The world should lay low and let things play out. Young people have already
created a parallel universe where they just ignore what they don’t like. Change
from within is inevitable.
Too risky. The hard-liners will never let it happen.
Everyone had a place in the conversation, whether they followed what was
going
on in Iran or not, because Chris’s questions touched on the universal
themes of youth, technology, communication, and the process of change as much
as they invoked the particulars and politics of Iran. His questions invited
participation at whatever level the guests felt comfortable. He selected a topic he
cared about and then framed it in a way that was approachable and real. Most
people don’t talk about Iran, but who hadn’t thought about the impact of
smartphones and social media in the hands of kids and how they are shaping the
future?
The courses came and went and the
wine flowed with the topics, as Chris
changed direction or deferred to a guest who had an observation on an altogether
different slice of life. Spontaneity had a place at the table, too.
“They’re not teaching handwriting in school anymore,” observed one of the
young parents, shocked at her own recent discovery. “Cursive will be a lost art.”
What are we losing if no one learns handwriting?
What about the connection between hand, heart, and the creative
soul?
Someone had read an article about how handwriting influences reading,
writing, and language; soon several of us plunged into a discussion about the
virtues of analog
relics like pen and paper, hard copy, and real books. Each of us
came at the discussion from our own perspective, and each expressed a slightly
different view. But everyone seemed to agree in the end that those mindless
handwriting exercises actually served a purpose, forcing us to slow down and
write between the lines—an enduring gift, perhaps, in an age of digital
transience.
It was time for coffee, dessert, and that email question
that Chris had sent the
night before.
What is not obvious that just blows you away?
We’d all had time to think about it and the answers were all over the map.
New technology for the disabled, said one person. Drones, suggested another.
But it was Pradeep’s answer that drew everyone in: Air-conditioning.
Air-conditioning?
Yes, said Pradeep. He had recently visited his ancestral village in the state of
Tamil Nadu in southern India. He was born and lived there until he was six or
so, when he moved with his parents to the United States. His village was a small,
remote place of maybe 10,000 people. A few streets passed through the village,
crossing near the big temple in town. One of those roads then went down to the
river. For centuries the economy revolved around rice, bananas, and mangoes.
Lush and deep green, the place had always been defined by its oppressive heat,
often exceeding 100 paralyzing degrees.
“I remember in my childhood you would not leave the house during huge
chunks
of the day,” Pradeep told me later. “Maybe inside you had a fan, but
outside it was 100 and you wouldn’t be able to do anything.”
He’d visited periodically as he was growing up and through his college
years, but, until his recent visit, he hadn’t been back in fifteen years. He found
the changes amazing—an explosion of roads, cars, construction, and
smartphones. And that not-so-obvious thing that he now realized had made such
a difference was air-conditioning. Air-conditioning meant the place could be
tamed, the environment modified. There were now cool spaces where people
could work, study, and linger. Yes, Pradeep told us,
the air-conditioning that we
so take for granted in much of the world had made his ancient village habitable
and transformed a way of life that had remained basically constant for thousands
of years. Sure, there was still poverty. But this village was morphing from an
isolated, subsistence backwater to a modernizing, connected community.
Pradeep’s story enthralled us. He made it personal and real. We learned
about him and his ancestral home. He spoke of human progress and connected us
to a place no one else had seen. We shared his amazement and discovery. He
made us care about his little village and, yes, air-conditioning.
The evening concluded with enthusiastic praise for great food, remarkable
conversation, and the new friends we’d made around the table. Chris had been a
deft host, dishing up ideas and questions
that engaged the room, took us around
the world, and got everyone talking. Chris made dinner an event.
You’re On!
Good hosts are always on, always listening, and always interested in their guests
and the conversation around them. Their curiosity roadmap reveals their interest
in people, places, and ideas. Jimmy Fallon, Ellen DeGeneres, Anderson Cooper,
and Terry Gross are powerful personalities themselves, but their first job is to
draw out other people
and make them interesting, funny, or noteworthy. They
ask their guests to contribute new ideas or interesting experiences.
If you’re the host, prepare accordingly. Adopt a strategy that creates the
event you want. If you want a fun, free-flowing evening, roll out some questions
that tap into the easy currents of daily life. Make them open-ended and friendly
questions. Ask about the new restaurant, the local football team, or the new
Leonardo DiCaprio movie. If you want be sure everyone participates, try
throwing out a question with a challenge: Each person
has to answer in just one
sentence.
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