
I often skip the staff party at the end of an event. I'm shy, socially awkward, whatever you want to call it. After a weekend of talking to players, solving their problems, calming them down, and making their event special, my brain hurts. My coworkers are genuinely awesome people. Most of them are fascinating, intelligent, and a lot of fun. However, following 3 days of working 12+ hours in addition to networking, learning, and teaching, choosing to voluntarily spend several more hours being 'on' isn't usually ideal. I generally prefer a quieter meal with the opportunity for deeper conversations as well as reflecting on the weekend's events.
However, on this particular weekend, we'd journeyed to a frozen, snowy northern city. The bitterly cold temperatures outside reminded my tired feet that we had no desire to trudge around hoping to locate on open restaurant late on Sunday night. The weekend's overall tone had been positive and the work hadn't been too taxing, and I had a few spoons left, so I opted to sample the free dinner at the staff party rather than set out in the cold in search of an elusive, and likely expensive, meal. When I entered the staff hotel the pleasant aroma of Italian food greeted me across an almost deserted lobby. An abundance of tables appeared available and I let myself relax a little upon noting that the party wouldn't be too loud or crowded. I selected a few items, loaded them onto a plate, and seated myself alone at a table not too distant to seem companionable, but far enough to be out of the walkway.
Only a few minutes passed before several coworkers joined me and we conversed amiably while enjoying our meals. As usually happens at these types of social events, the cast of characters at the table changed fluidly with people coming and going to get more food, mingle, or join games of draft or Commander. I know I wandered back to the food table a few times and spent time at several different tables chatting, munching, and laughing.
A few hours later I found myself seated alone with a man with whom I shared an excellent working relationship, but we had not conversed much outside of our professional interactions. His reputation preceded him as many of my mentors looked up to him and frequently passed along lessons he had taught them. I knew from our work together that his knowledge was impressive, but that knowledge was far from his most important quality. He cared deeply about our events, and the people running them, and that passion displayed itself every time he stepped on the floor. He could often be found engaging players and staff, answering questions, and making time for each person that had an ask of him. Despite his position as a 'senior' staff member, he always had time for even the smallest need.
On this particular evening, he engaged me in conversation by asking about my region and my specific experiences within certain contexts. Over the course of the next hour, he queried me concerning my interactions as a female judge both with players, and more importantly with other staff. (While if you know me, you know how much I loathe that topic, he did it in such an open and caring way, that I felt comfortable sharing some pretty intimate thoughts!) He expressed genuine concern about certain things, celebrated when I told of small victories, and followed up with more questions. He likely had no idea how much that conversation meant to me, as it let me share a part of myself I often keep hidden, and rarely discuss with anyone in leadership.
Thinking back on that night later, the thing that resonated so deeply with me was not what this man did, but rather what he didn't do. As a pillar of the community and someone full of wisdom, anecdotes, and experience, he said very little, yet he yearned to learn more. Rather than filling the space with his own voice, he did the simplest, yet most impactful thing possible - he listened.
I left that table feeling a deep sense of encouragement and validation - like the work I had been doing that often felt unseen or unvalued wasn't worthless after all. More importantly, I felt like I had a story to tell that mattered and that could effect real change in our industry. Despite the long weekend, the late hour, and the heavy topic, I walked away feeling just a little bit lighter and more hopeful.
Over the following months I became more open about my own story and more willing to discuss the challenges I've faced. I feel more confident and have embraced my past as a part of the person I have become. I've stopped fighting and leaned into who I am. And all of that started with one conversation with one man who despite all of his influence and experience took the time to not just listen, but truly hear me. I don't remember most of the words we said than night, but the way Sheldon Menery made me feel with be with me for the rest of my life.
I'd like to end this bit of reflection with Sheldon's own words:
It doesn't matter how much life I have left, I will live it to its fullest.
― Sheldon Menery, facebook, April 8, 2002
